[DDD | 053 | RL with Kawrou] Red String Virus

[redheadcarrier]

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?

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[redheadcarrier.livejournal.com]

Asuka settled next to him, feeling warm, safe, affectionate. She couldn't stop herself from smiling at him as she lifted her slender hand to compare it to his. For a moment she simply watched and then grinned, covering his hand with her own, watching the two lines intersect. Her fingertips brushed over his own and she felt a soft, quiet sense of contentment and joy. He was here with her. They were together. Nothing was going to change that (now).

She slowly relaxed as she leaned over to rest on his shoulder, eyes still watching their fingers intertwine. "What legend is that?"

[eschatologist.livejournal.com]

He is barely pausing as she takes his hand. As she smiles, warmly, at him. Knots her fingers through his. And moves closer. Closer. Leans up and (closer) against him. (And he can almost feel her contentment. The joy. The way that he mirrors it, in his own manners. Posture loose. Relaxed. Expression more open, if warmer.) And only takes a moment for him to adapt, before he’s speaking. After a moment. Listening to her question, knowing, but not. (And he’s watching her watch their hands. The slack of her thread, and his.)

“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.

[redheadcarrier.livejournal.com]

Asuka settled against him, the warmth from his body seeping through their clothing. There was comfort and safety in this. There was something she'd been looking for, for a very long time. She squeezed his hand tightly and leaned up to kiss his cheek softly, wordlessly. She didn't need to speak just yet. For a moment she simply listened to him speak, absorbed the soft words and syllables. This isn't bad. This isn't bad at all.

"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."

[eschatologist.livejournal.com]

He's not stilling nor pausing as she presses a kiss against his cheek. As she's squeezing his hand, just a little bit tighter. Once, this kind of proximity would have been foreign to him. Now, from what he can remember, he knows why it is sought. Why others search for it. The way she leans against him, almost familiar. Almost known. Buried, beneath the lack of clarity. Beneath what memories he still cannot call back. Still cannot touch upon.

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."