drabbles
[assorted fandoms, llamajoy]
on a lark, i posted a drabble challenge in my journal-- and i liked the results so much i've put them all in one place. as i said in my journal, please excuse the capitalization (or lack thereof); i do drabble in lowercase, for the most part.
quicklinks:
*
billy/bart [xenogears] for 
tammylee
*
whimdriven [original] for darthneko
*
borus/chris [suiko3] for _rosiel
*
bart/billy [xenogears] for tiercel
*
borus/percival [suiko3] for white_aster
*
yuusuke/koenma [yyh] for eramundo
*
whimdriven for feartotread
*
auron [ffx] for blueshinra
*
samantha [vagrant story] for roseargent
*
warlords [samurai troopers] for touma_karamochi
*
sons of elrond [lotr] for urdsama
*
trish [devil may cry] for luckykitty
*
jessie/billy [xenogears] for cymraes
*
billy/bart for tammylee
it's a brilliant, cold day at this altitude, above all but the thinnest of clouds; aphel aura humming through the stratosphere. billy sits on a walkway in the heart of the city. he wants to watch the ground below but his stomach tightens at the distances, his head spins.
he climbed babel himself, the tower of legend, each step a blow to the Words he knew by heart. and here in the city of sinful hermits, the sun is shining and the queen is a tiny ancient girl, and life is much the same as any other city.
bart sits down beside him, hanging his feet over the edge-- reckless at this improbable height, restless with the wind in his hair and the sunlight in his eye. too bright by half, billy thinks, unable to look directly at him.
"i was wrong," he says, too quickly, to forestall the unasked questions he sees alighting on bart's half-open lips. he thinks of his orphans, and the Ethos' teachings, and a hundred wels lying bleeding at his feet. the words fight their way from him, as if they must push against the weight of the entire sky. "i was wrong about everything."
*
whimdriven for darthneko
"i can't believe we're doing this again." verrith fidgeted with his skirts, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his velvet bodice, peering at the noisy audience that lay beyond the curtain. the lace at his cuffs hid the boyish width of his hands, his long fingers and slender form more than sufficient to create the illusion of femininity.
"as if you didn't enjoy this." harrow's voice was matter-of-fact, though the dark hair that fell across his shoulders was in disarray, and his trousers sat slightly askew-- that fourth act duel tended to wreak havoc with the wardrobe. patiently he let verrith straighten his seams and cluck over the state of his makeup. "you know you're in no hurry for me to unwrap you out of that dress."
verrith batted painted eyelashes. "but haven't you ever heard, always leave them wanting more?" still, he pinned a curl of hair back up into its carefully coiffed arrangement, readying himself to continue the role of the lady mondegreen.
"they called for an encore."
verrith chuckled. "have you forgotten? you're supposed to be dead, good sir, that duel of yours went rather badly. tragically beautiful. get out there and lie down, lover, and let me eulogize again."
*
borus/chris for _rosiel
"i think it tastes just like the first one."
borus is drinking, this late autumn evening, though this is nothing new. borus drinking is not like leo, a jovial bellow and the biggest tankard of ale the tavern can manage. nor is it like salome and his pensive evening tea, nor percival's easy grin for the barmaid's shy smile. borus takes his wine quite seriously, each glass carefully matched with his mood. he knows the vintage and the savor of each bottle in his cellar.
tonight, though, borus is not drinking alone-- and also, he thinks, he has not nearly drunk enough.
"well, maybe it is a little sharper," lady chris concedes, taking a second, artlessly delicate sip. her hair, twisted up into its braids, is coming slightly loose around her face as she gestures. "something more like... blackcurrants."
borus smiles wordlessly, encouraging her to try from another bottle, this one ten years older, a real prize.
she tilts her glass the way he shows her, lets the liquid kiss the air until they both catch the scent of it. borus' own mouth goes dry as she lifts the wine to her lips and drinks it, holding it in her mouth before she swallows it, learning it.
for a second she closes her eyes, and borus wonders if it's his imagination that her cheeks are getting flushed, her color high and the spirits touching her polished cool exterior. there's the slightest wine-stain on her lips-- then her mouth wobbles in a smile more of knight than of a prospective sommelier, and she leans just a little closer to say, "that one's very warming, isn't it?"
and with that borus finds himself content.
*
bart/billy for tiercel
"ssh!" bart, snow dripping from his hair and finger held to his lips, eagerly pantomimed silence.
he needn't have worried, he realized, for primera giggled noiselessly, and let him step inside. the perfect accomplice, thought bart, appreciative. not a word wasted with that one.
"prim? who was it at the door?" billy, his head bent over the book in his lap, didn't bother to look up; as such, he didn't see bart sidling into the corner of the room, trying to shake the slush off his boots without making a clatter, and nominally succeeding.
prim-- scuffing her own small feet to muffle any noise-- moved to sit again at billy's feet by the fireplace, her cushion still warm. "sister hilda from the cathedral," she said placidly, arranging her skirts to cover her feet. "wishing us a happy midwinter."
"hm. happy." billy shivered lightly, his shoulders moving in his cape. bart, packages balanced in one arm and his soggy jacket held in his teeth as he tried to get it off, rolled his eyes. "good thing you closed the door. it's started to snow again."
his sister rested her head against his knee, smiling brightly-- looking directly at bart, if billy had been paying attention. "what, not happy?"
billy black sighed, closing the book he had been reading to her, the pages coming to with a snap. "maybe a little more like a holiday if it weren't just the two of us, you know. the orphans all set up in new aphel, and dad spending the week his friends on siggy's ship, everyone else in bledavik..." he trailed off, staring listlessly into the fire. "i just though i'd be able to help out here, through the winter. but maybe i should have accepted the invitation to the castle," he admitted quietly to his hands.
primera quivered with suppressed laughter.
and bart, with the added pride that he'd managed not to botch the timing somehow, strode into the firelight. "yeah, you should have." he grinned at the look on billy's face, the book falling to the floor with a papery splash of pages, prim's radiant smile. "but then this wouldn't have been nearly as much fun."
"bart!" billy stood up too fast and made himself dizzy. he took in the brightly-wrapped packages, the snow-caked boots by the door, the beatific smile of the king of aveh-- but still couldn't swallow it. "w-what are you doing here?"
"coming to see you," bart said simply, crossing the distance between them and folding his arms around him. "...obviously," he added, into billy's hair, "since you wouldn't come see me."
primera was clapping, and billy, humbled and wondering how bart could manage to be so warm, leaned into him gratefully. "stupid," he murmured, but he was smiling. "coming all this way?"
bart chuckled. "good thing your house here in nisan is pretty big, though."
billy narrowed his eyes, though he didn't let go. "...wait. what do you mean?"
outside, not too far off, was the distinctive sound of someone slipping on the ice, swearing loudly, and someone else trying to convince him not to kill the offending pavement.
prim's eyes widened, her breath catching. "papa!"
billy tried to shrink away, but bart's hands were pleasantly warm at the small of his back, and unyielding, and truth be told he didn't struggle too hard. "oh no you don't, kid." bart grinned. "i worked hard to carry this off. happy midwinter, billy lee."
*
borus/percival for white_aster
most people would not have known where borus would be drinking quietly, and even fewer people would have had the gumption to interrupt, had they known the location.
percival, not being most people, ducked his head into borus' rooms after just a cursatory knock.
"may i interrupt?" he said cheerfully.
borus' grin was a bottle-and-a-half smile, and lady chris, well, he'd never seen her drink enough before to be truly sure, but he'd have guessed a little under two. maybe more, considering she was wearing her tunic, shift and leggings, and he'd have sworn she'd been wearing full armor earlier that evening.
still, she looked a lot more comfortable that way, and her breastplate seemed content, propped against the wall beside borus'. chris raised her glass to him, her hand remarkable in its steadiness even now, the claret liquid inside already half gone. "sir percival," she said, quite seriously, though her eyes were dancing. "thank you for joining us. ...did you know that borus has two hundred bottles of this?"
"well not of this bordeaux in particular," borus was quick to point out, downing the rest of his own glass. "percival, a glass for you?"
"all the same." chris considered her wine, sniffing delicately at the mixed aromas with which she was becoming acquainted. "i think you've been holding out on us."
*
yuusuke/koenma for eramundo
when koenma removed it the first time, yuusuke stared openly. he'd been convinced, in his own mind, that it came part and parcel with the godling, permanently connected.
"hey, koenma." that got his attention well enough, but yuusuke made a face at how lame his next words came out. "--you can... take it out?"
slightly unnerved by the scrutiny, koenma fought the urge to put it back, and speak around the comfortably familiar shape of it. he held it awkwardly between two fingers, wondering if yuusuke was staring at his mouth or if he was just being paranoid. "of course i can," he said, trying not to sound ruffled. "did you think it was attached?"
"ch'." yuusuke shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. "don't know, that's why i asked. thought it was for when you were a kid, y'know--" he gestured with his hand at about knee height-- "the little guy? but then you kept it so i figured it was kinda, well, part of you."
koenma wrapped his hand around it, wanting to hide it from view. "it's not like i'm teething." he pursed his lips, feeling exposed. "what did you think it was for?"
yuusuke opted not to answer that particular question, instead tossing the young god a wink and a frank appraisal. "you got a nice smile, you know. much better without the pink thing."
and koenma, to his dismay, felt the heat rising to his cheeks and couldn't think of anything to say.
*
whimdriven for feartotread
"if the bishop saw this," ganymede said acidly, his hands white-knuckled as he gripped the sides of his polished oak vanity, "i'm sure he would renege on his backing, and the shallowmere would be without a patron, two miles up without a breeze."
raleigh smiled, unperturbed. "just another inch; i know you can give me another inch."
the boyplayer gasped, not quite voluntarily. "your faith in me is touching, raleigh, i'm sure. are we absolutely certain that this is even mine?"
"you wore it last night. if i recall." raleigh tilted his head, examining. "yes-- there's still the foundation stain on the hem. from when we..." he trailed off, busying himself with the laces in his fingers, tightening inch by inch.
ganymede smiled, sharp laughter on his tongue; and as the laugh escaped from him, the sides of the corset met, and ganymede tied the strings fast. standing up straight, ganymede tossed fair hair from his eyes, shoulders slender and strong, no hint of curvature or cosmetic cleavage. raleigh swallowed hard, feeling he was standing suddenly too close, and ganymede tossed him another slow smile.
"shall i give you another inch?" he said, and leaned closer still to kiss him.
*
auron for blueshinra
auron had learned a long time ago that no matter yesterday's troubles, the sun would continue to rise on spira. not that he needed sleep, these days, sitting cross-legged against the wall of djose temple and measuring the passing night with his companions' sleepy breathing.
it was peaceful enough for now, he thought, savoring the ozone flavor of the air, and the way his fingertips crackled if he touched something metal. when the morning came, though, bringing reluctant light to his fellow guardians' faces, he was startled to hear... hesitant laughter?
"ah, auron," lulu began, but interrupted herself with a chuckle.
tidus was no help, smirking as he shouldered his blade. "hey, didn't think you were the type."
he squinted up at them, wondering why they were pointing at him. he aimed for patient tolerance, but sounded a bit more exasperated. "what is it now?"
wakka looked contemplative. "didn't know they could do that, ya?"
it was the tiny chirruping noise at his elbow that finally alerted auron to the problem. as he had rested, a dozen or more of djose's hopping creatures had nestled in the corners of his clothes-- under his knees, around his feet, against his side. sound asleep, they were so still he had failed to notice them; now as they drowsily came awake, they snuggled closer to him... as though he had warmth or care to give them.
auron was surprised to hear himself laughing.
*
samantha for roseargent
you always said i was a silly girl, easily distracted, more easily frightened. why then, do i find myself smiling now? the cobblestones are softly crumbled beneath me and the subsiding night is gentle, like a lover as it leaves me. i hear running water and to me it sounds like ripples of laughter, nothing left foreboding about this place.
i know that i am dead, and i have not forgotten why, romeo. in this forbidden place, that memory is still mine to hold, to cradle in my broken hands. i loved you in my way; i love you still. my belly is warm to the touch, and the blood there is not a surprise, like the child we never had.
i do not know what it is but i can feel it coming, in the lifting clouds and rise of morning; i can feel the rush across my soul like surfacing from drowning, like breathing again after a sleepless terrified night. i am alone and for the first time unafraid to be so. i do not miss you, romeo.
when the sun crests the shattered temple dome, i am standing in the midst of a city dissolving into light.
*
warlords for touma_karamochi
there was no evening sunlight to slant across the painted screens, but they could feel the waning of the day, nonetheless. as if an unspoken tremor moved across the golden sky, ageless night was descending gently around them.
too disciplined to sigh, naaza lowered his snakeheaded swords, blades going still at his sides. they fought without armor, here in the long otherworld afternoons; fought with their weapons alone, and the formal traditional clothing of their mutual past. armor was for the human world, another layer of skin to protect them from the dying air of mortality. here, their yoroi slept folded in on themselves in their armor orbs, thrumming with latent power, cool to the touch like mountain snow.
rajura, who had been his sparring partner, let fall his crafted illusion, and the match between them ended without a victor. there was no blood spilled between them, not this day; they were too closely matched for that, all of them.
the sash tied close around naaza's waist was damp with exertion, though, and rajura's hair hung heavily around his face. the gen masho tilted his chin that his hair might fall back from his good eye, granted his opponent a careful smile.
their audience stirred, anubisu cross-legged and careless on the mat, sh'ten on one elbow, at his side. anubisu laughed his jackal-laugh, with a smile that showed his teeth. his katana was unsheathed, hungry for battle, but his poise was motionless, content with waiting.
it was sh'ten who spoke, his red hair like a smooth fall of blood, brushing the thirsty edge of anubisu's blade. "she's singing again."
and in that unchanging land, they could hear her: lord arago's new favorite, singing a song of nightfall with a voice as sweet and terrible as her swift and starlight swords.
*
sons of elrond for urdsama
peredhil, elrond half-elven, turns his head to the frost-touched window: not to glimpse the swiftly drifting snowflakes catching in the linden trees, but that his children might not catch him watching them. as they creep carefully into the last homely house, elladan and elrohir shake snow from their boots, sharing a secret smile. he thinks they are certainly old enough to know better, for elves, not least of all for the sons of the lord of imladris.
perhaps it is the company they keep that makes their heartsblood warmer, makes their laughter just too exuberant in the hushed halls of rivendell. not that he blames young estel; he has known enough of men to recognize the quality of him, even if the first snow of the winter casts its magic upon him, as though he were a child.
in truth, it enchants them all; his own sons seem no better than elflings, with the cold a flush on their cheeks and their eyes too bright.
at this moment, there is a winter-blooming flower cupped in estel's hands-- a gift, elrond presumes, for his daughter. he doubts not that it may light her pensive face with a smile, that she might sweep back the dark hair from her face and grace him with quiet thanks in the ancient tongue.
though she might be charmed to laughter first, he thinks, for estel, ungainly human youth, is soaked with snow, and wet to the waist. elladan shakes his head, himself not quite so awkward... but still, elrond he sees that there is snow melting in elrohir's hair, and the brothers' shoulders are silvered with snowflakes.
memory has ever been the gift of elves, though there are moments when elrond believes it is less a benison than a burden. unbidden, he remembers another hand atop his own, and snowflakes melting in the valleys between their skin.
it was different then, not just for the time and generations passed. watching the winter fall, elrond thought of life quiescent and buried; with the promise of the coming spring, he did not mind the waiting, nor heed the cold. and elros, brother of his same blood, seeing the same snow-covered trees, had eyes only for the frozen beauty, the brief and bitter sweetness of mortality. the distances which started slight spread ever outwards as the brothers grew: acorns planted side by side, their branches stretching wide and far apart.
now, these long ages later, elrohir and elladan are leaning one on the other, whispering something that makes estel splutter and protest-- and elrond finds that there is some satisfaction in thinking that his sons, whatever their choice, might make it together.
*
trish for luckykitty
she's not usually the kind to polish her shoes. nor is she the type to sit down in the raised chairs in the subway stations and suffer someone to buff her boots, spit-polished to a shine. dante might; dante seems the kind to flip a fiver to some soul down on his luck, and chatter idly with them while admiring his burgeoning reflection in the perfect leather.
but she is restless today, and there is demon blood caked dry on her shoes-- something she didn't notice last night, coming in late, careless in the toss of clothing towards the hamper and the discarding of weapons and coats. they tracked in mud and blood, both of them, and she thinks that she's both lucky and cursed, that the floor's not carpeted and that dante sleeps late and hasn't noticed.
her boots are a wreck, though, so she is cleaning them, left shoe first. that one has the worst residue, crusted still-red demon blood spattered up the elegant heel, its very color proving it inhuman. she remembers a high kick, a defiant move in the fact of an adversary twice her size; she remembers a shriek and driving that boot-heel through an eyesocket, hot and noisy in dying.
she remembers dante's laugh, and the way he caught her when she tumbled off-balance from the corpse.
her hands are pale against the black leather and the crimson ichor, moving swiftly, practically, efficiently. and even when the left boot is clean and the right one is too, she's still polishing them, until the leather creaks and glistens.
until dante wakes and finds her there, head bowed over her shoes and her hair obscuring her eyes, her hands still moving.
*
jessie/billy for cymraes
bart had drifted off to sleep by the fire, his head falling back onto billy's armchair, blond braid snaking across the seat. primera was curled by his side, her head in his lap and his fingers resting in her hair, both of them sound asleep. billy sighed, drawing a blanket over the two of them. so much for bart getting primera to bed. clearly, he'd been a little more effective than he'd intended.
his chair thus appropriated, billy stood by the window, his arms crossed and his lips pursed. the little room was only dimly lit, with the fire's embers glowing valiantly orange against the lateness of the hour. beyond his faint reflection in the chill glass, the clear sky was dark and infinite and achingly cold. something about the stillness made his head hurt, the weight of the longest night of the year settling into the shadowy corners of the room, into the hushed and waiting silence, into his very marrow.
he shivered.
"hey, billy lee."
the voice made him startle, and he turned to see a familiar figure silhouetted in the doorway: soft denim blues and a well-worn red bandanna, unmistakeable even in the scant light.
"whisper, will you?" billy shook his head, watching jessie tiptoeing carefully over bart and prim, silent without his boots on. "they're sleeping."
"like somebody else oughtta be," jessie said, more quietly now, but still smiling. he joined billy at the window, flanking the other side of the windowframe like two sentinels guarding the house against the winter night. "festival tomorrow, what are you waiting up for?"
billy watched the wind stir the bare branches of a nearby tree, scattering snowdrifts against the neighboring houses. his father smelled of alcohol, but gently so-- no more than bart had, or citan, all of them clinking glasses to this midwinter's celebration. there was a gunpowder scent on him, too, and something like washed cotton or maybe aftershave, familiar more than anything. billy felt his throat go tight. "not in any rush," he
said, still not meeting his eyes. instead he looked at primera, pale lashes fluttering as she dreamed behind her eyelids; and at bart, whose cheek was resting now against the seatcushion of billy's favorite chair, his mouth curved in a drowsy, fast-asleep smile. "tomorrow will get here soon enough."
"and ain't that the truth." jessie made a sound in his throat, almost a laugh, and when billy finally glanced at his face he saw his father's head cocked to one side, watching him. "but if you keep this up there'll be circles under your eyes in the morning."
crossing his arms more tightly across his chest, billy tried to shrug. "someone has to stay up with the fire," he said, primly. he thought belatedly of his cloak, hung by the door on its peg, and how its weight would have been welcome warmth on his shoulders. cold air seemed to seep in through the closed window, heedless of the glass. "i wouldn't want to burn the house down."
"well then watch the fire, kiddo, and quit moping out the window." jessie grinned, stepping behind his son and steering him towards the fireside-- overruling billy's wordless protests by virtue of his greater height and stronger hands. "it'll be warmer that way."
and despite billy's indignation, it was warmer, here within the room. settling crosslegged on the rug, jessie made a great show of dragging billy closer to the hearth, until billy could feel the radiating heat that emanated from the still-glowing coals. he drew his knees up to his chest, his lips moving in a reluctant smile. "all right, all right. you've made your point, dad."
jessie gave him an old-style military nod, all at attention, even so sloppily dressed and sitting unceremoniously in the middle of the floor. "damn straight."
sitting side by side, for a time they watched the fire without speaking. billy had every intention of waiting out the fire, until the last ember dissipated to ash, but jessie seemed determined to match him in his vigil-- and the quiet was not, as billy was learning, a difficult thing. primera stirred once in her sleep, and father and son turned at the same time, to see her curling closer to the hearth, firelight on her restful face.
when billy slowly realized that his toes were pleasantly warm, he knew that he was going to fall asleep; the heaviness of the night was drawing close around him at last, lulling him into slumber. "'m so sleepy," he said, needlessly, as if it were not written plainly on his face, as if he weren't struggling to keep his head up. "'s your fault."
"so sleep, billy lee," jessie said, laying a hand on billy's head. "nothing so hard about that."
the extra weight was all it took. "mm," was all billy said, before he succumbed, eyes shutting and head falling against jessie's shoulder.
and jessie, with a smile no one was awake to see, watched the faces of his children by the last remains of the midwinter fire.