3ofswords: (resolute)
3ofswords ([personal profile] 3ofswords) wrote in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs2017-08-11 12:31 pm

[closed] i'll hold in these hands, all that remains

WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 39, the Spring, House 52
WHEN: August 21 
OPEN TO: Credence, comment starter for Tim
WARNINGS: Grief, blood, interpersonal conflict; NSFW content with Tim


intro; the house

Kira wakes up alone.

It happens a little more often this month, than previous. After the earthquake he’d spent a great deal of time with Tim, pushed through a barrier, added a kind of casual sleeping and breakfast to the casual sex. It had been a safe thing, no expectations, built in safeguards against taking it too far. They didn’t have to talk. They’d never have to argue and compromise over jobs, living spaces. His parents were never going to crawl out of the fountain for introductions. It couldn’t be anything, so they could let it be whatever it was.

And he’d been normal, for so much of it.

He’s not avoiding Tim now, not after the long walk they took, day-drinking and almost talking. Talking around things, couching things in practicality. He’d asked who to look for, if he gets back, Margaery’s prediction still looming over him. Someone to check on, someone to tell that their son or husband or boyfriend was alright. Of course he’d just been asking, really, about Tim’s home. How to find his people, who they were, if there was a glaring reason not to try.

Not much to do with something casual.

He’s not avoiding him. He’s just taking time for himself, days in between, not inserting himself into Tim’s day as frequently, for as long. He’s still here, and he always comes back, and he always slips right back into it all, and--and that low murmur of everything that is Tim wrapping around him. It’s too dangerous, when he already gave as much of a shit without it.

It’s easier to wake up on his own a few times a week, acclimate to the world nice and slow, in his remote house on the edge of everything. Kira lays in the bed, feeling out the space. Aurora at his back, Hoshi peeping from under the rag that keeps him quiet after sunrise. No Bodhi, but Kira isn’t really sure what time it is, and he might have found somewhere else to sleep off his late night puttering. There’s no one around at all, something to luxuriate in for a moment. He takes his time, rolling one way to scratch up Aurora’s face and ears, endure her tongue on his cheek. She isn’t so bad to wake up with, about as big as she’s probably going to get and her fur starting to lengthen as the temperatures wane. Rolling over the other way, he peels the rag up from Hoshi’s head, sets it aside, reaches past the ruffling ball of feathers to run his fingers through the contents of the drawer. A couple of condoms, dice, the old casings, the crystal necklaces. Reminders, but only of people here.

Not that he needs a piece of home other than himself.

Sighing, he rolls out of the bed, pulling on his cutoff shorts. Maybe no one is around, but the way disaster strikes in this place, he doesn’t want to be caught out in his underwear. His scrapes and scratches have healed from the last round, and he’s held Tim enough at arm’s length this week that any bruises are well-faded. He pads barefoot through the empty house, the animals used to his lazy routine enough that they don’t bother to follow, and he heads for the back door to rekindle the stove.


credence; the spring

The coat is slung over the rail of the back steps. Kira stands, framed in the doorway, staring at the familiar folds. He takes a step back and goes into the kitchen, blinking too quickly, taking a moment to drink a glass of water from the sink. It’s not there. He’s not awake yet, he’s still dreaming, it’s just the stress of everything getting him stuck in it.

The coat is slung over the rail of the back steps.

Kira sucks in a breath, louder and deeper than the last. It isn’t a box with his name on it. It isn’t new, tags still on it, a kind of--a kind of reminder of a coat, cruelly left for the coming winter. It’s slung out in the open, the fur matted and dirty, stains on the faded green fabric. It’s his coat, the one that had gone missing with Ty, the morning after their half-dreamed argument. The one Ty had been carried back in. The one Kira had been wearing before he woke up here.

Stepping gingerly out of the house, he picks up a sleeve. His throat closes for the chill lingering in the fabric, like it had just been picked up from the alley. Like nine months haven’t passed at all.

When he turns the side out, opening the coat over the rail, he recoils and cries out. Both hands lift to his face, covering his mouth and nose, squeezing his cheeks and jaw until the bone pushes back against his hands. The fur inside is still matted with blood, dried to the fibers, hideously dark on the white and brown lining. His hands press harder, holding back bile as it rises in his throat. His eyes scan out over his fingers, seeking anything in the trees, even knowing that isn’t how these things work.

Like he knows anything, about how this works.

Still gagging, he fists a grip to the shoulder seam and sets down the steps, barefoot and barely dressed, scrambling into the woods. The blood isn’t fresh, but it hadn’t been when Kira left: he’d waited a day at Ty’s bedside, hoping someone would find the right pills, praying Nicky would send someone out to get them. It had been the next night when he pulled the dirty coat back on, his cards and Ty’s pistol in the pocket. The coat feels lighter than that, and he doesn’t stop to check them: he keeps running into the trees, picking up speed, knocking through ferns and hopping rotted logs like he can catch up to something none of them have ever seen.

Who’s there,” he calls out, panting with terror as much as the exertion. “Is he alive?” Has time moved a moment since he arrived, can he send the bottle of pills in Tim’s bathroom back somehow, is there any kind of hideous bargain to be struck—

The trees are silent, when he shuffles to a stop. All of his senses know: he’s alone, and it’s only as he looks and listens that he notices how ugly the light is, how dim it seems for mid-morning. How late did he sleep? The sky isn’t visible through the canopy, and he hunts a moment for some kind of landmark: was it all just a trick, just a lure to lose him among the trees? No, there’s the marker he carved, the upward, forward pointing arrow to the spring. He follows it, bare feet picking over increasingly lush, mossy ground and stones, until he comes out on the loamy clearing.

His legs are shaky, weak as he picks over the green moss, porous rock around the spring, until he sinks down at its edge and clutches the coat up in his lap. “Where is he,” he asks the empty trees, his voice gone soft enough to break, until he’s sobbing I’m sorry into the dirty lining.

It isn’t some double-edged gift. It hits as deep as a bolt of lightning, burning symbols on rooftops. It smells like cigarettes and gunpowder and dirty snow. It smells like old and new sweat. Kira doubles over with it, sitting on his legs in the moss, suffocating himself in it as he cries.

repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (36)

spring;

[personal profile] repressings 2017-08-11 07:31 pm (UTC)(link)
Chores keep him busy--chores make sure Credence doesn't go out of his mind. Chores ensure that Mr. Graves' house gets kept tidy and neat, and Credence has something to do.

He wants this whole thing to be over and for all of them to stop living in fear over what's going to happen next, too, but focusing on going to the spring to collect its water is a much easier way of ignoring that. He's on his way, keeping his footsteps as quiet as he can out of habit, an empty bucket in his hand when he hears it.

That's definitely, definitely Kira's voice he hears, through the thin veil of the trees. His pace picks up, just a bit, and by the time he's at the spring proper he swears he hears Kira's voice break.

Kira doesn't break. Kira gets upset and talks about other things, like stars. Kira smokes strange cigarettes and laughs to become numb. Kira doesn't cry.

Credence finally steps forward, steps near, and assesses the situation as quickly as he can. Kira most likely doesn't want anyone commenting on it, like last time. He has to keep his voice calm and careful, to not upset him further.

He squats down next to him, arms wrapping around knees.

"You got another present."
Edited 2017-08-11 19:55 (UTC)
repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (43)

[personal profile] repressings 2017-08-14 03:16 am (UTC)(link)
Kira sounds strange. Kira sounds like the orphans at NSPS who have just lost their parents, fresh with grief. He sounds angry, and sad, and frustrated, all at once. Credence understands, and he wants to tell him he understands, but he doesn't feel like it's right.

Truthfully, he just wants to help. He's not sure how to approach the situation, so he settles on what he tries his best to do: cling to the bright side. The optimistic side. Even if his hand is grabbing at that triangle charm in his pocket he always keeps near him.

"That's good, isn't it? Someone's looking out for you. Why...Why is there blood? Are you hurt?"
repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (41)

[personal profile] repressings 2017-08-14 07:38 pm (UTC)(link)
That must have been the wrong thing to say. Credence tries his best, but it still happens--less so here, because here he's not stepping on mines. Here people are patient with him and not as strict as Ma. He still feels lke something's shifted, though--something's changed. Kira's voice softens and Credence stares, trying to search for something.

He can fix this, just like Kira's helped fix him. He can do this, he can return the favour, he has to--he needs to--Kira's upset and Kira's not allowed to be upset, and so Credence pushes past the stab of initial, knee-jerk fear when Looking out for me is thrown back in his face.

It's not his coat. That's a start. It's someone else's, which means the blood is probably someone else's. Someone Kira cares about.

"Maybe--maybe it's a sign they'll come," Credence tries, and takes a few steps forward. "This is--this is a good thing, isn't it? I don't think anyone's ever gotten something exactly from home, only things that look like it."
repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (02)

[personal profile] repressings 2017-08-16 04:11 am (UTC)(link)
A lot of good things have happened here, Credence wants to argue. There's a community where everyone belongs--and Kira's made friends, just like Credence has, he knows it. Kira even has someone special to hold him, or at the very least he's pretty sure, but he bites back the retort. Kira doesn't need someone to point things out, Kira needs someone to listen.

It's hard, though.

Especially since now he can see it. He can hear it in Kira's voice, too. Desperation, sadness. It makes Credence feel a pang of something, but what he's not sure. He squirms.

"Kira... I'm not sure if bargaining with the observers is a good idea. Maybe it's best to just wait naturally?" it's a question because he's not sure himself. He clears his throat, still nervous.

"Let's head inside, okay? I think I can fetch some tea from the inn, maybe that'll help."
comfortablyerect: (ain't gonna see)

[personal profile] comfortablyerect 2017-08-12 01:53 am (UTC)(link)
Things have been — okay. Actually, things have been weird. The last month has been an odd mix of new developments and setbacks. Kira seems to keep Tim at a distance, never gone long enough to make Tim worried or anxious, but not spending quite as many nights as he did before, once that started happening. That in and of itself is a development, and Tim still hasn't decided if it's a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand, the morning sex is great. On the other--

Well. He hasn't had any bad nightmares yet. Normal ones, sure. But not any of the ones that leave him sweating and shaking and trying to catch his breath. Not ones that have him tasting sand in his mouth for hours, unable to shake the scent of gunpowder or get the sun off the back of his neck. Kira hasn't seen that ugly, damaged side of him yet, and that's good. But it's only a matter of time.

Then, Kira will decide he has enough shit to deal with already that doesn't involve pitying Tim's wrecked mental state. And that's fine, because Tim doesn't want to be that vulnerable in front of anybody anyway. Ultimately, this thing they're doing will crash and burn, and the longer he lets it continue, the more it's going to suck in the end.

But he keeps doing it anyway. He's always been a little bit self-destructive, so maybe it shouldn't come as that big of a surprise.

He's in the back bedroom when the front door opens, almost as far away from the front of the house as he can be. Normally, there would be blankets nailed over the windows, but they've been pushed aside to let in what little light is outside. It's too dim outside for the time of day it is, but who the fuck knows if it's a normal weather thing or something weird. He's just gotten in from going down to the stables to check on Kid, wearing one of the new flannels with a pair of Kira's jeans. That same kitchen knife from before is in his hand, and he doesn't set it down on the dresser until it's Kira who walks around the corner, and not some stranger about to be suffering from serious blood loss.

"Here I am," Tim says, toeing out of his boots. It's a good thing he didn't plan on following that up with anything, because Kira's around closing the space between them and kissing him, hands on his jaw, mouth demanding. Kira's usually more chatty, likely to tease and taunt and push Tim's buttons before making his move. This is fast, and well-- he could stop it and ask if everything's okay. But that complicates things, so Tim only kisses back, hands dropping to Kira's waist.
comfortablyerect: (and where does the freedom begin)

[personal profile] comfortablyerect 2017-08-16 09:15 pm (UTC)(link)
Tim's back hits the wall, followed shortly by his head. He should feel caged and trapped. He should feel like he needs to escape. But Kira's mouth is hard and insistent on his, and Tim's already hard in his jeans. It never takes much to get him going — often times, Kira doesn't even have to try. Tim's dick gets hard at a lot of things, like the smell of rain when it first starts falling, or the hilt of a hunting knife pressed into his palm.

Or Kira's mouth zeroing in on his throat, attacking Tim where he's most vulnerable.

"Jesus." His breath hitches, chin tilted up so Kira has room. Hard teeth move to where his pulse thumps unevenly in his neck, only softened by the slick slide of lips and tongue. His knees feel weak, like he might actually slide to the floor if it weren't for Kira's body against his, or those hands at his hips, pulling one of the new (and, bizarrely, many) belts free from his jeans.

He's tugged forward, the belt looped over his neck, and it's probably a miracle that he doesn't stumble. They land against another wall, and Tim hungrily swallows the noise that drops from Kira's lips with another kiss, pressing him bodily against the wall. It's clear that Kira isn't looking for something slow and gentle right now, so Tim doesn't hesitate to bite his lower lip or roll his hips forward, groaning low in his throat at the friction it provides.