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sententiaTitle: Paper Cutouts.
Fandom: Summer of the Ubume.
Rating: PG.
Words: 435
Fan Bingo squares: illness, soul bonding.
Summary: They all come back from the war paper cutouts of the people they had been before they left. Kiba and Enokizu centric.
They all come back from the war paper cutouts of the people they had been before they left. Kiba knows this, sees it in the brittle rice paper that Sekiguchi has become, the vivid kaleidoscope of colours that Kyougokudou has wallpapered his world with. Kiba thinks that he's a rough wall of stucco himself, uneven and uncultured, but more solid now than when it was only a layer or two thick.
“I can't decide what colour to paint the walls.”
Enokizu sits in the middle of his office, cross-legged on the deep oak floors in a ridiculously long European-style shirt and a purple beret. Four pots of paint lay open in front of him, all white.
“Kyougokudou thinks I should just get bookshelves,” Enokizu continues with a roll of his eyes, and Kiba snorts. Of course. “And Seki...” Enokizu's smile fades briefly into something sadder, more confused. “He said that all the colours were the same, and that I was being ridiculous.” The colours are all the same, there isn't a hint of shade to differentiate them. Sekiguchi doesn't get it, can't get it – just as one side of the coin can never see what it is on the flip side. Enokizu's smile brightens again as his gaze lifts to meet Kiba's for the first time. “Which do you think is the best?”
And Kiba remembers. Remembers when the world loved Enokizu because he was beautiful and quirky and cared only about the silliest things and in the strangest of ways. Enokizu is still all of these, but the beauty has become unreachable, the quirks socially uncomfortable. In a country of stucco and wallpaper and the thinnest sheets of rice, Enokizu has always been a paper doll, his value determined by how others have decided to dress him up, which traits they emphasized.
According to Kyougokudou, Enokizu hasn't moved from this spot in two days.
“Idiot,” Kiba says with a snort, snatching the paintbrush from where it sits pensively on Enokizu's exposed knee. “It's obvious which one you should pick - the one that says 'detective'.”
Enokizu blinks, then dips his beret towards Kiba with a wide smile.
“You, sir, are brilliant,” he says, ceremoniously taking back the brush and dropping it into the third pot before lazily rising to his feet. Paint slops over the side, but Enokizu barely notices. “Let's go get lunch.”
It's almost 4pm on a grey and drizzly Sunday afternoon, and Kiba can't think of a half decent place which would bother being open still.
Kiba smiles. “You're buying.”
Fandom: Summer of the Ubume.
Rating: PG.
Words: 435
Fan Bingo squares: illness, soul bonding.
Summary: They all come back from the war paper cutouts of the people they had been before they left. Kiba and Enokizu centric.
They all come back from the war paper cutouts of the people they had been before they left. Kiba knows this, sees it in the brittle rice paper that Sekiguchi has become, the vivid kaleidoscope of colours that Kyougokudou has wallpapered his world with. Kiba thinks that he's a rough wall of stucco himself, uneven and uncultured, but more solid now than when it was only a layer or two thick.
“I can't decide what colour to paint the walls.”
Enokizu sits in the middle of his office, cross-legged on the deep oak floors in a ridiculously long European-style shirt and a purple beret. Four pots of paint lay open in front of him, all white.
“Kyougokudou thinks I should just get bookshelves,” Enokizu continues with a roll of his eyes, and Kiba snorts. Of course. “And Seki...” Enokizu's smile fades briefly into something sadder, more confused. “He said that all the colours were the same, and that I was being ridiculous.” The colours are all the same, there isn't a hint of shade to differentiate them. Sekiguchi doesn't get it, can't get it – just as one side of the coin can never see what it is on the flip side. Enokizu's smile brightens again as his gaze lifts to meet Kiba's for the first time. “Which do you think is the best?”
And Kiba remembers. Remembers when the world loved Enokizu because he was beautiful and quirky and cared only about the silliest things and in the strangest of ways. Enokizu is still all of these, but the beauty has become unreachable, the quirks socially uncomfortable. In a country of stucco and wallpaper and the thinnest sheets of rice, Enokizu has always been a paper doll, his value determined by how others have decided to dress him up, which traits they emphasized.
According to Kyougokudou, Enokizu hasn't moved from this spot in two days.
“Idiot,” Kiba says with a snort, snatching the paintbrush from where it sits pensively on Enokizu's exposed knee. “It's obvious which one you should pick - the one that says 'detective'.”
Enokizu blinks, then dips his beret towards Kiba with a wide smile.
“You, sir, are brilliant,” he says, ceremoniously taking back the brush and dropping it into the third pot before lazily rising to his feet. Paint slops over the side, but Enokizu barely notices. “Let's go get lunch.”
It's almost 4pm on a grey and drizzly Sunday afternoon, and Kiba can't think of a half decent place which would bother being open still.
Kiba smiles. “You're buying.”
