outfields | open post : picture prompt

At eleven-thirty, the house is empty of all but the barest of staff, or nearly so, the click-clack of Shiro's boots echoing in hallways, the whisper of his uniform along the floor the hissing of ghosts. The house is nearly empty, but Satsuki Kiryuin rests only when she must, and light leaks out low under the door of her room as he raps twice-then-three-times. He opens the door without an answer, but then he'd never expected one. Lady Satsuki sits alone in a room only half-lit, cutting a shadow against the floor as moonlight seeps through her windows. After a scan across the room, neither her stalwart bulwark nor the castle in her mind are anywhere in sight. In their absence, the lack of Sanageyama or Inumuta seems natural. His uncle's absence is the least natural thing he notices, but he is only human despite what he pretends, and it wouldn't surprise Shiro to know he's been sent to rest while the lady of the house burned the midnight oil.

"Lady Satsuki," Shiro says, pushing the door closed until it clicks closed with finality in the silence. "I have the report you asked for."

He's the Sewing Club President on paper. He's meant to knit scarves, repair stuffed animals, design dresses, on paper. In reality, his work is more complicated. He sews clothing that lives, he weaves subterfuge in plain sight. The photographs in the folder he holds carefully out to her are people they already know too well, sun-bright gold hair and pale skin against white cloth. "They were seen separately this morning in Greece, despite the news reports about Turkey," he says, soft.

"Flattery's to be my remuneration, then? It's theft you're getting away with tonight. Iori." Satsuki can tease back. It's missing all the barbs their friends use in their banter. In private, her edges have always buffed down quieter around Shiro. She can't even make small talk around him, because none of their conversations have ever seemed small.

A tailor's hands are never empty - and then some. Thread, needle, pins, pegs, binding, beading, boning, mesh...lace. Skin. It's no wonder that given the chance, he built himself four more arms.

And here she stands, fooling with her baubles like a heartsick teenager.

"Do you need me?" she asks, an offer of her idle, anxious hands and nothing more. Satsuki releases the metal she's pinched between her fingers, dropping one cupped palm in offer. Her affections aren't fickle, but it's hard to tell where you stand, sometimes, having lived so long on a precipice.

She sighs. Leave it to Shiro to be practical about her teasing. Houka has come around and become a little less logical with his bantering, but it's not as sure a deal with the tailor in her life.

Unsatisfied with his greeting, her fingers seek his shirt and tug him closer to her. "We may be planets that revolve around a sun, but we give meaning to it." Nonon will follow Satsuki to the very end (whatever end, every end, any end), but she won't belittle herself for it. She leans up on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Watch a movie with me?"

She falls back to her natural height and rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet. "Or take a catnap with me?"

"Greece is an economic sinkhole," Satsuki says cruelly, thinking of it not as a country, a place where people live and work and eat, but as a marketing drain. "Doubtless they've slipped their hands beneath the table. I expected this."

She accepts the folder; it hits the polished wood in front of her with a skin-sharp smack, falling open. Closer perusal means uncrossing her legs, extracting herself from the deceptively deep shell of her chair.

After a moment, Satsuki says, just as coldly, "Have the debate team captain's uniform mocked up." Then she goes quiet again.

Without her tea or Soroi's company (she's memorized the sound of his breathing - is that strange? No normal girl would have to), Satsuki is left with silence and a series of worrisome thoughts. She forgets herself. Looking down at the report on her desk, she says, "Thank you, Iori. Is that all?"

Shortest thread ever if it is.

His eyebrows rise. Of course she takes her moment when he's got metal in his mouth. She's never been the type to let weakness go unchallenged, instinct coiling in her limbs. He works quickly with the pin in his hand, gathering cloth flush against cloth and sliding the pin through with a push. When it lays as he'd wanted it to, he peels the needle out of his mouth, point held out between his fingers.

"I suppose I must pull together some kind of bonus to offset your disappointment, then, Lady Satsuki," he answers. "Robbing a model her due is in bad taste." What kind of bonus, well. That's up to her.

He reaches out again for the pincushion. Usually he has an assistant, people who do the simple pinning and hemming work for him. Not for Satsuki. This work is his work, for better or worse. Do you need me, she asks, as if he hasn't spent the last decade wanting to be what she needed. "If you could hold this and pass pins as I need them, that would make this process faster," he admits, holds it gently in the space above his head.

She's right, of course. The Grecian market's death throes have been a footnote on the 'shit we already know' memo for years. He gathers his hands behind his back to wait for her attentions again, watching her move in her chair over the rim of his glasses. "At once, Lady Satsuki," he answers, voice a whip cracking. In truth, the pieces for the initial test are ready, stored in his office under reinforced lock and DNA-coded key, waiting on her word.

In the spirit of the hour, his voice goes soft as he continues. "Of course," he says, her gratitude unneccessary but warm in his throat, and shuts his eyes for mere seconds. Is that all, when there's no end to this? They're turning a mountain of sand to concrete, grain by miniscule grain.

"That is the last of the evening's reports," he says, his hands falling to his sides, and it's not the Sewing Club President who asks: "have you considered retiring for the night? It seems unwise to run yourself ragged while they're away." Work will spur on away from the greedy eyes and greedy smiles of the Grand Couturier, but he can see the way she frays at the edges, the loom unraveling around her steel core.

Edited 2015-09-15 21:33 (UTC)

By now, his straight man act is nearly expected. Nonon's teasing is sweetest when it has room to bounce off of, like the flash in a photograph. And to be honest, it's funnier for him this way.

He goes with her pull, because what else can he do? Leave her reaching for him? His palms find her elbows as she leans up, as much support as he can really give, and he does smile, just a little. "A star system only hosts life when planets surround it," he agrees - and it's only to her he'd say that to, the only who'd understand what he doesn't mean about Satsuki with the metaphor.

He lets her arms go, but reaches slow for her wrists instead. "A movie... and then a catnap," he offers, slowly. He'd finished work early for a reason, after all.

"I'll do it. You've been hard at work on your knees long enough today."

Anything to alleviate the stress she's placed on him. Satsuki's spent years making Shiro's life difficult, asking him to do things more dangerous and demanding than kneeling. She takes the pincushion on offer. It has the trajectory and presence of some sort of idol, offered up from ground to pedestal. Clothing will always have some ugly aspect of the religious to her, even with the Life Fibers gone.

Her time wearing Junketsu chooses this moment to make its timely reminder: an old ache that pulls and pries at her hips and thighs. Satsuki waits until the pincushion is in her hands, so she can shift her weight under the pretense of bringing the pins around in front of her. She'll sleep on her back, she decides, hours before she'll even end up in bed.

"Allow me to wear this to the next benefit I attend and we'll call the bonus awarded," Satsuki says, counting our three pins into the palm of her hand and holding them at the ready. Let him be the expert.

Her thoughts echo his, unbidden. Is this really all they have to show for their weeks of work, tireless and persistent? Satsuki knows that to Ragyo, none the wiser, she appears tireless, working hard to earn her birthright with her human handicap.

In the morning there will be news of riots, a supply truck raided and torched. Bourgeois clothing becoming the stolen flags of the disenfranchised.

"There's no better time to work than when I'm unsupervised," she explains. "Then my mother might return and see how close we are to our goal." The coded language is familiar to both of them. Invoke one call, intend another.

Satsuki turns the folder over, spins it so its opening fold points away from her. Her smile is mechanical and doesn't nearly reach the rest of her face.

"Are you worried about me, Iori? There's no need to scold me." He hasn't explicitly scolded her, but she can sense the urge.

His eyes turn up toward her once more, mouth barely parted, but of course she doesn't seem to have noticed the terrible innuendo. (One of her more charming traits, though she never accepts being called 'cute' gracefully - a compliment that lays ill-formed on her, unlike every piece of clothing she's ever worn.)

Were she Nonon, it would have been on purpose, a trap laid to be fired back, but instead he turns back down, swallowing laughter. "I would hardly call that a bonus," he says, knowing who he'd created it for. "I'm sure I can find something else," he continues, more quietly, "perhaps a different kind of work." On his knees or not. The shift of her hips is old and familiar, the scars of youth harsh on her skin, but he allows her that dignity without a word.

"A pin, if you please, Satsuki," he says, dropping the false distance of formality, looping fabric together. He's nearly done, the last of this dress can be sealed shut around the shell of the glittering embroidery - but the girl he can barely see in the mirror out of the corner of his eye is a girl he likes to think is his, just a little, for these hours.

[ teenagers only, please. ]

She lets him catch her wrists, and her smile is sly like a cat that caught a canary -- or a snake about to strike at prey. If he's staying, it means she wins. "Oh, my, how indulgent. Did you work hard for this, or should I count my lucky stars?"

She giggles, light and girlish. It delights her when her whims are catered to normally, and she's vibrant when it's by one so close to he heart. The push and pull of their group is expected and comfortable, but a little tenderness goes a long way. She hums low in her throat, the few notes her vocal chords don't automatically destroy.

"I'll let you choose the movie." Her taste in movies is dark and full of horrors and not conducive to slumber.

"A proposition? I see." She knows better than to think he means something so sundry as paperwork. For someone who just genuinely overlooked her own innuendo, she's more eager to tease out the meaning in his words.

She flirts quietly with small movements of her body. It's the way she turns her wrist, the way she adjusts her display, the way she stands. It's short work he's doing, but prolonged, and she knows better than anyone how to endure a long wait.

Satsuki offers him the pin reminiscent of the way she'd offer a blade, the sharp end safe between her thumb and forefinger.

"Make sure not to poke me with that thing." She might be aware of that one, but Satsuki's already turned her head back in the other direction, the back of her neck exposed and red where her hairline ends now.

It's easy to get lost in the obfuscation that is their livelihoods, to hide in argot and weaponize double-meanings. That puts honesty at a dangerous premium. He pays it now: "yes, Lady Satsuki, I am." If he hadn't been, before, the brittle smile she isn't really wearing would do it.

"An army with an exhausted head is likely to fall asleep on its feet. Your work can wait until morning," he says, staring at her.

He leans forward to touch his fingertips to the folder, resting heavy on the opening edge. She can't put down her burdens, and he wouldn't ask her to - but, at his heart, he's a tailor, and repairing that which sees wear is his bread and butter. "Please, Lady Satsuki," he says, just a notch softer.

He laughs without sound at the question, attention lasering in on finding a better handhold so he can - reach up and take the pin, gently, his fingertips brushing hers. Even that small touch seems hot as coals, now.

He slides the pin into place before what she'd said actually registers, and then he does laugh, looking up. The flush to her neck is barely visible from here, but she's understated in the strangest places.

"I will endeavor not to poke you with any needles, Satsuki," he says, and draws out three or four seconds of pause. "I make no such promises about other ventures in poking you with something." It's crass, but she's not a flower that will wilt at the first sign of shade.

Satsuki lifts her elbow to look back at him through judging eyebrows, though it lacks the death threat it could have. It's more game than disgust. All too often, it's a game: Who will lean in, who will touch, who will resist. As much push as it is pull. Being alone with Shiro always feels intimate, but sometimes it lights this energy in her, hot and unanticipated. It makes her glad to be alive.

Still, it's difficult to twist far enough to show her stern disapproval while also not disrupting his hands.

"I should limit your time spent with Sanageyama." Satsuki means it very little. They both know, besides, that Uzu's stomach would shrivel up into his chest if he tried saying something like that to her. "Or your tongue will get you in as much trouble as his does."

She preempts the need for another pin, passing it back beneath her lifted elbow. Satsuki's invested in helping him with his work, but this time, maybe, she makes him reach a little.

"Are you interested? Don't get too distracted." Said like someone who plans on being a very big distraction soon.

"It's not like you to beg." Her gaze drops to his hand, a gate sealing her away from her work, the roiling hatred that fuels vengeance. Satsuki may have earned Ragyo's despicable trust, but she still works better knowing that her mother is farther away.

Satsuki places her hand over Iori's, but just to push the document back towards him.

"Then, by your word. I'll retire" She stands. "Walk with me, so we can prepare for tomorrow." He's been at her side for such a short while tonight. Satsuki's request may be a bid to extend that closeness or just a way to hold him at arm's length. Comrade, not friend. She doesn't take personal calls.

"I may have pushed a few projects through to a stopping point in order to have some free time," he says, not confirming one way or another, but she knows what he'd do to for them.

His grip pulses on her wrists, gentle. Neither of them have much time for softness, so he takes it where he can get it. "We can pick together," he says.

His mouth quirks, and he drawls an easy joke. "I don't have as overactive an imagination as Sanageyama, so a creepy art film won't give me nightmares." He has a stronger stomach than that.

He glances up and meets her gaze, a bold arch to his own eyebrows (thin though they are in the face of Satsuki's truly mighty weapons). Their usual dance over the hot coals that is the space between them is its own reward, the flashes of meaning and hum of closeness their own boon, but sometimes - sometimes he grows a little impatient.

He snorts, at what they both know is a joke. "I'll keep your warning in mind, though I have confidence in my skill to get back out of trouble the same way," he says, and scowls as he has to straight his back and snatch the pin from her, swift so she can't pull her hand away, so that he won't accidentally stab her retrieving it.

"I'm not sure if you're insulting me or yourself by suggesting I could be anything but interested," he says, twisting material and running the pin in. "But you should know better than anyone that distraction won't be a problem." At the cliff of the end of the world, he'd woven clothes then times as difficult as this.

It's a bad time to second guess their arrangement, now that he's buttoned her into a dress that fits like another skin. His hand slipped beneath it would feel fumbling, unprofessional. As if they aren't childish together already.

"I have the utmost confidence in you, as always...but I hope you won't lose interest by the time you've finished."

Satsuki falls silent. The emptiness where the banter had been is palpable. She runs her tongue between her teeth once, nervously, walking that fine line between safety and danger. For a time, there's nothing but the soft, buzzing sounds of the room alive around them.

"Do you remember the last time we were in a place such as this one?"

There's much more she could say, more that could prolong their torment. Has she made him suffer enough? Satsuki is a master of speeches, but there's likely not much she could say that would burn him down faster than whatever his imagination can conjure. Satsuki hums low in her throat, ghosts her fingers against the back of his head (only when she's certain the pin has pierced fabric). Then she resumes her bombproof stillness.

[ available in ou and pitcher au flavors. ]

[ m/f preferred but poke me about m/m ]

"It's generally unnecessary," he answers, pulling away from the desk and taking the folder with him. He tucks it against his hip, and nods at her request-that-is-not-a-request, head bent for a long few seconds.

"Of course, Lady Satsuki," he says, raising his chin. "Shall I stand in for Uncle, this evening?" He understands her chilly bids for untouchability - supports them, knows they're necessary, no matter how much he wishes it were otherwise - but in the after-spaces of the school, their relationship still wears more than one coat. No matter how much happier they would be without the weight of childhood hand in hand to put aside.

He lets the silence ring. As if he would - or could - lose interest in her, after all this time. His work distracts him, draws him into a courtship nearly as long as the one he's involved in with the woman inside the dress, until she breaks the silence, and with it, his concentration.

He certainly remembers. He squeezes his eyes shut, lips pressed together, and follows the feather-light touch of her fingers to turn his face toward her. "How could I not," he asks, and he lets the fabric in his fingers slip free, traces a line down her thigh with his knuckles instead. "You are a very difficult person to forget."

She laughs. A jab at the monkey is too fun to pass. It may be an easy joke, but it's leagues above any bad pun. Could there be any sense of humor worse than Sanageyama's?

"I was giving you a chance to pick something more to your tastes, but if you insist..." She tugs him towards her massive horror film collection, a bounce in her step. "Don't say I didn't try thinking of you."

Despite her catty tone, he's said all the right things. It's a mystery to Nonon how, but when it matters most, Shiro always says or takes action that disarms in the best way. She'd forgive him anything. It's a skull she's always happy to bear.

"But if you did get a nightmare, I wouldn't leave you to suffer. At least not like that." She stills and frees a hand to slide up his collar bone. Her lips curve in a smile that speaks only sin.

open post : picture prompt

i went with the awful route are you surprised

what wonderwall joke :)

it's entropy

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rude???

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sob how did a week pass

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shinichiro masu | daiya no a

i have no room to judge hides face in shame... also feel free to ignore

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tfw you thought you tagged smth and didn't

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it's ok i forgive

i could never ignore you

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jun isashiki | daiya no a

mei narumiya | daiya no a

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you're too kind