Categories > Anime/Manga > Weiss Kreuz
AN: For the 100 in 15 minutes challenge.
He kept the window in his room open whenever possible, letting cool air stir the plain blinds framing it and the ever-present papers on his desk. The pages would curl and flutter, threatening to scatter into disorganized chaos should the wind pick up.
They never did, because he wouldn't let them.
But for those seconds before he knew when to close the window and avoid it, before the wind grew stronger and the rain began, Crawford loved the thought of disaster.
But he couldn't allow it to happen, in the end.
In the end he settled for calm, stale air.
*
He moved as if he were underwater, limbs flowing weightlessly and time slowing down around him. Slow, almost lazy, until the moment came. That perfect moment when demons strike like quicksilver, with the force of a world behind them. Then the water would split around him, jolting the senses and delivering his victims to a damned land.
Water was made of water, just as Farfarello was made of no more than himself. Stripped to the barest, purest in its irony, with a grace ill befitting.
Clear on clear, where he is white on white.
And both, he taints with red.
*
It could not be tamed, and perhaps that was its greatest appeal. A click, and it loved you dearly. A flash, and it burned you badly. The smoke that rose from it, grey strands in the air, were the same that escaped from his mouth. He tasted ashes in the back of his throat and snapped wildly, moods flickering in a heartbeat.
The flames were everything in Schuldig.
And the wind, that made his fire twist and change, that kept him and killed...
It could not be tamed, but could be controlled, and perhaps that was also in him.
*
It was, in essence, everything around him. It was life, it was death, it was love and hate. It was survival in its strongest form, never giving up. It was cool and controlled, with heat turning inside of it. And there are so many parts to it, like the many parts of him. A mask of cool ice. Eyes of worn-out desert. The set of his chin like the stubborn set of a city. Not going anywhere.
But then, beneath and stretched thin, those deepening cuts.
Victims of time.
Nagi could control the earth around him, but never time.
He kept the window in his room open whenever possible, letting cool air stir the plain blinds framing it and the ever-present papers on his desk. The pages would curl and flutter, threatening to scatter into disorganized chaos should the wind pick up.
They never did, because he wouldn't let them.
But for those seconds before he knew when to close the window and avoid it, before the wind grew stronger and the rain began, Crawford loved the thought of disaster.
But he couldn't allow it to happen, in the end.
In the end he settled for calm, stale air.
*
He moved as if he were underwater, limbs flowing weightlessly and time slowing down around him. Slow, almost lazy, until the moment came. That perfect moment when demons strike like quicksilver, with the force of a world behind them. Then the water would split around him, jolting the senses and delivering his victims to a damned land.
Water was made of water, just as Farfarello was made of no more than himself. Stripped to the barest, purest in its irony, with a grace ill befitting.
Clear on clear, where he is white on white.
And both, he taints with red.
*
It could not be tamed, and perhaps that was its greatest appeal. A click, and it loved you dearly. A flash, and it burned you badly. The smoke that rose from it, grey strands in the air, were the same that escaped from his mouth. He tasted ashes in the back of his throat and snapped wildly, moods flickering in a heartbeat.
The flames were everything in Schuldig.
And the wind, that made his fire twist and change, that kept him and killed...
It could not be tamed, but could be controlled, and perhaps that was also in him.
*
It was, in essence, everything around him. It was life, it was death, it was love and hate. It was survival in its strongest form, never giving up. It was cool and controlled, with heat turning inside of it. And there are so many parts to it, like the many parts of him. A mask of cool ice. Eyes of worn-out desert. The set of his chin like the stubborn set of a city. Not going anywhere.
But then, beneath and stretched thin, those deepening cuts.
Victims of time.
Nagi could control the earth around him, but never time.
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