324 words. (Why are my drabbles always around 300 words? Huh.) This one probably won't make any sense without any context, all of which unfortunately resides in my head. Sorry!

Also, yay for pretentious musical titles.

Discursive Repetition

Lucas is dreaming again. He's standing on the street, wind at his cheeks and hands, the road stone-cold against his bare feet. He's staring at Methis' back.

"Please don't leave," he begs, and feels eight years old again, clutching at the impossible and watching his mother leave.

This is how he knows he's dreaming: Methis turns around, and looks long and hard at Lucas, and doesn't leave. "Al right," he acquiesces.

Lucas wakes up. It's seven and the alarm is screaming in his ear. It's been eight days since Methis left, and it's absurdly unfair that the world is rolling on, that he has an essay due today and a party to attend this Friday, that no one but Lucas cares that Methis is gone.

Methis burst into his life and changed it utterly, tore it out by its roots and flung everything upside down. Now he's gone, except the foundations Methis tore are still broken. The roots don't fit anymore.

Lucas gets up. His backpack sits at the foot of his bed, homework sticking out and rumpled by the weight of his MP3 player.

He goes to school.

-

That night, he dreams again. It's yet another permutation of that night: on the street, cold and barefoot, and he's begging.

Only this time, before he can speak, Methis says: "You really should stop doing this."

Methis doesn't turn around. He doesn't go back. And this is how Lucas knows he isn't dreaming. Except if this isn't a dream, then what is it?

"You shouldn't have left," Lucas retorts, stubborn as always.

"I had to," Methis says. It's almost an apology. "Ise is waiting for me."

"I'm waiting for you," Lucas says, but this time, he doesn't beg as Methis starts walking, each step taking him just that much further. Lucas watches him disappear, and then he wakes up. It's seven, and the alarm's going off. It's been nine days since Methis left. The world keeps turning, and Lucas goes to school.

Labels: _fiction, c: lucas caine devisser, c: methis, verse: etherworld

621 words. I'm sorry for abusing colons, and I'm sorry it's so rough and weird. And I'm sorry Ise's thoughts are so... twisty. x:

Tales Of

It's dark, and the world is suspended on that filigree-thin thread between yesterday and tomorrow. Methis lies fire-hot against Ise, his left arm pillowing her head and neck. She feels the stump of his right brush against her shoulder and entertains the familiar, usual flash of guilt, but such feelings are becoming quieter now. Not less potent, but more strangely unfelt, like a burn against scarred skin.

Methis is still awake. Ise can tell by the way he's breathing, lightly deep and careful, and by the strangely lax quality of his limbs. Awake, Methis is always ready to battle.

She shifts slightly, the sound as loud as rattling wheels against the silence of the night. Because it's dark, she lets her fingers become eyes, running them up the firm planes of his chest to rough lips. She feels a subtle line running from the side of his mouth to his cheek. It's invisible to the eye but not to the touch. "What happened?"

Because Methis never talks unless he is completely sure of his words, long moments pass before he answers. Meanwhile Ise rubs a thumb over that scar, an apologetic caress.

"It's an old knife-wound," Methis murmurs at last.

Ise nods. Her hand moves from his face down to his chest. Because she's tended to many of his wounds, and because of their love-making, she is more familiar with the scars here. But she's suddenly surprised by just how many there are. No matter how many of his injuries she heals, she always forgets that Methis isn't invincible. He's always seemed the ideal warrior, a proud silhouette in the fading sun, a figure existing as a deadly spectre on the battlefield; the newly missing arm only emphasizes the image: He may no longer be whole, but he still stands far above the rest, reducing them to corpses at his feet.

But, ah, here is proof of his mortality. The reminder makes Ise's heart clench. She should not have fallen in love with a warrior. They fall so easily, really. As a healer, she should know that.

Or maybe, Ise thinks, the scars are proof of his vitality. They're past and prophecy, each and every one of them, saying: This is how he has survived, and this is how he will continue to survive.

"This?" Ise asks, fingers resting on a thicker scar, its texture uneven, an unnatural circle on his shoulder.

The reply is almost immediate this time. "Magic, from a sorcerer named Trystan who commanded beams of heat."

Ise finds a flat line across his stomach. When she inquires, he says, "A bandit I was hired to hunt down impaled me."

The gash from shoulder to waist she's always wondered about: "It's a rather standard scar, from a sword."

A zig-zag scar just under his arm: "A madwoman who attacked the lord I was acting as bodyguard for."

The scar on his hip: "Another old knife-wound."

On his thigh: "A spear."

Immediately after, he says, "Why are you asking these questions, Ise?"

Ise's hand ceases its questing. "I don't know," she admits. "Perhaps I'm just curious."

She can't see his face, but she can imagine his expression. Confused, maybe, eyebrows pushed together. Or slightly exasperated, even, eyes rolled up slightly, mouth stretched into a line.

Or maybe amused, judging by his next words: "I don't think the night lasts long enough for you to be curious about every one of them."

"Ah," Ise says. "Do you truly have that many?"

"No," Methis says, and then: "But some have stories longer than others."

"I wouldn't mind listening," she replies. "

The silence comes back as the last of her whispers die away, inviting in again the night. And then Methis says: "Very well, then," and starts to speak.

Labels: _fiction, c: ise, c: methis, p: methis/ise, verse: etherworld

Today we had an art workshop. The teacher focused on portraits, and these are the fruits of my labor. Together they represent maybe 5 hours of work. Both are done with pastels on sugar paper.

I'm reasonably happy with them. It's hard to be objective after I've put so much work in them; I'd have to come back to them to really know if they're good or not.

Labels: _art, verse: misc.

Labels: _art, verse: misc.

A bit more than an hour's work. :]

Labels: _art, verse: misc.

Meh. School started again today. So this is me, cheating, and posting something I didn't draw today. :d

Labels: _fanart, c: kobayakawa sena, fandom: eyeshield 21