Asuka Langley Soryu (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redheadcarrier) wrote2010-02-13 11:59 pm
redheadcarrier) wrote2010-02-13 11:59 pm
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[DDD | 053 | RL with Kawrou] Red String Virus
She'd woken up that morning and for a while had been content to simply lay under the covers, curled against the comforting, familiar warmth of Kaworu's body. He'd remembered - finally remember - the other night. He'd been shaken by it, she knew that much. She'd been there, though. Despite his pain, she'd felt a sense of joy to see him finally becoming the Kaworu she knew rather than the distant, odd one who'd come back to her. It was strange, it was different, it was a bit difficult, but she'd managed.
However, despite her want to stay in bed, things had to get done, even if the weather was crummy. It was supposed to be their six-month anniversary today, but the weather had nixed any plans they might've had on going out. Instead she'd puttered around the kitchenette for a bit, fed Socrates (and gotten a slightly annoyed, "You're late" look in way of thanks) and begin fixing some tea and toast for breakfast, when she noticed the thin red line wrapped around her finger. She'd blinked at it for a moment. It looked like a piece of string was twined around her finger and was pointing in the direction of her room, before it faded an inch or two away.
Curiously, she gave it tug, ignoring the howling of the wind and weather outside her window. She had light and heat and the apartment seemed cozy enough. For now, this string fascinated her. She tugged on it again experimentally. What was this?
However, despite her want to stay in bed, things had to get done, even if the weather was crummy. It was supposed to be their six-month anniversary today, but the weather had nixed any plans they might've had on going out. Instead she'd puttered around the kitchenette for a bit, fed Socrates (and gotten a slightly annoyed, "You're late" look in way of thanks) and begin fixing some tea and toast for breakfast, when she noticed the thin red line wrapped around her finger. She'd blinked at it for a moment. It looked like a piece of string was twined around her finger and was pointing in the direction of her room, before it faded an inch or two away.
Curiously, she gave it tug, ignoring the howling of the wind and weather outside her window. She had light and heat and the apartment seemed cozy enough. For now, this string fascinated her. She tugged on it again experimentally. What was this?
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It had been a late night. Long. And though he had felt the swell of joy that had woken up in Asuka, he had known he was not back. Not entirely. He had known there was more to come. But, he had been glad. For her. Relieved. If for himself, that things had begun to make sense. Once again. Every emotion felt beyond him, leveling out. And part of him had almost missed the intensity in which he would have felt them, before. Now a quiet hum. Something he could reach for, if he had desired it. (If he had wanted it. And her own had been a contrast to manner he had remembered the last few moments. Instances. Memories. His earliest still coiled and shadowy, though he had remembered his first death. His second. And the first had - It had been a while, before he had been able to clear his mind. To sleep.)
And it would be a while yet, before his body would uncurl. Before he would stretch. Wake up, if entirely, if allowed to continue this way. All pressing and niggling matters pushed down to a dull and unconscious hum. Still half-asleep and undreaming - only remarking, subconsciously, at the lack of warmth beside him. Asuka. Only remarking on her absence, quiet. Too groggy to puzzle together where she must have gone. (Not far, and it had been a murmured reassurance. A sleepy one. As he shifted to settle a little further beneath the mess of blankets. Some feeble attempt to keep warm.)
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Too insistent. Too curious. And he's being pulled into consciousness. Tugged into it. Lead. As he's shifting against it. Almost in sleepy protest, before the light and the cold creep in. Make themselves known. And what comfort and what rest is slipping past him, just long enough, for him to blearily open his eyes. To squint against the soft light of their room. All shapes and all colors slowly melting into focus. Clarifying, though -
Red.
And it catches his eye. Takes a moment to process, as he's blinking away sleep. As he's remembering what day it is. What time it might happen to be. And he's turning his wrist. Examining the thread that's tied (and too neatly) around his finger. The ring. (And he knows this significance. Knows the meaning of this finger. Acquainted with it; through study and through viruses. And part of him is murmuring warmth, though for what reason lies beyond him. Connected, and though he is not sure of it, to the pull that's on the other - )
End. And though he is able to see the tension, where it leads is unrevealed and uncertain. Dropping off after inches. At first, a trick of light, but - (this is a virus. And the answer is automatic. Quick, despite the grogginess that still sits rests against him. Within him. Silent and heavy. That leans against him, muttering that it is best to close his eyes, again. Regardless of curiosity. Regardless of - but, he isn't. And he can't. Not today.)
Not today. And he's pushing himself up, just a little. Feeling the pull of the thread, again. And though it takes a moment. And though it takes some willpower to push himself to sit up - he's managing it. Despite the cold. Despite the tempting warmth of the bed. The blankets - he's crooking his finger, with some note of curiosity. Some interest. Before gently (almost hesitantly) giving it a tug.
What was connected would follow. Or not.
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It was then that she discovered there was a matching string tied around Kaworu's finger and she blinked at him for a moment in confusion.
"...what's all this?"
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He is not rising from the bed, but his eyes do turn to her. Flicker up. Not inclined to touch his feet down to the floor. Knowing the cold. Remarking, belatedly, on the feeling that bubbles up. Quicker than usual. That sits there, noticed. Comfortable. And not.
He might have known the story once; the significance and the meaning behind the string, but it had been lost. Buried beneath the weight of memories, still unremembered. The shadowy warmth of sleep, curling close and quiet. Beneath his skin. Into the fabric of his clothes. And on this morning, the pull for what (and he identifies it) endearment seems just a little stronger. A little more accessible, as he studies the string connects their fingers (that connects them) and murmurs, around the need to stretch. Quietly yawn. Still just waking up.
"...I am not entirely certain," and he's turning his wrist. Conscious of the tension. The almost-tug as he searches for a manner or a method in which it was tied, though the knot seems seamless. Endless. Not beginning or ending. The community's participation was obvious. However, the placement - the thread that melted into nothingness - it must have felt it appropriate to do something for the occasion. The holiday.
At least, it was likely.
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"...I really hope this isn't going to do anything horrible to us."
She sounded irritated, a bit resigned; once the community decided to do something to you, you couldn't really get past it until it was over. She'd learned that much in the year and a half she'd been connected to it. With a sigh, she sat down on the bed next to him.
"Might as well see if it makes us switch bodies or something..."
She was only half-joking.
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And it is something that he had known. Does know. Intimately. Lingering there, on the corners of his consciousness. Cropping up with her, with others. But, hers had maintained that difference. Had become unique. Become stronger. Something more potent. Though, and he does know, it is pressing; this morning, it is something that seems dominant.
(And in some manners, he rationalizes. This day is important. Something he had not known he would make it to. Knowing life had been brief. Briefer, before. Restrained. And what time and what moments and what seconds he had piled up around them. Around himself. Were borrowed. Taken. Stolen; and though he does not remember the cause of his focus, the first time – that leash and that constraint; he had never been certain that he had – And he cannot remember it. Not entirely. Not yet.)
And even so, it is something he is gently pushing back. For the moment. For this instance. Letting, instead – a warmer smile curve up the corners of his lips. Still a little groggy, but there is an alertness. That rests in his posture. The way of his focus. And though he is not failing to note her irritation. The resigned nature of her sigh, he’s speaking. A jest:
“It does not appear to be particularly malicious, thus far.”
And it colors his voice. Syllables rounded. And though there is a faint relief in that observation, it is disguised beneath it. (It had not done a thing, yet. Besides provide a minor inconvenience. A fainter distraction. A tug on his finger, on the occasion. Each time she crooks her finger. Pulls back her hand.)
And he’s letting his eyes travel down, absently studying the thread. On his hand and hers. For a moment or two, before murmuring. Almost thoughtful. (And he’s remembering something. A story. As he moves, just a bit closer. To better study the gap that lies between the two ends. The way it is tied, beneath her first knuckle. Like his.)
"...It is likely a legend, however.”
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She slowly relaxed as she leaned over to rest on his shoulder, eyes still watching their fingers intertwine. "What legend is that?"
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“I cannot remember it, precisely,” but he’s flexing his fingers gently. Squeezing her hand a little tighter. He knows the shape of it. Each rise of her knuckles. The lines, drawn into his memory. Held, at times, so closely he could not distinguish where hers began and his ended. Could not disentangle the thread of a lifeline, the memory of pain or hardship sewn into her fingertips. Heavy, and yet – And it is foreign, the obstruction of strings. The soft, spun material. Strong, but thin. And he’s remembering the story of a wise man, after a moment. Listening to the silence that lingers beyond their window. Beneath the occasional whistle of window. Stretching and curving around brick and stone. Never this cold where he can barely remember, once living. Never this desolate. This violent.
But, the apartment is warm. And she is beside him. And there’s something else that filters into the pieces of this unraveling story. Gently prying itself up from the quieter recesses of thought. Coming up, to make itself known. A man and a woman. A stone. And –
“It was said to have tied those who were fated, together.” And the words have left before he realizes it. Soft and almost thoughtful, and it takes a moment – but he continues, amending, (still uncertain if that had been the case. If that had been it.) “At least, that is what I believe it happens to do.”
And if it is, he thinks, it is not a bad thing. It is not a terrible virus. And he’s humming, absent, before he (with some moment of debate) gently shifts to be closer. To sit closer. To her warmth. Her life. The comfort there is, here, in her presence. Beside him.
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"I don't believe in fate," she murmured in reply (she had to say something), "But I don't think I mind it this time."
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But, he is feeling her speak before he is hearing her. Feeling the way she shapes her syllables. The weight of her words. Soft, and not.
He had known fate, once. Years back, and though he cannot seem to truly remember what it was he was chained to, bound to - he had defied it. He had ignored it. Disobeyed what he had come to do. What he had been elected for. And even so, it is a thought that keeps silent. Keeps quiet. Even as he's gently returning her grip on his hand. Glancing to her, though his vision is filled with the red of her hair. For a moment, before it is clearing. Sharpening. His voice, almost too soft, when he finally speaks.
"Likewise."