Kameko's Fiction

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 14:36:37 GMT

Hello! I have moved my fic journal to inglorious_dmk, if you still wish to keep abreast of things I suggest you friend that one! If you do not care then probably you should not bother? Thanks for watching though!

[fic] Count Cain: Solomon Grundy (Riff, Cain)

Sun, 03 May 2009 09:51:01 GMT

TITLE: Solomon Grundy
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Count Cain
CHARACTERS: Riff, Cain
WARNING: Series end spoilers
SUMMARY: Seven days and a nursery rhyme more dear to Cain's heart than he knew.

------------------

Born on a Monday

The days following the fire were hazy as Riff slipped briefly in and out of consciousness. When he thinks about it later all he can remember clearly is a flat voice telling him he was the only survivor. Before that there was guilt and pain and something else he dares not remember, something cool and sharp and bright pricking at the edges of his memory, a smile far too familiar.

He remembers Lord Alexis, some time later, sitting at his bedside. "You'll have to give up medical school," he said, "but I think I can find a place for you."

Christened on Tuesday

Riff dabs at the fresh wounds on the boy's back. Cain, his father had said while he cracked the whip, over and over again. His name is Cain.

"What was it my father called you?" the boy asks, twisting around as best he can.

"Riff, Lord Cain." He bites his lip and tries not to look at the welts and scars crisscrossing the pale, tender skin. "It's short for Riffael."

"That's a strange name," the boy says, resting his chin on his open palm. "I like it, though." He pauses for a moment, deep in thought. "Riff," he says, softly.

Married on Wednesday

His devotion is almost instinctual, like blinking, like the rhythmic contraction of his diaphragm and the dilation of his pupils in the dark. Later he will come to realize that such is not the way things should be. He will not care.

It is Wednesday, at tea, and the young master's shoelaces have come undone. Cain watches as Riff bends down to tie them. He has grown beautiful these last few years, long slender limbs clothed in smooth, pale skin, eyes piercing and cold. "You're the only one," he says, quietly. It is not only Riff acting on blind instinct.

Took ill on Thursday

It is a very long time before the fog clears enough for him to notice that it is there at all. One day he realizes he's lost an afternoon. A week later, another disappears. He falls asleep one evening and wakes up smelling of blood and smoke, his heart beating heavy in his chest. That acrid smell always sets him on edge.

Riff stands, shaking, and walks to the mirror, splashes his face with cool water from the basin. Pausing, he stares at his reflection and twists his mouth up into something cold and sharp. It is comfortable, like instinct.

Grew worse on Friday

There is blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, and he wonders if this will be his end. Jizabel is here, with his needles ground to fine points and his eyes hidden behind wire-frame glasses. Riff clutches his chest. He remembers the last time, and how the needle in his arm gave him a stab of deja-vu. It was impossible, wasn't it? He'd have realized, track marks up his arm, he would have known. There is a rose-shaped burn blossomed across his chest, old and beginning to fade. He did not know it was there until a week ago.

Died on Saturday

He's lost. He's not sure how he knows, he's not sure how he's still around to know, but he knows. He can feel that white-sharp smile on his lips, cruel and cold and empty. His fingers clench tight on a pale slender throat he's undressed from countless stiff collars and silk neckties. Sickened, he retches, but has no stomach nor mouth nor oesophagus to accommodate the bitter black bile he can somehow still taste in the throat that doesn't exist. A black cape flaps behind the man who walks away, and an idea is left dying in his fading footsteps.

Buried on Sunday

There is a smile.

His limbs, though sluggish and searing with the pain of rapid decay, are his own. There is rubble raining down on him and he knows this will be his end, this time.

And there is a smile. There is a body fitted tight against him like instinct, there is a warmth he's known since before they pieced him together out of a lonely boy's starry-eyed fancy. There is still a chance to save him, but he cannot will his grip to loosen. He can count their lingering embraces on one rotting hand.

There is a smile.

This is the end of Solomon Grundy.

[fic] Hetalia: Tale of a Makeshift Cutlery Drawer

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 08:30:50 GMT

TITLE: Tale of a Makeshift Cutlery Drawer
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Hetalia
PAIRING: Germany/Italy
WARNING: Snuggling and Italy's classic lack of pants
SUMMARY: Germany's woken up in any number of strange senarios, but it's terribly more distressing when it's one of his own creation.

----------------

The first time Germany woke up to find his arm slung almost possessively over a sleeping, stark-naked Italy, was more than a little distressing. In fact, if he were to think about it, it was probably even more of a shock than the first time he'd awoke to find a sleeping, stark-naked Italy in his bed, period. Italy, after all, was Italy, and Germany had entered in to their little pact expecting a few strange things to happen. This, though, this... spooning, was apparently done of Germany's own initiative, and that was far, far worse than having to wash naked Italian cooties out of his sheets every afternoon.

In any case, at finding that he'd put himself in such an awkward position for no immediately apparent reason, Germany was so taken aback that he stayed in said pose for no less than forty minutes thereafter, which resulted in two things. First, Italy woke up and made what Germany could only assume was some sort of absurdly high-pitched Italian mating call at the discovery of Germany's arm firmly around his waist. Second, after letting the warmth of Italy's body tingle up his arm for an inordinate amount of time, Germany came to a most horrifying conclusion: he kind of liked it.

Ridiculous. After quieting Italy down and apologizing to a ruffled-looking Austria, Germany decided to chalk up the morning's antics to hallucinations and leave the whole... snuggling nonsense behind him. Germany's resolve, however, did little to alleviate the googly-eyed stares Italy kept shooting him while he tried to jab coloured pins into a map of Europe for reasons he'd now completely forgotten.

"Stop that," Germany grumbled.

"Stop what?" Italy's chin rested in his hand and Germany could practically see the hearts fluttering over his head. Germany had the urge to pop one, but just sighed and said "Never mind." Maybe he was imagining it.

"Mmmmm." Italy slumped forward, his entire body having apparently devolved into warm mush. "Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

"Don't you always, anyway?"

"Oh Germany," Italy said, tilting his head to the side and grinning like an idiot, "Stop being so coy." He said it with flourish, and Germany could see those damn little hearts trailing off the end of it.

Coy. Coy. Really, that was the last straw. It was just a little unconscious snuggling, hardly even his own fault, really, and he curtly told Italy as much. "The more I think about it," he said, "the more I think it's highly inappropriate for you to be crawling into my bed every evening. You're a grown man, for God's sake."

"But you're the one who propo—"

Germany flushed bright red (which Italy happened to find absolutely precious, though even he had the foresight not to mention it). "We made a pact not to bring that up, Italy! Oaths were sworn, books were burned, it never happened."

"Yes," Italy agreed, "But see, then you spooned me, and I liked it."

"Well so did I, that doesn't mean—"

"You liked it?"

"I never said that," Germany back-peddled.

"You did just say it, though! Just now!"

Germany cleared his throat. "You misheard me."

Italy sighed and pouted and needled Germany endlessly for the next half-hour, but eventually let the subject drop with a promise to cease his nightly migrations to Germany's bed. That, Germany figured, was the end of that. Really, with Italy sprawled out across his bed every night it was no wonder that such a situation had eventually come up, and now with the matter well in hand he could put the whole mess behind him.

"Well, you said you didn't want me sneaking in here anymore," Italy said when Germany opened the door on what he'd assumed would be an empty bedroom, "So if I just go to sleep here to begin with it should be fine, right?"

Germany covered his face. "I don't think you've grasped the point," he said, knowing that it wouldn't do any good. He could hear the rustle of sheets as Italy slid out of bed, his bare feet padding on the floor. When he pried Germany's hand from over his eyes, he was smiling.

"Can I stay here?" Italy asked, already knowing the answer.

"You're ruining me," Germany informed him with a scowl.

"Gosh," Italy laughed and ushered Germany under the covers, wormed into his reluctant embrace, "I sure hope so!"

[fic] Hetalia: Little Red Flowers (France/UK)

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 08:41:59 GMT

TITLE: Little Red Flowers
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Hetalia
PAIRING: France/UK
WARNING: Uhhhhh Scarlet Pimpernel spoilers? You can read it online you know! It's quite good!
SUMMARY: Tea, falsetto, adventure novels, and a couple of hopeless romantics.

-----------------

"You don't have to hide it," Francis says as he slips into a wrought-iron patio chair, resting his chin on his hand. "I spied you reading that drivel from across the road."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Arthur replies in that strained, haughty voice as he stuffs a well-worn paperback into the satchel on the floor beside him. "You weren't supposed to be here for twenty minutes, since when are you ever anything but late?"

"Ah, cher, how could I keep myself away?" Francis grins his know-it-all grin. "We Frenchmen, we'd walk barefoot down hostile coastland in the dead of night for love, you know."

Arthur covers his face with a gloved hand and groans. "Oh dear," he says, chuckling awkwardly, "I'd hoped you were bluffing."

"'Oh, Percy,'" Francis cries in falsetto, his eyelashes fluttering and his lips poised in a longing pout, "'How could I have ever doubted your lovely love, which my own love did lovingly seek out from the depths of my loving heart to come together in perfect love? That I have discovered you to be a dashing folk hero is only coincidental.'"

"That's rather a nice bonus, isn't it?" Arthur sips his drink, regaining composure. "Have you tried one of these? Some new blend they got in recently, it's quite good."

Francis plucks Arthur's cup from his fingers and takes a long, lingering sip of ceylon. Arthur wants to punch the grin off his handsome face, but that's hardly anything new. "I hope you Englishmen don't think we're all as incompetent as Marguerite and Chauvelin," Francis says, fitting the cup back into Arthur's outstretched hand.

"We're all well aware that most of you are far worse. Get your own," Arthur scowls as Francis licks his lips and makes another attempt at the teacup.

"What? I already drank out of that one, anyway. Fine," Francis holds up his hands in surrender, "My order's coming soon, anyway."

On cue, a moment later someone brings out a pastry so sweet even the sight of it makes Arthur's teeth ache. He has had the pastry here before; Francis has not. Arthur knows he'll hate it, and he smiles. Francis does not seem to notice.

"Who are you?" Francis asks, absently checking his fork for spots.

Arthur cocks a bushy eyebrow. "What are you on about?"

Francis takes a thoughtful bite of his pastry; the look on his face tells Arthur the chef does not pass his test, and he tries not to laugh. "I mean," Francis says, forcing a swallow and moving his plate aside, "Do you imagine yourself as clever Percy, hopelessly in love, or do you fancy yourself Marguerite, the most brave and handsome man you've ever known kissing your dainty feet?"

Arthur's mouth scrunches up. "There's no proper answer to that, is there? Tell me yours first, I know you've read it."

Francis doesn't say anything, but he bows down with exaggerated reverence and lifts Arthur's foot, pressing his mouth to the toe of his polished leather boot. The people at the next table over give him the oddest look, but he either doesn't notice or doesn't care, Arthur has never been sure which. He's still grinning that know-it-all grin.

"Stupid git," Arthur murmurs, his lips resting on the rim of an empty cup.

[fic] Hetalia: From the Mulberry Cocoon (France/UK)

Sun, 29 Mar 2009 02:52:09 GMT

TITLE: From the Mulberry Cocoon
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Hetalia
PAIRING: France/UK
WARNING: Nonexplicit sex
SUMMARY: Sometimes you know the feeling long before you know the word.

-------------

Arthur can remember when he first saw silk, loosed from the bolt in a pool of gloss and heavy perfume from the east. It was dyed in bright saffron, like the sun off the water, and when Arthur stroked it with his fingers he finally knew the word to describe his brother's hair.

"'Brother, brother,' you called to me," Francis says, sliding Arthur's stiff jacket off his shoulders. "'Did you know your hair is like silk?'"

"I was mistaken." Arthur lets Francis untie the neck cloth at his throat, does not protest when his fingers linger. The smell of fresh-cut lilies hangs soft in the air.

Francis' fingers are joined by his lips. "Do you think of me when you wear those silk stockings next to your skin?" he asks, his voice gone heavy and dark.

"And you?" Arthur grins that crooked punk-kid grin he pretends he's grown out of. "What do you think of when you wear your silk stockings beneath your silk nightclothes and crawl between your silk sheets, you decadent bastard?

"'Brother, brother,'" Francis mocks with a smile. Arthur yanks at his hair in protest, pulls out the satin ribbon by accident and remembers bright scented silk pooled at his feet. Francis lifts his undershirt and kisses the bare skin below his navel. "Are you frightened?"

Arthur doesn't answer, pulls his undershirt off over his head and tosses it to the floor. "Get on with it," he says, staring straight into Francis' eyes, daring. There are goose bumps on his arms.

"Lie back," Francis tells him.

Arthur bites his lip as Francis enters him and cries out anyway. His hands hover above Francis' head, fingers outstretched, but at the last moment he draws them back, drops them to his side to clutch at those decadent silk sheets.

Francis smiles. "You think you're so grown up, don't you?" He takes Arthur's hands, kisses his palms and guides his fingers to tangle in gold-silk hair. He moves, and Arthur cries out again, pulls him closer without realizing, tears of pain and maybe something else pricking at the corners of his eyes. Francis kisses his forehead, softly.

Years from now Arthur's fingers will brush against a silk shirt in the back of his wardrobe. The scent of lilies will drift in from his open window, and he will remember a smile he'd thought long forgotten.

[fic] Hetalia: Noble Rot (France/UK)

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 10:08:19 GMT

TITLE: Noble Rot
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Hetalia
PAIRING: France/UK
RATING: I dunno, like 14A or something?
SUMMARY: When conditions are just right, something unexpectedly sweet can be produced.

-----------------

"The new vintage is out," Francis had told him, "Come sample it with me, or is your palate too plain for fine wine?" They sat on a tired old veranda and drank most of two bottles between them. The red was heavy and sweet, the white light and dry as old bones. Arthur kept wishing his glass transfigured into a pint of lager, and Francis knew it, and he laughed.

"I see what you're doing here," Arthur said, taking a swig and biting his lip at the sharp bitter stab on his tongue.

"Do you?" Francis was smiling, idly swirling the wine in his glass.

"I do," Arthur replied firmly. "It's not going to work. I know all your old tricks off by heart."

"And I yours." Francis filled Arthur's glass. "It used to be a lot easier to get your trousers off."

"When! When was it easy!"

"Glam rock," Francis said, and Arthur buried his face in his hands.

"Oh god," Arthur groaned, his cheeks getting red, though from embarrassment or the wine it was impossible to say. "Don't remind me, it seemed like a great idea at the time."

"Mod was cute and punk was adorable, but glam was my favourite." Francis pulled at Arthur's sleeve. "Do you ever put the glitter back on these days?"

"God no, I'm too old for that kind of thing."

"What? Ridiculous." Francis took Arthur's hand. "Come here."

"Where?"

"Well if you'd follow, you'd know." Francis tugged at Arthur, and they were up, walking down the road. "It's good to feel young sometimes."

Arthur's face scrunched up. "You're not, you're not!" he said, digging his heels into the sidewalk, but Francis dragged him into a shop and made him sweep shelves of glitter eye makeup into a basket, laughing. They gave a fistful of euros and a couple old francs to the girl at the counter, who made a face and pushed the coins back with their change.

"Let me do it," Francis said, and they sat cross-legged on his bed.

"You're messing it up."

"You can't even see what I'm doing."

"Doesn't matter, I can tell." Arthur sneezed. "I never used this much, you know."

Francis dipped his fingers in a jar of powder and caressed Arthur's cheek. "I want to see how it looks on you."

Arhur grabbed Francis' hand and scrunched up his nose. "I still see what you're doing here. You're still doing it, so I still see it, you know."

"Oh-ho, so I am." Francis' fingers slid beneath Arthur's shirt, leaving trails of glamour in their wake. The perfumed smell of cosmetics hung in the air. Francis kissed him in that way he had, a little too hard and a little too long. "Am I still not getting away with it?" he asked in that deep velvet voice he thought was sexy, and it was, and Arthur hated that it was.

"You smeared it," Arthur said, his fingers at Francis' lips, rubbing them softly and coming back stained red.

"It looks better that way." Francis kissed him again, and Arthur's fingers twined in his hair, soft like silk thread in his hands.

When they were done they lay naked on top of the sheets, their feet propped against the headboard. Arthur lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring in Francis' face. "I thought you quit," Francis said.

"I tell the kids that or they make that face at me." Arthur flicked the ash onto the floor. "Why, do you think I should?"

"No, I think you should share, though."

Arthur passed Francis the cigarette and raked a hand through his hair, stiff with cheap glitter spray. "I should have known better than to go drinking with you."

Francis smiled. "I'm glad you don't know better."

[fic] Hetalia: Terror (France, UK)

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 00:45:58 GMT

TITLE: Terror
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Hetalia
CHARACTERS: France, UK
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Arthur pays Francis a visit in late 1793.
NOTES: France has his share of crazy, why does Russia get to have all the fun.

-----

It has been a long time since Arthur last set foot here. He has been smelling gunsmoke from across the water these last few years, heard the cries of Francis' people. At first it was all glorious chanting, "Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité," he'd stand guiltily at the gates of the palace and strain to listen. These days he hears only the jeers of the mob and the screams from the scaffolds, followed over and over by a dull heavy thud.

Arthur passes Versailles. He wonders if the mirrors have been pried off the walls, remembers how they dazzled when the sunlight hit them. Francis' hair had shone gold in the bright-lit ballroom where he'd taught him the gavotte.

"You came," Francis says when Arthur steps into the dark, cramped study. "I thought you might."

"What have you done with your king?" Arthur asks.

Francis laughs. "My dear brother, the age of kings is over. It is the stuff of fairy tales."

"I've always been fond of fairy tales," Arthur says, draping his long coat over an empty chair. "I've had word that you took your king and placed him in that awful device, is that true?"

"I tried a French citizen and found him guilty of crimes against the republic."

"What was his crime? What are the crimes of all the nobility whose screams I can hear from my window? Being born in a time when you've gone mad?"

Francis puts down his pen and reclines in his chair. "Their crimes are inaction, of course. They had wealth and power and influence, yet they continued to exploit the peasantry, they lifted not a finger to ease the suffering of the people so long as their own bellies were full." Francis tilts his head to the side and smiles too wide. "It's quite simple, non? They have been roadblocks to freedom, and continue to be so. We must remove them. My citizens have had enough. I have had enough."

"This is freedom, then? This is equality? Fairness?" The candle on the desk flickers and nearly goes out. "Is this what you dreamed of when you heard what my son had accomplished?"

"He had it easy, I realize now. Far from the past, a nearly blank slate, once he broke his ties with you there was little to clean up. Here in Europe it will be more difficult, we'll have to wipe things clean ourselves before we can write the new pages of history." Francis stands up and snuffs the candle, the only light now from the bright sliver of moon filtered through the dirty window. He steps forward, and his face is too close. "Why did you come?"

"You should stop this madness," Arthur says, and his mouth is dry.

"I've already murdered the king. There's no going back now." Francis' fingers are beneath Arthur's chin, tilting it upward. "It's a new age. You'll see that soon enough. Big brother will teach you, like I always do, once things are settled."

Arthur pushes Francis' hand away. "If you set foot in my country like this, I'll kill you."

Francis smiles and sits back down, relights the candle. "Be careful on your way back," he says, "You're dressed far too well to be walking these streets."

Arthur puts on his jacket and leaves without a word, hearing the furious scritch of pen on paper as he closes the door. It's quiet now, but he knows that when he lies in bed tonight he will hear echoes from across the channel again, roars and screams and thud, thud, thud. On his way back he passes Versailles once more. He knows now that the man who glimmered in the sunlight is gone.

[fic] Hetalia: Dissonance in Cut-time (France/UK)

Mon, 26 Jan 2009 10:22:24 GMT

TITLE: Dissonance in Cut-time
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Hetalia
PAIRINGS: France/UK
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Though they may have forgotten, their feet still know the steps.
NOTES: I know nothing about dancing, can you tell.

------------------

"What on earth are you up to?"

Francis leaned his head back to stare at Arthur upside-down, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and his hair sticking up on one side like it did when he slept on it funny. A song, quick and lively, echoed softly in the empty room; the name of it is not important. "I taught you the gavotte to this one, do you remember? You were terrible."

"You were just a terrible teacher." Arthur sat in the chair opposite, near the fire. "Anyway, it was a stupid country dance in the first place."

Francis grinned. "Good enough for the Sun King, but still not enough for you? How very typical. Was there not enough glitter, young men tarted up like women?" Francis paused. "Actually, if I recall, there was an awful lot of that going on, I don't know what your problem was. Should've been paradise for you."

"Come off it," Arthur launched a pillow across the room, "Just because I had a couple experimental decades..." He rose angrily to his feet. "I don't know why I even bother trying to have civil conversations with you."

"Is that what that was? Come here," Francis stood. "Do you remember any of the steps, have gotten any better? Prove it to me."

Arthur frowned that crooked little frown of his, but he held out a hand for Francis to take, rested the other on his shoulder. "I can't believe I never realized back then that this was just a flimsy excuse to feel me up," he said.

"That was only part of it." Francis gripped Arthur by the waist. "My favourite part, of course. Listen, it's a waltz now, do you think you can still count to three?"

Arthur kicked Francis in the shin.

"Still so feisty," Francis said, his eyebrows wriggling, "I love it."

"If you let that hand wander any lower, I'll aim higher next time."

Francis smiled and pulled Arthur around the room in steady rhythm. "I think maybe it'd be worth it."

[fic] Kyou Kara Maou: but the sky is a deep summer blue (Adalbert/Julia)

Sun, 11 Jan 2009 10:37:29 GMT

I wrote this for kkm_xmas, it is finally liberated.

TITLE: but the sky is a deep summer blue
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Kyou Kara Maou
PAIRINGS: Adalbert/Julia
RATING: G
SUMMARY: Adalbert, Julia, some questions, some answers. Sometimes love is more than you know how to say.
A/N: These two are hard to write dudes and ladies!! Original request: Would like to request Adelbert x Julia fic if anyone would like to write it...

-------------------

The first time they danced together, Adalbert's hands shook and he trampled all over Julia's toes during the waltz, though from clumsiness or nerves she did not know. When she moved her hand to brush against Adalbert's neck she could feel the warm blush against her fingertips. Julia smiled, and during the quadrille she stepped on his toes back. The lightness of his hand on her waist told her he was smiling, too. It was their engagement party.

Adalbert lies with his head in Julia's lap, watching the leaves above them rustle in the breeze. They are turning from green to dull mud-brown, in raggedy patches and crinkled edges. "It should be the last campaign for awhile," he says, absently seeking the hilt of his sword where he's set it in the grass beside him, "I'll be back by spring."

Julia ran her fingers through Adalbert's hair, still softer than she ever expects. "The flowers will be blooming again in her Majesty's garden by then," she says. "They smell nice, I missed them this last summer."

"Do you want them for the wedding? I'll get them for you."

Julia laughs like the clear blue sky peeking through the leaves above them. There is a leaf stuck in her hair, and Adalbert wonders if she notices. "That's quite alright," Julia says, "I'm sure she'll bring some herself, anyway." She frowns. "It'll be raining in the spring, we should wait until summer."

Adalbert shakes his head. "No," he says firmly. "Spring, when I get back. No later."

Julia's fingers stop for a moment. She smiles soft and warm. "You have to wear the suit," she says quietly. The suit is a terribly formal thing, all stiff collar and squared shoulders and elegant stitching about the cuffs. Adalbert hates it, and Julia knows, and her smile widens. "And you have to dance with me the whole night."

"I'll look a fool," Adalbert warns.

"I worry more for my toes than your pride, but I want you to do it anyway."

Adalbert looks up and frowns. "Where's your necklace?" he asks.

Julia puts a hand to her throat, and her expression becomes stretched and thin. "I must have forgot to put it on," she says. Julia's heart thuds heavy in her chest. She remembers the first time she heard his voice, deep and clear and confident even in his youth. She'd been barefoot in the garden, her skirt hiked up round her knees, and when he spoke she felt the earth beneath her feet stop to listen. "Do you need any help?" he'd asked her, and she'd smiled and took his hand.

Adalbert looks at her. "Did you want me to go fetch it for you?" he asks, and the dirt and the grass and the clouds and the leaves and her ears still drink in his voice, rich and dark.

Julia shakes her head. Her thoughts are elsewhere. "Is this the battle that you think you'll find meaning in?" she asks. Her fingers still run absently through Adalbert's hair.

"It may help end the war. Yes, it's a meaningful battle."

"Is it?" Julia muses.

"Even your friend Conrad thinks so, doesn't he?"

Conrad's name sounds like bitter herb tea on Adalbert's tongue. Julia tries not to laugh. "As much as any battle can have meaning, he does. I wonder at him, too. I don't understand it."

"We have things to protect." Adalbert stands, shakes the warmth from his limbs, stretches out the comfortable looseness. "I should be going," he says, buckling his sword back into place, "I have much to prepare before tomorrow. Will you be at the castle?"

"I will."

Julia holds out her hand and Adalbert grasps it, pulls her gently to her feet, lighter than he ever expects. When she finds her balance he still does not let go. "If there's anything you need of me before I go," he says, "please tell me."

Julia thinks of a voice whispering to her in the back of her head, and a clock ticking away somewhere with the numbers all blanked out. She touches her fingers to Adalbert's cheek to feel he warmth of his blush there, and kisses him softly. "This is enough," she says.

[fic] Hetalia: Tarnish (France/UK)

Thu, 27 Nov 2008 08:28:10 GMT

TITLE: Tarnish
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Hetalia
PAIRINGS: France/UK
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: History is remembered by the participants.
NOTES: I do not care for France but I love the French Revolution, what is the deal.

------------

Arthur straddles Francis' hips, his fingers at his throat. "No one takes you seriously anymore," he says. "What happened to the proud son of Charlemagne?"

"He became a wine-soaked cheese-eating pacifist Frenchman, or so I hear," Francis answers, his smile unwavering. "You've been talking with Alfred again. The middle ages were a long time ago, you know."

"It shouldn't matter. The revolution wasn't." Arthur's grip tightens. "Doesn't it make you angry?"

Francis laughs and lays a palm against Arthur's cheek. "Do you remember? Do you remember the smell of blood and gun smoke across the water and the cries of liberté, égalité, fraternité?"

Arthur frowns and grips Francis' wrist. "I remember you making a host of poor decisions."

"Tomato, tomato," Francis says, pronouncing them both in the same heavy accent, "or however it is that goes. If you remember it then that's enough, isn't it? I don't care what he says about me."

Arthur's hand moves from Francis' throat to his chest. "Everyone should know," he says. "What was the point of everything if nobody knows anymore?"

Francis' fingers are at Arthur's throat, then to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. "I remember," he says, "You remember."

There is a warm knot in the pit of Arthur's stomach, and what he remembers is looking across the channel and seeing Francis standing at the shore in shining armor, the pride of Europe, the son of Charlemagne. Francis kisses him now. Arthur can't remember a time when he didn't want to swallow him whole.

[fic] Hetalia: Italy Cleans Storage (Germany/Italy)

Sun, 23 Nov 2008 07:35:51 GMT

TITLE: Italy Cleans Storage
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Hetalia
PAIRING: Germany/Italy
RATING: G
SUMMARY: Italy goes through Germany's attic and finds something he didn't expect to see again.
NOTES: IF I FAIL LINGUISTICS IT IS ON YOUR HANDS HETALIA. Do I need to warn for Italy being stupid about WWII, it is Hetalia after all. Well, Italy being stupid about WWII.

--------------------

"Boy," Feliciano said to himself, closing the trapdoor to the attic, "for such a neat and tidy guy, it sure is messy up here." He rolled up his sleeves and carefully surveyed the room. Boxes were stacked haphazardly against the walls, and everything was covered in dust. One box had fallen off its perch, spilling a pile of moth-eaten lederhosen across the floor; Italy suppressed a fit of giggles. "Well, if I clean this place up, Germany will definitely forgive me for the sausages." He still didn't know what the big deal was; he thought the pasta was a wonderful blend of their cultures and made the sausages more edible besides, but Germany had just gone on about compromising the integrity of proud German wurst.

The first box Italy opened contained a pile of black helmets with silver spikes on top. "Oh wow, so scary!" he exclaimed, taking on out and trying it on. "This one makes me feel tall, why didn't Germany have this kind during the war? I guess I'll keep this one and throw out the rest," he continued, folding the flaps back in and shoving the box aside, "he probably doesn't need all of them."

A number of other boxes went by in the same manner as the first, old guns and uniforms and medals and one box stuffed to the brim, curiously, with especially tacky steins. "Germany sure does fight a lot," Feliciano sighed, rifling through a stack of old clothes. "Oh!" He pulled out a brown uniform jacket, red armband still pinned to the sleeve. "This is his boss's from that time, isn't it?" He held the jacket up to himself and stuck his finger sideways across his upper lip. "I look like Charlie Chaplin," he growled sternly, "do what I say!" He laughed uproariously and slung the jacket on a old coat rack he'd found. The jacket had been lying atop a pile of yellow stars; Italy stared frowning at them for a few moments before giving a shrug and scrawling "Christmas decorations" across the flap.

"Now what's this?" Italy hefted a chunk of concrete that had been tossed in the corner of the attic. It looked like the ruins of a wall or something, part of a mural or something painted on one side. "What does he want something like this for? Just throw it away." He tossed it in the trash pile, wincing at the loud thunk it made and hoping Germany didn't hear; he wanted this to be a surprise. He looked around, wondering whether to tackle the Mann or Nietzsche collections, when a roll of paper, sticking out of a hole in the plaster, caught his eye.

Ludwig was downstairs reading the newspaper when he heard the unmistakable thud of Feliciano's feet thundering down the stairs. He only had just enough time to tuck the newspaper safely out of harms way when Italy came tearing in, clutching a roll of parchment in one hand with tears streaming down his face.

"Germany!" Italy sobbed, throwing himself into Ludwig's lap, "Germany!"

"What?! And why are you wearing that thing," Germany took the hemelt off Italy's head, "You'll hurt someone with that thing."

"Germany, Germany," Feliciano kept crying, waving his paper around like a madman. Germany took it and unfurled it.

"Hey," Ludwig said, "this looks like you, doesn't it? Where did this come from?"

"I... attic... sausages..." Italy hiccoughed.

Germany went red. "I wasn't that upset about the pasta." He studied the drawing. "It really is you, then? You found it in the attic?"

Feliciano wiped his nose on his sleeve. "From when I was little and living with Austria," he said, the tears starting to subside.

"That's strange," Germany said, patting Italy's back with his free hand. "It must've belonged to whoever lived here before. What a coincidence." He paused and furrowed his brows. "Why are you wearing a dress?"

"Eh?" Italy blinked, his tears finally stopping. "You mean it's not yours, Germany?"

"How could it be? I wasn't around yet when you were still this small."

"Oh," Italy sniffled, "I guess that's true. Or more, I knew that already, but then I thought..." Feliciano bit his lip and ran his fingers along the edge of the picture. "My friend drew it, I think... I told him I'd wait for him, but he never..."

Germany's throat went tight and he glanced at the clock. "It's after three," he said, "shouldn't you be having your nap?"

"Siesta!" Italy flew off the couch and started taking off his pants. "I completely forgot!"

"You don't need to be naked to have a nap!!" Ludwig grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch. "Anyway, just sleep here, I'll wake you up later."

Feliciano's face lit up and he dove back onto the couch, settling his head in Ludwig's lap, completely recovered. "Is Germany going to have a siesta, too?"

"No, I'll read the paper in peace for once," Ludwig said, tucking the blanket around Feliciano's shoulders.

Italy grabbed Germany's hand suddenly and looked up. "Germany," he said, "You won't forget me, right?"

Ludwig rapped Feliciano on the head with his knuckles. "I told you a long time ago I wouldn't," he said, "Who could forget a useless idiot like you? Go to sleep."

"That's true, isn't it?" Italy smiled brightly and snuggled against Germany. He was asleep within minutes, as Ludwig knew he'd be, clinging to the hem of his shirt with one hand. The drawing lay half-rolled on the table; Ludwig picked it up again and smoothed out the edges to study it more closely. The lines, he thought, were crude and shaky, but Italy's smiling face was drawn with care. Germany pressed his fingers softly to his lips and stared.

EXTRA

"Those helmets aren't even the real ones from that time, you know."

"Really?!"

"Britain keeps sending them to me for my birthday, he thinks he's being funny. America sends me those steins, too, I don't know where he gets them."

"And the lederhosen?"

"..."

"Germany, what about the lederhosen?"

"...do you want to have pasta tonight?"

"I want gnocchi!"

[fic] Ookiku Furikabutte: A Reasonable Request (Tajima/Hanai)

Sun, 09 Mar 2008 08:30:23 GMT

TITLE: A Reasonable Request
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Ookiku Furikabutte
PAIRING: Tajima/Hanai
RATING: PG-13 for sex talk and snogging
SUMMARY: Tajima is blunt as usual and Hanai can't think of a reason to say no.
NOTES: Was supposed to be for springkink, awkward first times - "I kinda... like you, I guess." but I faaaaaaail so hard.

---------------

"So I kinda like you, I guess," Tajima said, making Hanai swear and knock over the bat rack.

"Come again?" Hanai choked, scrambling to the floor.

Tajima wriggled his eyebrows. "I will if you will," he said.

"That not what I—" Hanai's glasses slipped down his nose and he tried to right them with his elbow. "You like me, is that what you said?"

"I think so." Tajima knelt down to help. "I jerked off to you a couple of times, so that's not a problem."

Hanai dropped the bats again.

"So, I figured I might as well put it out there and see if you'd go for it." Tajima pushed Hanai's glasses back into place. "How about it? Wanna give it a try?"

Hanai finally righted the rack and debated beating a hasty retreat to the locker rooms. "Do I want to give what a try?"

"You know," and Tajima wriggled his eyebrows again, "let's check to see if you're cool with it, too."

"See if I'm—" Hanai thwacked Tajima across the head with his mitt, "No I'm not letting you… NO. Jesus."

"We could just make out a little," Tajima conceded, "You know, first date and all."

"I am not going to make out with you or let you do anything to anything on my person," Hanai said, "So just drop it already."

"A kiss!" Tajima finally suggested. "Come on, how bad could that possibly be? I won't even use any tongue."

Hanai glanced sidelong at Tajima. "You promise to drop this whole thing if I tell you it's gross?" he asked, shouldering his equipment bag. Tajima nodded. Hanai was beginning to wonder when snogging a teammate had begun to sound like a reasonable request, and had the sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with one of Momokan's pep talks. "Fine," he said, "Just one, and then we both forget this conversation ever happened."

"Deal!" Tajima agreed, and shoved Hanai up against the lockers.

"Hey hey, whoa, wait," Hanai stuttered as Tajima's hands started moving ever southward, "I thought we agreed—"

"I totally lied," Tajima said, and shoved his tongue down Hanai's throat.

* * *

"So we're dating now," Tajima announced proudly to the team the next morning, holding Hanai's hand. "All of you are gonna have to stop jerking off to him, okay? I won't forgive you if you keep doing it."

A disappointed groan arose from the majority of the Nishiura baseball team and a couple of the ouendan, and Hanai refused to change in the locker room for several weeks thereafter.

[fic] Getbackers: Winter Pressed up Close (Ban, Ginji)

Wed, 13 Feb 2008 00:01:11 GMT

TITLE: Winter Pressed up Close
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Getbackers
CHARACTERS: Ban, Ginji
RATING: PG (for man-snuggles)
SUMMARY: Winter sleeping in the car.
A/N: for springkink, Feb 11 - GetBackers, Ban/Ginji: casual touches - "Between one moment and the other, he got used to it. Fuck if he knew when it happened."

---------

Ban can remember the first winter.

"It's so cold," Ginji said, bringing his knees to his chest and shivering. Ban could see Ginji's breath when he spoke. "Can we turn the heat on for a little while?"

"There's no money for gas," Ban had told him, pulling his blanket tight around himself. "If we finish this job maybe we can swing a hotel for a few nights. It's supposed to be getting colder next week."

Ginji puffed out his cheeks and continued to shiver.

Ban had sighed and hemmed and hawed and eventually he lifted up the edge of his blanket. "Come here," he'd said.

Ginji had smiled wide and scrambled across the seats, pressing up warm and close. "You're my favourite guy, Ban-chan."

"Told you not to call me that," Ban groused, "and not so close, it's cramped in here." And Ginji just pressed closer, so warm.

There had been a lot of cold nights that winter, and the ones that followed, the two of them shivering in the front seat and Ginji pressed up close to him in the dark, their breaths coming out together in puffs. Before he knew what was what, Ban had got used to that warmth, huddled against him in the cold. Fuck if he knew when it happened.

"Come here," Ban says now. It's the middle of summer and intolerably humid, the two of them sprawled out at all angles in the heat. But Ginji smiles, and scrambles across the seats to press close against him. Ginji's breath comes out in soft pants, cool on his sweat-soaked neck, and his fingers are unbearably warm on his back.

[fic] Kyou Kara Maou: Purl Two (Gwendal/Yuuri)

Fri, 08 Feb 2008 21:24:51 GMT

TITLE: Purl Two
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Kyou Kara Maou
PAIRING: Gwendal/Yuuri
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Yuuri likes the way Gwendal's hands move.
A/N: For springkink, February 8, Gwendal/Yuuri: Knitting - The beginning of their relationship.

------------------

When Yuuri was a baby, his mother took up knitting. She'd done the same thing when she was pregnant with Shouri; it just seemed like the sort of thing expectant young mothers did. Yuuri and his brother each had a hand-knit blanket, dropped stitches and knotted yarn ends scattered throughout. Put together they were barely big enough for a single infant, let alone the toddlers the two were when the blankets were finally done. It had been many years ago but Yuuri could imagine his mother's hands, holding the needles at sharp angles, like she was attacking the yarn. He still had the blanket stashed away in the back of his closet.

"What are you making this time?" Yuuri asked. Gwendal's hands were bigger than his mother's but they held the needles much more gently, his fingers defter. "Is it a duck?"

"A pig," Gwendal said, pink yarn wrapped around his fingers. "It's not done yet."

"Oh, I see it now." Yuuri stretched out on the sofa and watched Gwendal working across the room, neat stitches appearing like magic under his fingers. "That's the nose you're working on, right?"

"The ear."

"The ear," Yuuri corrected himself, "That's what I meant."

The needles stopped and Gwendal glanced up. "You don't have to stay here," he said, "I'm sure you have other things to do."

"I want to stay," Yuuri said.

Gwendal sighed and went back to knitting. The needles clicked softly together. Yuuri closed his eyes and listened to them, like water on a rooftop, until he drifted off to sleep.

It was some time later that Yuuri felt something soft brush against his cheek. He opened his eyes. A soft, pink lump of yarn and cotton was resting by his head, and there was a hand. Yuuri reached out to grab it.

"Sorry," Gwendal muttered, "I didn't mean to wake you."

Gwendal's hand was rough and calloused on his fingertips. "It's okay," Yuuri said. Gwendal took his hand away and strode out of the room. The warmth still lingered on Yuuri's palm.

The pig really was atrocious, Yuuri thought. He propped it up on his chest and stared at it until he drifted back to sleep, where he dreamt of rough, calloused hands warm on his skin.

[fic] Kyou Kara Maou: And A Smile, Achingly Familiar (Adalbert, Conrad)

Sat, 02 Feb 2008 20:45:38 GMT

TITLE: And A Smile, Achingly Familiar
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Kyou Kara Maou
CHARACTERS: Adalbert, Conrad
RATING: G
SUMMARY: Adalbert can't stop thinking about her, and Conrad is everywhere.
NOTES: Written for springkink, February 1 - Kyou Kara Maou, Adelbert/Conrad: writer's choice - Loneliness conquers even the memory of brighter hours.

--------------

When Adalbert dreams, he dreams of white silk and blue sky. When he closes his eyes, he sees a smile, achingly familiar. When all is quiet around him, in the dead of night, when he can no longer stand the dreaming, silver laughter echoes in his head and he knows that when he makes that one mistake, that awkward twist of a blade, all that's waiting for him is a hole in the ground, and rot, and more dark and quiet.

"You know I loved you, don't you?" she whispers, and her voice is light and clear in his ear. When he turns he swears he can smell her perfume on his pillow, until he remembers she never wore any. He lies there in the dark and remembers her weight on his shoulder the time she fell asleep in the carriage. A leaf drifted in through the open window, into her hair. He left it there. Conrad had chuckled softly when he saw it and plucked it out. She'd scolded them both.

He throws back the sheets and wanders alone in the dark, focusing on the sound of his bare feet hitting stone, straining his eyes at the moonlight slanting through narrow windows. He's at the castle. He made Gisela cry, he remembers, but he's forgotten how. It doesn't matter. He remembers Conrad sitting under a tree, the one he used to find them under together when he went looking for her. They were always out of doors, it had seemed to him. It never rained when they were together. He remembers blue sky. He remembers white silk. He remembers a smile, too, achingly familiar, although he cannot place it.

She's standing at the window, made out of moonlight and stardust, or so he supposes. "You were a good man," she lies to him, like she always did. He walks past her, into the courtyard. He is barefoot and shirtless, the night air is cold on his skin. He does not shiver. Conrad is there, like he always is, everywhere, and she's beside him, laughing. The sky is blue.

Adalbert nudges Conrad with his foot. "Wake up," he says, and Conrad sits up with a start. His clothes are drenched with dew. There are goose bumps on the back of his neck, but he doesn't shiver. "I was dreaming about her, too," Adalbert says, and he doesn't know why. Conrad nods, takes the hand he can't remember offering, and he smiles, achingly familiar.

When Adalbert dreams, he dreams of white silk and blue sky. "You're still a good man," she tells him, her voice clear and light in his ear. Her body is cold and heavy. A silvery laugh drifts by on the wind, and she collapses into blue flowers in his arms.

Adalbert smiles, and sleeps through the rest of the night

[fic] Pandect: SWM ISO True Love (Ceasar/Ice)

Sat, 29 Dec 2007 11:39:26 GMT

TITLE: SWM ISO True Love
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Pandect
PAIRING: Ceasar/Ice
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Ceasar answers a personal ad and I introduce diegesis to the songfic genre.
NOTES: With apologies to Rupert Holmes.

-------------

SWM ISO True Love
Must enjoy pina coladas and/or getting caught in the rain

Ceasar found the note posted up on the student bulletin board, next to a notice from the cafeteria about Taco Surprise Tuesdays. "SWM ISO True Love," it said, scrawled in messy handwriting on a scrap of notebook paper. "Must enjoy pina coladas and/or getting caught in the rain." There was a cell phone number printed below, barely legible. Ceasar read it a dozen times walking to and from the cafeteria. In a few days he has the message and the number memorized.

One night, about a week after he first saw the note, Ceasar lay in his bed and stared at his cell phone. He glanced carefully around the room, half expecting Fleance or his creepy gecko to be lurking behind Pebble's tank, but there was no one. He flipped open his phone.

"This is True Love," he typed painstakingly into the text message window. "Love pina coladas and the rain is okay." He paused for a moment, then added "What is your opinion on health food and/or champagne?"

When he was done, Ceasar took a deep breath and hit send.

The reply didn't come until late the next afternoon, in the middle of biology class. Ceasar had forgot to turn off his phone and Funky Town blasted out across the room in all its midi glory, much to Ceasar's embarrassment. His aunt got cross and made him read the message out to the class. "Let me answer with another with another question," Ceasar mumbled, turning red, "How does champagne on the beach at midnight sound to you? No tofu."

"Well you better answer," Rose said as Ceasar sat back down, "wouldn't want to keep your hot date waiting. Go on."

Ceasar glared and waited until after class to reply. "Sounds like the best thing ever," he said, "When?"

"Tomorrow night?"

"It's a date," Ceasar sent, and flipped his cell phone shut with a most triumphant flourish.

As the two had failed to set an exact meeting place, Ceasar was not entirely sure where on the beach to start searching for his SWM. He thought maybe it would be a good idea to follow the sound of Rupert Holmes' most famous song wafting down from the north end, though. I was tired of my lady the one-hit wonder crooned on repeat, we'd been together too long.

It didn't take long for Ceasar to reach the source of the music, a battered old stereo holding down the corner of a beach blanket. There was a bottle of cheap champagne stuck unceremoniously in the sand beside it.

"Hey," Ice said, "so I got a new cell phone."

Ceasar, relatively unsurprised, shook his head and lay down next to him. "This is like the gayest thing you've ever done."

"Probably." Ice hefted the champagne bottle. "Gonna help me drink this or not?"

Ceasar nodded and picked up a glass.

If you'd like making love at midnight in the dunes of the Cape, you're the lady I've looked for, come with me and escape.

Ceasar frowned and shut the stereo off. He hated that stupid song.

[fic] Kyou Kara Maou: Two Ships (Jose, Conrad)

Wed, 26 Dec 2007 07:00:53 GMT

TITLE: Two Ships
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Kyou Kara Maou
CHARACTERS: Jose, Conrad
RATING: G
SUMMARY: Conrad learns how to move on with the help of baseball, anime, and a dude with rocking dreads.
NOTES: Written for allira_dream, for kkm_xmas.

--------

"But I don't understand why they want to hit the ball with a bat." Conrad shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up. The sky was clear blue and endlessly far away. His hair tickled the back of his neck. "What's the point of it? Are they training for something? Is it some sort of exercise to develop hand-eye coordination?"

Jose rolled his eyes and showed their tickets to the young girl at the turnstile. "Hitting the ball with a bat is the point of it," he said, "and then running around the bases. It's a game, for fun. Just enjoy it."

They made their way to their seats, far in the back. "Wait here," Jose told Conrad, returning a few minutes later with hotdogs from the concession stand. He bit into his with glee, ketchup dribbling out the back and down his fingers. Conrad took his own and stared at it, not quite sure what to do with it.

"It's food," Jose said, "you eat it."

"But what's it made out of?" Conrad furrowed his brows and poked at the hotdog a little.

"I don't know, beef or something. What does it matter? It's not going to hurt you."

"I like to know what I'm eating," Conrad said, but Jose had already finished scarfing his down and was noisily licking the ketchup off his fingers. Conrad took a bite.

"It's starting, it's starting!" Jose scrambled to his feet. "That's the anthem, Conrad, you've gotta stand up. Come on, put your hand like this. That's right."

Conrad was dragged out of his seat. What should he do with his food? He didn't know the words to the song everyone had started singing, but he put his hand over his heart and listened.

* * *

Jose winced as the ball slammed into his glove. "Conrad," he whined, "don't throw it so hard, you'll break my hand."

"Sorry." Conrad held out his glove and Jose flung the ball back. "I'll be more careful."

"You should just stay on Earth and become a pro ball player, man. Your talent is wasted in the military. Sword fighting is so last century, you know?" Jose took off his glove and checked his watch. "It's six-thirty, do you want to eat at that pub tonight? I think that one waitress has a crush on you."

Conrad's face went red and he hid ever so conspicuously behind his glove. "She does not," he said.

"She does, she does! Gave you that free drink last time, didn't she?" Jose stretched and grinned. "Want me to make myself scarce tonight?" he said, and Conrad thwapped him on the head with his glove. Jose laughed and batted him away. "You're in a much better mood than when you first came here, you know? Just as scruffy-looking, though."

Conrad ran his fingers through his hair. "I really need to get it cut, don't I? I haven't cut it in ages."

"Nah," Jose said, "Girls dig that kind of look."

* * *

"Conrad, look what I got!" Jose switched channels on the TV and popped a tape into the VCR. "A friend of a friend of mine got it from Japan!"

"I was watching that," Conrad grumbled, though his team had been losing and he'd been about ready to turn off the set in defeat anyway. "What is it?"

"In Japan they call it 'ah-knee-may,'" Jose said as the opening theme began to play, "It's cartoons."

"Like for children? Why are you watching it?"

Jose puffed out his chest and drew himself up to his full height. "In Japan," he began, "they understand that the cartoon medium shouldn't be limited only to children. It's limitless and free in a way that no other is today! If you can imagine it, it can be illustrated, unlike live-action, which labours under the constraints of special effects technology." He pointed to the TV. "Why just look at this ah-knee-may, for instance. With a wave of her hand she becomes a magical figure fighting for love and justice! Only animation could create such a fantastic costume-change sequence, and her powers would look cheap and campy on the budget of a weekly live-action show. By utilizing animation, the impossible becomes possible!"

"Jose," Conrad said, "You're a Mazoku."

Jose gave Conrad a look that clearly said "I fail to see your point," and Conrad sighed and compliantly watched some teenage girl and her talking cat throw sparkles at their enemies. When they flipped back to the baseball game and hour and a half later, they found Conrad's team had come back from behind for a stunning 15-14 victory in the bottom of the ninth, and Conrad buried his face in his hands.

* * *

"God, it was cold over there," Jose said. "I though Japan was supposed to be warmer than that."

Conrad smiled, their jackets draped over his arm. "Not in the winter, I guess."

"Hey, no making fun of me!" Jose stretched and basked in the warm afternoon sunshine. "Mine's doing well, I think. Yours?"

Conrad nodded. "Mine too."

Jose smiled, more than a little sadly. "I guess you'll be about ready to head back soon, won't you?"

"In the spring," Conrad said.

"Maaaan, you say it so calmly!" Jose unlocked the door and threw his luggage in the entryway, beside his boots. "Like two ships passing in the night and all that, I guess."

"What does that mean?"

"Waaaah, don't make me say it!" Jose collapsed on the couch. "It's an old saying, I guess it means something like, we're both kind of lost and alone, right? But for a little bit we passed by each other and then," he shrugged helplessly, "we weren't alone for awhile."

Conrad nodded slowly. "I like that," he said. "But those ships can pass each other again sometime, can't they?"

Jose chuckled. "It's a big ocean, Conrad," he said, "but I think this ship would like that."

"Thank you."

Conrad could have sworn that Jose stopped dead for a moment and his bottom lip trembled ever so slightly, but he must have imagined it because a second later Jose was grinning and slapping him on the back, all good-natured as usual. "You'll at least stay for one last ball game, right?"

Conrad smiled. "Maybe even two," he said.

[fic] Original: Timing (Vash, James)

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 09:44:00 GMT

TITLE: Timing
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Original
CHARACTERS: Vash, James
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: The last morning James will wake up to sunlight filtered through the beer bottles lined up on Vash's windowsill.
NOTES: My roommate's boyfriend is also named James which makes this kind of weird sometimes, but damnit I'm not changing his name after all this time just for that.

-------

I sit up in your bed and rub my eyes, dazed. I slept here last night, I guess, after the party, one last hurrah before you go. I smell like the cheap lager we picked up at the liquor store down the road. The empty bottles are lined up on your windowsill, the caps turned up like crowns on top. Bottles, you insisted on, even though the box was heavy and awkward. Bottles were classy.

You're already up, showered and dressed and fixing your hair in the mirror. "Morning," you say, and I grunt a reply, slipping out of the bed and running my fingers through my hair, stiff and gross with gel. My things are already in the bathroom when I get there, and I shower and brush my teeth until the sour taste in my mouth is gone. Your blow dryer is sitting on the counter for me but I leave it, let my hair hang down wet in my eyes.

You're sitting on the bed but you stand when I come in the room. "I'll miss you," you say, and you're smiling at me. "I'll miss you too," is what I'm supposed to say, I think, or maybe I'm supposed to muss your hair and throw an arm around your shoulder, tell you everything's going to be fine. I used to do that all the time, I remember. I wonder when I stopped. I step closer to you, and you frown a little in that way you do when you're scared, but you don't move. And I step closer. Closer, closer. We're almost touching. I used to touch you all the time. I wonder when I stopped.

I think I've always loved you. I love the way your hair curls at the nape of your neck. I love your weight, warm and heavy against my shoulder when you fall asleep watching kung-fu movies with me. I love the way your hands move when you play your bass, the way your fingers pluck at the strings. I love your smile, loved the time I was the only one who got to see it. I love your voice. I love your weakness. I love knowing everything about you. I love being the one you call when you're scared. Do you remember the first time you tried poppy tea? You bought the flowers from an old man who lived in the flat a few floors down, he grew them in his window boxes. You just wanted to sleep so badly. You were almost crying when you called me. We listened to David Bowie and you fell asleep on my shoulder.

"I don't feel it," you said when we ate ice cream together strolling down Abbey Road like tourists. "It's too weird. I love you but it's too weird." I agreed and tried not to think about how beautiful you were. I started dating that girl, Amber, you remember her, she was nice, she liked the band, her eyes were blue like yours, but you were still more beautiful and I tried not to think about it. I'm still trying not to think about it and you are still the most beautiful person I've ever seen in my life.

I place my hands on either side of your face. They're trembling. Your skin is warm and soft under my palms. I can see your suitcases in the corner of my eye, piled beside your bed. I don't want you to go. I want so badly to kiss you. I've been waiting and waiting ever since that night I elbowed some hipster in the face so you could move to the front of the crowd and listen to a band neither of us even remember the name of. Maybe I've been waiting forever. I don't know. My thumbs move, stroking across your cheeks, and you know I was lying all those years ago when I said I wasn't in love with you. Maybe you've always known. I lean in closer, and I kiss you, and your lips are dry and you grip at the front of my t-shirt, pull me closer, and I know you were lying too. I don't know if I should laugh, or cry; I kiss you harder.

I push you to the bed. My lips are at your neck now. I remember the day you came to school with your soft, blond hair clipped short. The back of your neck was so pale, the skin almost white where it disappeared beneath your shirt collar. I remember licking my lips and all I could think about was kissing you, but that was all I could think about most of the time. I wanted to tear off your clothes and press my fingers against that smooth white skin, from the nape of your neck, down the curve of your spine, along the backs of your legs, down to the soles of your feet. You're ticklish there. Not many people know that, but I do. I'd kiss them, as pale as the rest of your body, and you'd laugh and kick at me. In my imagination you're violent and beautiful and you smile at me all the time.

I'm kissing down your neck when I feel your chest heaving beneath me. You're sobbing. I lift up my head and tears are falling from the corners of your eyes, falling on the pillow and into your hair. I'm not sure if you even know you're doing it, but then your arms are up, crossed over your face. "Fuck." Your hands are clenched into fists, and I see you bite down hard on your lip. "Fuck," you say again, and you're still crying.

I sit up, slowly. I let my hand rest on your chest for a moment, feel the flutter of your heartbeat against my palm. There were a thousand chances for me to do this, chances before you knew him, before you knew what you'd be missing and before it had to be a choice, me or him. But it is, now. You know, now.

"I love you," you tell me as I'm heading out the door. "If you told me to pick you I'm not sure I could tell you no."

"You could," I say. "You would. If it was supposed to happen, it would've happened ages ago."

Your arms are around my chest before I know what's happening, and I feel you breath warm at the back of my neck. "Thank you," you say, words I didn't know you were capable of. My hand comes up to hold yours, and maybe I don't know everything there is to know about you after all. "I love you, too," is all I say, and then I kiss your soft white fingertips and finally let your arms fall away from me.

[fic] Ookiku Furikabutte: Abe and Mihashi Bake Cookies (Abe, Mihashi)

Tue, 16 Oct 2007 06:56:59 GMT

TITLE: Abe and Mihashi Bake Cookies
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Ookiku Furikabutte
CHARACTERS: Abe, Mihashi
RATING: G
SUMMARY: There were probably worse things that happened during the course of the baseball season, but this was probably the worst incident that involved baked goods at any rate.
NOTES: Written at the random request of kawaiiphantom, who also helped me out with hilarity and shoujo cliches.

-----------------

Abe and Mihashi Bake Cookies
the single greatest disaster ever to befall the Nishiura baseball team

Nobody knows what godforsaken influence overcame Mihashi to cause him to bring up the idea to Abe. Tajima was convinced that Mihashi had an elaborate plan consisting of a string of shoujo romance clichés that would eventually cumulate with Abe and Mihashi making out in the dugout between innings. At this suggestion Abe would turn red and claim that Mihashi just wanted to develop their teamwork through methods beyond baseball practice, all the while desperately suppressing disturbingly pleasant images of Mihashi in a frilly pink apron, holding out a bento for him and blushing, his eyes averted, hiding a smile. Mihashi would try to tell everyone that his mother had suggested to him in that way mothers do (where you know it's not really a suggestion at all) that he should make something for his nice teammates who treated him so kindly, and couldn't he get that sweet Abe boy to help him? But of course no one ever heard him above the din, and anyway, their theories were much more entertaining.

In any case, one Sunday afternoon after practice found Nishiura's ace pitcher/catcher combination in Mihashi's kitchen, surrounded by various and sundry baking ingredients and implements. An ancient cookbook lay open to "chewy chocolate chip cookies," those being the only thing in the entire dessert section either of them had ever even heard of before.

"Oatmeal zucchini chocolate chop cookies?"

"I-I think it's supposed to be 'chip.'"

"That's not the weird part!"

And so it went.

Eventually, the two settled on the recipe and set to work. Sensing the high potential for Things Going Terribly Wrong associated with flour, Abe told Mihashi to start measuring out items less likely to explode in a powdery white mess all over the kitchen while he prepared the dry ingredients for later. This began relatively well, though Mihashi jumped back about five feet when he turned on the mixer to whip the butter.

"Well, what did you expect it to do?" Abe grumbled, helping Mihashi back to his feet.

Mihashi blushed. "I forgot it was so loud," he mumbled, scurrying back to the bowl to watch the beaters.

It didn't start to get really disastrous until the eggs got involved.

"I-I think we should break them in a bowl first, in case there's shells..." Mihashi had started off, but Abe would have none of it. Real men did not worry about shells and, besides, the thought of any more dishes to wash after this was all over was pretty disheartening. So Mihashi sighed and looked at the batter and looked at his egg and tapped it ever so feebly on the side of the bowl. Abe scowled just a little and took up his own egg, cracking it against the bowl with a loud thwack that not only split the shell neatly in two but also scared the daylights out of Mihashi, who promptly squashed his egg to gooey, shell-covered bits that dribbled out of his hand and into the batter. He spent the next five minutes stuttering out apologies while Abe picked bits of shell out of the bowl.

Things did not fare much better with the vanilla. "I'll pour it," Mihashi had stubbornly insisted, determined to prove that he wasn't a complete spaz or at least to fake it. Abe sighed and did that weird half-frown but stood back while Mishashi carefully measured out the vanilla--over the sink this time, not the bowl--without incident.

And then Mihashi's mother came home, letting the door slam behind her, and Mihashi dropped the teaspoon and the bottle and looked on in horror as the vanilla extract swirled down the drain.

Abe patted Mihashi's shoulder awkwardly. "I'm sure it's not that important," he said, wondering if he could find the kid some earplugs or something.

Things didn't improve much after that: big pockets of flour in the dough, a chocolate chip shortage, other things that may or may not have involved sneezing at inopportune moments. Naturally they completed the series of baking disaster clichés by burning the cookies on top of the rest of the inedibility. Tajima would joke that they must have got distracted making out in Mihashi's room, Abe would turn beet red and sputter something about new signals, and Mihashi would get really quiet in a way that made Hanai incredibly suspicious in a I Really Don't Want To Know sort of way.

To make a long story short, the lumps of charred baked goods Abe and Mihashi brought to practice the next day should've been thrown in the garbage the moment they came out of the oven (or really should've never been baked to begin with), but pain should be shared with your teammates as much as joy should be, and so Abe slammed the plate down with a loud thud. "Eat them," he said in a tone that strongly hinted he might strangle you with your own jockstrap if you didn't.

Practice was cancelled for the next two days. They were all better after one, really, but decided to take another off for emotional damages.

The next time his mother suggested he show his teammates his appreciation, Mihashi just bought them all pizza.

[fic] Pandect: Keepsake (Ceasar, CICE)

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 06:58:46 GMT

TITLE: Keepsake
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Pandect
PAIRINGS: Ceasar/Ice (Ceasar-centric)
RATING: K
SUMMARY: Ceasar has a hundred stories about where the necklace came from.

------------------

The necklace had been his father's. He always had a different story about where the tooth came from: he'd plucked it from the mouth of a Great White circling his diving cage, a mysterious old woman gave it to him when he was in Hawaii, he'd found it on the beach the day he first met Ceasar's mother. When he got to this story Ceasar's mother would punch him playfully in the shoulder and tell her son that the necklace was from a souvenir stand they visited on their third date. Ceasar thought they were all pretty good versions, but he liked the shark-diving one the best. When he told it his father would mime the shark, circling and gnashing his teeth, and Ceasar would laugh and laugh.

The first time Ceasar's father took him surfing, he lifted the necklace from his own neck and placed it around his son's. "You should wear it," he said, ruffling Ceasar's hair, "so Dakuwaqa will protect you. I'd feel better."

Ceasar's fist closed around the tooth and he smiled that small, private smile so like his mother's. Later he would find out that Dakuwaqa was a couple of jerks, but for now he took his father's hand and walked down to the water and the waves.

The tooth was always a conversation starter. Ceasar found himself making up his own stories about it: a trophy from a shark attack he'd fended off, a gift from a Polynesian medicine man, a fossil he'd found on an archaeological dig one summer. When he was twelve years old the last story netted him his first girlfriend. They hugged a number of times and almost kissed once and broke up three weeks later.

A few years later, holed up in Ceasar's room with a bag full of Doritos and a case of non-alcoholic beer, Ice asked him about the tooth. "Some tourist stand at the beach?" he asked, one arm slung around Ceasar's shoulders, his free hand prodding the necklace. "Or did you wrestle a shark for it?"

Ceasar sipped at his foul fake beer and thought for a moment. "It was a gift from my dad," he admitted. "I don't know where he got it."

Ice nodded and munched on some chips and sipped at his beer. A few minutes later they kissed. Ice tasted like nacho cheese. It wasn't entirely unpleasant.

The next evening Ceasar called his father. He twirled the cord on the heavy, ancient phone, something out of the eighties for certain. "What did the old woman tell you when she gave you the tooth?" he asked.

Ceasar heard his father laugh softly over the phone. "She said it would lead me to my true love," he said, the answer he gave most often. "Works pretty well, doesn't it?"

There was no answer on the other end of the line, but Ceasar's father was pretty sure he could hear his son smile that small, private smile so like his mother's.

[fic] Hana Kimi: Of Stalking and Sleepovers (Nan, Yang Yang)

Wed, 10 Oct 2007 22:59:22 GMT

TITLE: Of Stalking and Sleepovers
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Hana Kimi (TWdrama)
CHARACTERS: Nan, Yang Yang
RATING: K
SUMMARY: Yang Yang calls in drunken promises and Nan considers installing a deadbolt.

----------------------

"Yang Yang." Senior Nan stood in the doorway, toothbrush in hand, fluffy pink towel he swore belonged to his mother if asked slung carelessly across his shoulders. "Yang Yang," he repeated, more forcefully this time, as if that would make the world make sense.

Yang Yang smiled at Nan and snuggled further under the covers. "What took you so long, Senior Nan?" he asked, "I was almost asleep."

"Yang Yang," Nan said again, a little more exasperated this time as they approached the heart of the matter, "this is not your room. That is not your bed. And those," and he gave a very pointed look towards the pink silk number Yang Yang was wearing, "are certainly not your pyjamas." He paused, then added, "Those were a gift from my mother, you know."

"You never wear them anyway," Yang Yang whined. He smiled. "Don't I look cute, senior Nan? Cuter than that girl you were flirting with after class today?"

Nan almost told him "no," remembered what had happened the last time he tried that, and for the sake of all the breakable objects in his room decided against it. "Why are you in my room?" he asked instead, that being the more pressing concern. Hadn't he locked the door? He was pretty sure he had, and that raised questions for which he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know the answers.

"Don't you remember?" Yang Yang beamed as he clung to Nan's pillow. "I asked you yesterday if I could sleep over sometime and you said yes!"

"'Sometime,' you said, not 'tomorrow night!'" Nan scowled. "And I was drunk!"

"I know," Yang Yang said. "You wouldn't have said yes if you weren't."

Nan's eyebrow twitched. He fell briefly into a daydream wherein Yang Yang was shunned by the entire student body for not being cute enough, then put away his toothbrush and his pink fuzzy towel and crawled into bed. Yang Yang clung to him immediately, burying his face in Nan's shoulder.

"By the way," Nan said as he turned off the light, "did you delete all the numbers in my cell while I was in the shower?"

"Maybe," Yang Yang said.

Nan sighed. "Good night, Yang Yang."

"Good night, senior Nan."

Rui Xi nearly choked on a bagel when she saw the pair walk out of Nan's bedroom together the next morning, but that is a story for another day.

[fic] Pandect: Dirty Filthy Scrabble (Daku/Waka)

Wed, 10 Oct 2007 22:57:39 GMT

TITLE: Dirty Filthy Scrabble
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Pandect
PAIRING: DakuWaka
RATING: M for swearing
SUMMARY: Daku calls shenanigans on Waka's word choices and is proven delightfully incorrect.

-----------------

"Oh fuck you," Waka growled as Daku laid down e-l-l-a-t-i-o on double word score. "Fuck you, you lucky bastard."

Daku picked out seven new tiles with glee. "Fuck me all you want," he said, "that's still 72 points. Your turn."

Waka scoured the board for "p" and set down r-i-c-k. "That's you," he said, "in case you don't know. That's your name now."

"Then you can't use it," Daku said. "No proper nouns."

Waka let out a yell and tackled Daku into the sand. They scuffled briefly, knocking over the Scrabble box. Waka punched Daku in the face and then they scrambled around for the tiles; Q was stuck to the bottom of Daku's foot.

"Your turn," Waka said when they were done, shaking the sand out of his hair. "And don’t even think about going for that triple word score or I'll kill you. I will shove all the tiles down your throat and watch you choke to death."

Daku nodded and studied the board for a few moments, then put down i-s-s.

Waka's mouth hung open. "Kiss?!" he cried, "KISS?!?" He gestured at the board. "Does it look like we're playing pussy chick flick Scrabble here? You can't use kiss!"

"Kisses can be filthy," Daku argued. "There's no separate word for filthy kisses! You can’t penalize me for that!"

Waku shook his head. "There is no kiss filthy enough for dirty filthy Scrabble. Look at the board! Even the dirtiest filthy kiss EVER would not be in the same league as these."

"Would too!"

"Would NOT damnit now pick a different word!"

Daku narrowed his eyes, sidled up next to Waka, and refused to let the point go.

* * *

Waka stretched out naked on the sand, his arms flung out at odd angles. "Okay," he conceded, "''Kiss' is valid." He turned his head and stared at the board. "'Fellatio' too."

Daku stood up and looked around for his pants. "I didn't know we were testing that one."

"I had my doubts. That's not a very filthy word for it." Waka sat up and rifled through the box of tiles. "I think we lost Q again."

"We never use Q anyway." Daku handed Waka his clothes. "Same time tomorrow?"

Waka nodded. "Bring a blanket next time," he said, "I got sand fucking everywhere."

[fic] Pandect: A List of Impossible (Ice/Ceasar)

Mon, 17 Sep 2007 07:40:12 GMT

TITLE: A List of Impossible
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Pandect
PAIRING: Ice/Ceasar
RATING: K+
WARNING: Implied death, bittersweet times
SUMMARY: A dying old man reflects on love, life, and the impossible.

-----------------------------

I knew you'd be here at the end.

Don't give me that face of yours. I've had eighty long years. Good years, except for a few in the middle. And in this day and age maybe it's on the shorter end of the spectrum, but I can't imagine hanging in much longer. We weren't meant to. The doctors could replace every bone and joint in my body, graft new muscle tissue onto the old, make me seventeen again, make me look like I did when we met—like you do, right now—but they can't replace my mind, Ice. It is old and brittle and so full that I don't know what's real and what I've only imagined. I remember a lizard of impossible colors. I remember a lot of impossible things. I remember holding hands with you in the dark and thinking it was impossible.

Let me lean on your shoulder. I'm so tired.

Eighty years. How many human friends have you watched grow old and die in that time? How many before I even knew you? God, you look like a baby but you're even more ancient than I am. Did the doctors take your skin and stretch it tight over your bones, replace all your insides with robotics?

No. You don't get old. It's impossible but I remember it. I remember believing it because it was impossible, and I remember your face not changing and how frightened I was. I don't remember why.

It's so cold out here. The breeze from the ocean is harder on me now than it was, but I still come out here to look at the stars and the waves and feel rocks crunch under my shoes. They don't like me coming out here by myself but I do it anyway. Sometimes I come out in the daytime and watch the surfers. The boards are sleeker and smoother but they still have the same design. Did I ever take you surfing with me? I think I remember it, but it's too ordinary a memory to be real, I suppose. It's all sunshine and sand and lying side by side. So plausible.

I was so worried about this happening one day, me old and frail and leaning on your shoulder, you still young and strong and wasting your time. It was a stupid thing to worry over. You wouldn't be here if you were wasting your time. I had a picture of the two of us when we moved into that first apartment together, leaning on each other's shoulders, sound asleep. Rose took it. I used to stare at it and then look at myself in the mirror, look at you sleeping beside me. Every year I looked older, and you looked exactly the same. I have the picture in my pocket now, and if I took it out you'd still look exactly the same, and I'd look completely different, an old man asleep on your shoulder. My nightmare.

I thought dying would hurt more. Did any of your old human friends say that dying hurt? I feel better now than I have in a long time. Everything's numb and hazy. I'm not even sure you're here, except you're so warm. I couldn't imagine that, could I? But maybe I'm leaning on some stranger, talking nonsense at him, and he is too polite to tell a crazy old man to leave. If that is the case, I'm sorry. I won't be much longer.

I wish I'd had children. Even the first time you left, when I was sad and angry all the time, I still thought to myself that one day I'd forget about you, and I'd find a girl and fall in love and get married and have children and we'd grow old together. I only managed a couple of those things and none of them lasted. I wish I'd kept it up long enough to have children. I don't care that they'd hate us for not loving each other, at least I'd have something more than my sad, distant relations to watch over me. I don't know why I said that. I love them. If she'd had eyes like yours I would have done it. I would've killed to have a child with eyes like yours.

I missed you so much back then. Did you know? I don't think I ever told you. There were a lot of things I never told you, though. I never told you about those nights I'd wake up on the couch reeking of sex and cologne, how I'd stumble in the dark to the bathroom to wash off the smell and the sweat. I think you knew anyway. You'd always hold me really tight when I got back to bed, and you never asked why my hair was still damp in the morning. I still can't believe that you could have loved me that much. Maybe you didn't. It seems impossible. I'd like to believe it anyway. I loved you that much, after all.

Look. The sunrise. Already?

You're so warm.

[fic] Pandect: As I fall, Part Three (Ice/Ceasar)

Mon, 10 Sep 2007 06:19:47 GMT

TITLE: As I Fall, Part Three (Epilogue) – IRREVERENT in the face of a decade
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Pandect
PAIRINGS: Ice/Ceasar
RATING: T
SUMMARY: Ice can't stand to see him alone.

------------

As I Fall – Part Three (Epilogue)
IRREVERANT in the face of a decade

Ceasar's home overlooked the ocean. Which ocean is not important, what is important is that when he opened the windows in the morning a cool, fresh breeze swept through his kitchen, gently waking him as he breathed in deeply. Sometimes, at low tide on a hot day, the air would smell of fish and seaweed. Ceasar would wrinkle his nose at it, but he'd keep the windows open anyway.

There wasn't any beach to speak of where Ceasar's property met the water, no soft sand and scrubby grasses to dig his fingers into, not even a rickety dock to sit on the edge of, dangling his feet into the water. There were rocks, though, great boulders jutting out of the water to sit on cross-legged and think while the tide swelled up around you, and this was plenty good enough.

Ceasar came home from work and tripped over a pair of size thirteen sneakers, padded and dirty and monstrously ugly. A smaller pair of black Nikes sat neatly against the wall, out of the way. Rose's boys, Noah and Mark, both big eyes and dark curls like their mother. They lived across town, but in the hot summer they spent all their lazy afternoons here, walking to the public beach down the road to play in the surf and, in Noah's case, stare at the girls in their bikinis.

Not long ago Noah had asked him about one of those girls, a redhead from his science class, freckled all down her arms and legs. Ceasar never had children (though he was married once, briefly, to a girl he rather liked but didn't love), and so he told Noah the story he'd been saving about lying pressed together in darkened rooms, hands clasped tight. Noah had looked at him with sad eyes and the next day the redheaded girl showed up at Ceasar's door. She and Noah sat close together on the couch, watching old horror flicks and laughing. Ceasar smiled and turned on all the lights.

Ceasar swept aside the massive sneakers, kicking his own sandals off and into the open closet. "I told you not to leave your shoes in the middle of the floor, Noah," he called. "One day I'll break my neck and then your mother will kill you."

"Sorry," came the muffled reply, then the thud of footsteps down the hall. Rose's eldest peered around the corner. "Becca's coming over later," Noah said, "can we order pizza for dinner?"

"If your brother's okay with it," Ceasar said, shuffling up the short flight of stairs into the living room. "Where is he?"

Ceasar was answered by the slam of the screen door in the kitchen. "Ceasar!" Mark exclaimed, tracking dirt from his sandals all over the hardwood. He was grinning. "We went to the park and a dog followed me home! Do you think mom will let me keep it?"

"Well," Ceasar said, "you already have a lot of pets."

"But the lizards and snakes and things are all Noah's, all I have is the cat and the hamster! That's not very many at all!"

"You can't keep it," Noah said, "it's someone's pet."

Mark shook his head wildly. "It's not anyone's!" he said to Ceasar, pleading his case, "it didn't have a collar or a tattoo or nothing, and I checked the whole way home and no one's put posters up or anything. If they lost him they'd put posters up!"

"Unless they don't realize he's lost yet," Ceasar reasoned. "Why do you think he belongs to someone, Noah?"

Noah rolled his eyes. "Because he's a purebred husky," he said, "not some mutt. People don't just turn purebreds loose in the streets."

Ceasar's throat closed up and his fingers tightened around his cousin's small wrist. He tried to calm the instinctive thump of shock and surprise and hope. "Let's have a look at him," he said, "then we'll figure out what to do."

Mark beamed and pulled Ceasar through the kitchen and out the door. "He has the prettiest eyes," he said. "You'll love him." But when they got to the backyard, there was no dog stretched out on the lawn. There was just a man, not a day over twenty-five, standing awkwardly by the hedges.

Mark let go of his cousin's hand and pouted. "Where'd the dog go?" he demanded.

Ceasar's breathing was heavy as the man stepped forward, all smooth and sex like he couldn't help himself. "Sorry kid," Ice said, "he ran off when I got here."

"Go back inside, Mark," Ceasar said. "Your brother's going to order pizza." And as Mark slunk inside grumbling about puppies Ceasar stared and stared and stared.

Ice smiled lamely. "You were married that last time I was here," he said. "I kind of wanted to bite her leg, but I restrained myself."

Ceasar's mouth quirked up into a half grin before he could stop it. "That was three years ago. Ice, what are you—"

And then Ice had his arms around him, and he was talking against his ear, "I know you told me you didn't want to do this anymore," he said, "but it's been ten years and you're still alone." His hand crept up to twist in the soft hair at Ceasar's nape, shorter than it had been the last time, all those years ago when Ceasar started to notice how Ice's face stopped changing. He'd been fine with it all until then, but once you start to notice a thing like that it's hard to ignore everything else for long, and it all falls apart for a thousand different reasons.

Ceasar remembered getting kicked out of their first apartment. Ice had left paw prints leading up to their door. The landlord had never seen the dog but it was proof enough for him and the tenant's union. Ceasar had punched Ice on the arm and yelled at him, and then they collapsed on Rose's lawn and laughed and laughed while they circled ads from the newspaper in bright red ink.

"I want to stay," Ice said, "I should have said back then instead of letting you be by yourself so long but I'm saying it now. Let me stay."

He still looked just as he had that night. Ceasar didn't. Ceasar had gotten older, and there were wrinkles starting at his forehead, and in the corners of his eyes. And he would only get older still. But Ice was here and now and holding him like he used to when they were both young and stupid, smiling at each other in darkened rooms, pressed naked together.

Ceasar wrinkled his nose. "You've been playing in the ocean, haven't you? You smell like seaweed." He pulled away and Ice's face fell, but Ceasar brushed their hands together and Ice held it, tentatively, and smiled. "I hope you still like pizza."

[fic] Pandect: As I Fall, Part Two (Ice/Ceasar)

Sat, 01 Sep 2007 01:07:43 GMT

TITLE: As I Fall, Part Two – LAMENT of the passage of linear time
AUTHOR: Kameko
SERIES: Pandect
PAIRINGS: Ice/Ceasar
RATING: T
SUMMARY: There are a thousand reasons why it'll all fall apart, but only one that'll make it happen.

---------------

As I Fall -- Part Two
LAMENT of the passage of linear time

A month or two down the road, they were sort of unofficially most definitely probably something. What that was, exactly, was still up for debate, for so many stupidly complicated reasons but mostly because of an inability to talk about it.

Fleance didn't approve, but Fleance hardly approved of anything so no one took much notice. Ice figured that it must be one of the Black Prince's duties to be a killjoy. All Ceasar knew for certain was that Fleance's gecko was gnawing on him much more than was warranted.

It seemed like everyone knew, even though Ceasar hadn't breathed a word and Ice swore, grinning, that he hadn't either. It wasn't that Ceasar minded terribly if people knew that they were whatever they were, and he'd had people whisper about him behind his back long enough that introducing a new topic to the mix could hardly bother him, but mostly it was the principle of the matter.

"I mean, he said he wouldn't tell anyone about it," he said to Theo, whom Ice had taken to dragging over to their table at lunch despite his clear desire to be anywhere but with company. "It's not their business, we don't need to go blabbing about it to the whole school."

"Obviously he had to tell everyone," Theo replied, "it's in his nature. Marking his territory and all that. Stupid male habit."

Ceasar bristled. "I'm not his territory." TJ rolled his eyes and sipped his juice in a manner that clearly indicated he thought rather the opposite. "I'm not," Ceasar stressed.

Ice set his tray down and took a seat. "You're not what?"

"Not your territory."

Ice gave him an odd look. "Sure you are."

Ceasar scowled and swiped Ice's dessert. "I'm eating your pudding," he said.

* * *

As the months wore on, there were still times when Ceasar thought about nothing but Ice's eyes and hands and lips all over his naked body, but for a teenage boy who fancied himself in love this was, he reasoned, probably to be expected. Overall, though, things had calmed down a great deal, and their relationship had resumed, more or less, the same tone it had before they started whatever it was they had started all those nights ago in an under-lit dormitory.

Except now, of course, they kicked TJ out of the room one or two nights a week.

"I like your shampoo," Ice muttered into Ceasar's ear, his nose nuzzled in Ceasar's hair. His voice oozed sex, but that was par for the course. His arm slid around Ceasar's shoulders, pulled him closer. "It smells really good," he said, kissing Ceasar's neck.

"It's green apple," Ceasar sighed, setting his glasses on the nightstand before Ice could uncaringly press them into the bridge of his nose. He let the textbook he'd been trying to study land with a satisfying thud on the floor. Fuck history. What had it done for him lately?

* * *

It was a long time before they really talked about them and what the hell they were, exactly. There was only one word for it Ice could think of, and Ceasar sprang back in revulsion when he mentioned it, taking all the blankets with him.

Ice frowned. "We've been dating, haven't we? That means we're boyfriends."

"Well, it doesn't work that way. I can't have a boyfriend. I can't commit. I'm diseased and it gets worse and better and I'll never know if I'm going to lose control and hit on someone and what if they say yes for once?" Ceasar was breathless and agitated and too far away, though his fingers still brushed against Ice's arm when he moved. "You did."

Ice thought for a moment. "You’d invite me too, right?"

Ceasar grabbed a pillow and flung it across the bed. His lips twitched. "Be serious."

"You think way too much." Ice pulled the blankets back towards him, and Ceasar's warm body with them. "I have a lot of things to tell you," Ice said.

Ceasar smiled faint and apprehensive. "A thousand reasons why this will all fall apart?"

Ice nodded, and Ceasar turned over to face the wall.

* * *

Girls in Ceasar's immediate area fell into three groups now. The first were those who still ran away screaming, certain that they had become impregnated by sheer perversion. Ceasar couldn't really blame them for this; even with a sexual outlet, he still attempted to molest half the pretty faces that came along. Ice had tried to tire him out so as to take the edge off, but all that really did was net him a C on his math test.

The second group of girls were the ones who had their eyes on Ice. There weren't a lot of them, maybe five or six, and they didn't do much besides glare at Ceasar and sometimes leave nasty notes at his desk which he never bothered to read, but they were still something of a downer. "This is exactly why I wanted you to keep your mouth shut about this," Ceasar would say as they passed the knot of jealous girls near the cafeteria. "Had to go staking your turf, didn't you? You didn't even have any competition for it!"

"Those guys in biology class were eyeing you up," Ice would insist. "I had to set them straight." And so the argument would go until Theo told them both to shut up and eat their lunches already.

And then there was group three: the girls who followed the two of them around everywhere and gigged if Ice and Ceasar so much as brushed their hands together. They were just plain creepy.

* * *

"It sounds ridiculous, right?"

"Of course it does," Ceasar said, "but that just makes it more believable, doesn't it? Why would you make that up?" He leaned back, resting against the headboard. His hands trembled where they clutched at the sheets, bunched together at his waist. "When I'm old and dying," he said, "you'll still be exactly as you are right now, won't you?"

Ice's fingers skittered up and down Ceasar's arm, stroking his hair where it fell on his shoulder. "Yeah," he said.

Ceasar took this in for a moment, and the room was unbearably quiet save for his slow breathing. He looked at Ice. "We're going to pretend we didn't have this conversation," he said. "There are a thousand other reasons why this is going to fall apart, and hopefully one of them will come along before we have to face the fact that there's no future here."

* * *

"I don't understand your problem," Theo said in that no-nonsense tone which reminded Ceasar so oddly of his mother. "It's one more thing that could go wrong, that's all. You're making a big deal out of nothing."

"I know," Ceasar said as he stabbed violently at his salad. "And any problems it'd cause are a long way off. But it bothers me. It's like I already know this is doomed and I wonder what the point is."

"You're an idiot." Across the table, Teddy nodded in agreement. Ceasar scowled. "The point," Theo continued, "is what you've got right now."

* * *

Ceasar knew he worried over things too much, but it was hard to turn his mind off at four in the morning while Ice slept pressed up naked against him, breathing softly in his ear. We won't last, he thought to himself, we can't last. And he squeezed Ice's hand and tried to ignore the tightness in the pit of his stomach, and he filed away every detail for someday when he'd tell his grown-up children about his first love.

"You're hurting my hand," Ice mumbled.

"Sorry."

"S'okay." Ice nuzzled Ceasar's neck and kissed it, so softly. "Go to sleep already."

* * *

Ice poked forlornly at his Mexican Nacho Surprise, which was in reality ground beef with some Doritos crumbled up in it and much less appetizing than the cartoon on the lunch board had made it seem. "He's been acting really weird. Do you think he's gonna break up with me?"

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," Venus said, "have you seen the way that boy looks at you? He thinks you're sex on legs."

"I am sex on legs."

At this, Teddy burst out laughing, great deep guffaws that rang across the cafeteria, and he didn't stop for a full three minutes. Ice slumped down in his seat. "You're not helping," he said.

"He still freaked out about you being an Ace," Venus said, ignoring the blow to Ice's manhood, or at least not publicly delighting in it, "Give him some time to get used to the idea."

* * *

One of the worst parts about going out with Ice was the way his aunt kept smiling at him, non-stop, like she thought it was so terribly precious of him. This is undoubtedly precisely what she thought, which only made it worse.

"It's almost graduation," Rose said. "Any plans?"

"Breaking up with Ice," Ceasar replied. "Then maybe the party at the pub."

Rose laughed, and Ceasar laughed, and then Rose gave him a look and her face fell and "Oh, Ceasar," she said.

* * *

Ice asked him about college while they sat on the beach drinking bottles of coke, warm and unpleasant from the sunshine. "I'm not sure if I'll go at all," Ice said, "maybe I'll just find a job somewhere."

Ceasar played with the scrubby bits of grass that grew along the shore. "Where were you thinking of working?" he asked.

Ice flashed a grin. "Depends," he said, "where did you get in?"

Ceasar's mouth had gone dry. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that the time had come to tell Ice the conclusion he'd come to after days and weeks and months, now, lying awake at night and thinking about it for hours until exhaustion finally crept in. Ice cocked his head to the side like a curious puppy, and Ceasar almost laughed out loud because the whole thing was so ridiculous and so stupidly clear and oh, he wished he could wait a little bit longer, until he was sure.

"N University," Ceasar said. "I've already started looking at apartments. Do you think they'll let me keep pets?"