for him, there will be no big ceremony. no quiet time taken away from training and cataloging and demolitioning. he will not have tears shed in his name — fake or obligatory or otherwise — because he has done nothing to warrant them.
his life is no loss, and his death will be even less. ]
PlUM.
[ in his fist is an empty pill bottle, drained and downed no more than five seconds ago. the boy's scent is in the air, and he knows he will be heard.
he is a fighter. a weapon. a shield. and he will die as tools do — by wearing out their use. ]
He's paused at the name, but the tone's turned his head. That irregular, sand-papered rasp's come from Nic, and it's shocked him - the elder man's form - how he's bled. Enough that he's startled and frowned his response; heart skipping beats in the cage of his chest, an odd sort of cold at the lengths of his spine. Eyes growing larger each moment, he moves, all but forgetting to breathe as he's run.]
[ what did you do? the boy demands. my job, nic would say, but the twisted, lazy grin on his lips seems to say it all well enough. what use were words to weapons, anyway, when actions speak so much louder.
with a fluid motion, he reaches down to thumb the hilt of his sword. and with more grace than a man of his current physical status should have, really, the katana is withdrawn, inch by inch of sharp, well-worn steel.
it would be the first he's ever drawn it in front of hibari. and the last he'll ever aim it at the boy's throat.
words didn't mean as much as action, but sometimes they do the job well enough: ]
[The hitman's all but laughed response; a mirthless, almost angered sound. For months he'd pressed this man to duel - draw his sword and bleed him, once - and all those times he'd failed, refused. It'd left his pride in shambles then, but drove the younger mad with want; a need that grew as weeds, untamed. Nic, he smelled of blood and death, and all the scent alone was draw; as meat to wolves that hungered, starved.]
Now you'll fight me?
[But, every inch of sword revealed reveals what Kyoya can't hold back.
His eyes were almost dancing now.]
Looking like that?
[Like Hell the boy would turn it down. Instead, he's raised his weapons. Tensed.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
for him, there will be no big ceremony. no quiet time taken away from training and cataloging and demolitioning. he will not have tears shed in his name — fake or obligatory or otherwise — because he has done nothing to warrant them.
his life is no loss, and his death will be even less. ]
PlUM.
[ in his fist is an empty pill bottle, drained and downed no more than five seconds ago. the boy's scent is in the air, and he knows he will be heard.
he is a fighter. a weapon. a shield. and he will die as tools do — by wearing out their use. ]
no subject
He's paused at the name, but the tone's turned his head. That irregular, sand-papered rasp's come from Nic, and it's shocked him - the elder man's form - how he's bled. Enough that he's startled and frowned his response; heart skipping beats in the cage of his chest, an odd sort of cold at the lengths of his spine. Eyes growing larger each moment, he moves, all but forgetting to breathe as he's run.]
What did you do?
[He scolds in a short, angered hiss.]
What's happened?
no subject
with a fluid motion, he reaches down to thumb the hilt of his sword. and with more grace than a man of his current physical status should have, really, the katana is withdrawn, inch by inch of sharp, well-worn steel.
it would be the first he's ever drawn it in front of hibari. and the last he'll ever aim it at the boy's throat.
words didn't mean as much as action, but sometimes they do the job well enough: ]
kEpT YoU WAITinG LOnG EnOUgh.
no subject
Now you'll fight me?
[But, every inch of sword revealed reveals what Kyoya can't hold back.
His eyes were almost dancing now.]
Looking like that?
[Like Hell the boy would turn it down. Instead, he's raised his weapons. Tensed.]
Come on.