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Entry tags:

! fic,
by: yun

tea.

title ▸ tea
characters ▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss
timeline ▸ pre-awkward
divergence ▸ albatross and swallow

.tea

The koala is an indigenous species to the south-western Rugnica continent, near the juncture between Kimlasca and Malkuth territory. They thrive in the dense and highly specialized forests there. They are herbivores, with the penchant to hang off of trees in a certain manner that many female officers would call ‘cute’ or ‘endearing’.

It isn’t as though he doesn’t know what the animal is, nor that he doesn’t understand why female officers found them to be irresistible. It’s just that he’s not entirely sure why the lump of blankets and comforters piled up behind the desk usually reserved for the lieutenant brought that particular animal to mind.

It’s the hunchback-like shape to it, he decides, after an absent moment of casual scrutiny. The sloped form of the pile of blankets does seem to resemble the shape of a koala hunched as it dangles from a tree branch lazily. It’s not a perfectly shapely reconstruction of a tree-hugging herbivore, but it’s fairly close, as shapeless blobs go. And as he watches, the blob shifts to the side, blankets drawing into the void known as Shuusuke Fuji while he attempts to rearrange his limbs into a more comfortable position. Or so the strangely awkward motions seem to plausibly resemble, anyway—the lieutenant could very well be doing anything from making more breathing room to doing the hokey-pokey, and Jade honestly thinks he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

And speaking of differences, with all of those blankets and comforters piled up one on top of another like that, he doesn’t think the lieutenant would even notice if he sets the pile on fire. It’s not the first time he’s thought about setting the lieutenant on fire—though it’s the only time, he thinks, that he’s come across a situation where the lieutenant’s unwittingly surrounded himself with so many flammable objects. The standard uniform for the Malkuth imperial forces doesn’t count—he knows, from countless first-handed experiences, that the uniforms are fifth-fonon-resistant.

It would be interesting, however, to see how the lieutenant would deal with a sudden flame at the back of his little kingdom of comforters. The entertainment would certainly make up for the way he had trundled in this morning, half an hour after the first call of the bell with his uniform un-tucked and a duffle bag that was nearly as large as he was. When he had raised an eyebrow in inquiry, he found that he was ignored in favour of plopping down behind the second desk and unzipping that strange duffle bag—it didn’t take long for Jade to realize that the bag had been full of blankets of all shapes and sizes, and as soon as Shuusuke had emptied it, he had wrapped himself in it like a very fat and heavy caterpillar and curled in on his desk and unceremoniously stopped moving.

It’s been three hours. From his observations, he notes that the lieutenant hasn’t move from his seat since, a giant lump of unmoving material except for the occasional awkward movement of limbs beneath the mound. He realizes that the motions are strangely awkward, with an emphasis on the ‘strangely’, simply because he doesn’t recall the lieutenant ever having moved with anything less than that annoying brand of grace that seems to be ingrained into his very genes. It’s a little bit disconcerting to see the lieutenant moving in this manner, and while he isn’t particularly concerned, per se, he is rather curious.

Though in the end, it’s still rather troublesome.

He lets the lieutenant-turned-pile-of-blankets alone for the time being as he crossed the room to operate the fonic water boiler, setting the temperature with a wave of his hand and the slight activation of his fonslots. Sometimes, he absently wonders how the soldiers on the battlefield would react if they knew that Jade Curtiss, Necromancer of the Third Division, Master of the Fonic Artes, used the same principles from those exact fonic artes to boil water. Hundreds of lives in an instant versus making tea. He isn’t thinking about the disparity right now, but he used to. Now, he is thinking about the unmoving lump at the other desk, and pondering of the possibility of using this to send the lieutenant home. Forever.

Though he has to hand it contrivance— even the blue-eyed demon gets sick.

As if responding to his thoughts, the pile of blankets stir. He watches with interest out of the corner of his eyes from the other side of the room as the mound of comforters sway from side to side, as though uncertain of which way to topple, before steadying itself again by oozing all over the desk. There’s a muffled murmur, followed by a moan that would’ve all but justified the wild rumours of the necromancer’s corpse-reviving ways, had someone been standing outside listening in. However, this particular moaning is strangely intelligible. In fact, he can even decipher the starting letter, clipped as it is in pronounciation.

The moan goes like thus— “Teaaaa.”

This is, he thinks, a very pretentious zombie.

In return, he considers the boiling fonmachine. Despite knowing that the lieutenant had no way of seeing his actions, due to the way he is ‘seated’ and the sheer amount of blankets piled up on over him, his hands slip out of his pockets anyway into a shrugging motion. “A good choice, sir. And would the undead party like to get it for himself?”

He could almost imagine the sour look on the lieutenant’s face, which is a fairly difficult task, seeing as he’s never seen what passes for a sour look on that particular lieutenant’s face. It’s nice to imagine, though, that there is indeed a very sour look on the other’s face right now, and it fully justifies his own smirk, which he feels coming up.

To the lieutenant’s credit, the pile of blankets actually wobble a little, as though waffling, before it stops and flops over again. The next grunt is a little less intelligible, though no less zombie-like in form. “Dun’wanna.”

Jade supposes that translates to something along the lines of ‘Don’t want to. Get it for me.’ Except in perhaps a bit more of a flowery language with a lot more passive aggressive undertones.

“Then, I’m sorry to say, the tea does not want to boil.” Is his mild rejoinder. The fonmachinery is silent as it boils tea, the only thing that indicates its operations being the soft glow of the arte that powers it, barely perceptible. He takes the time to pick out a flavour of tea, going over his options absently, even as he watches the pile of disgruntled blankets shift.

“Cold-hearted as they say, Necromancer,” a voice emerges from the blankets at last in tones that don’t completely mimic the cries of zombies long past. The tone sounds amused, though also fairly tired. There is a certain raspy quality to the voice, he notes with interest, which seems fairly out of place of the smooth delivery of the words. Perhaps the lieutenant is as sick as he seems? It would make a strong case for getting him out of the office, at any rate, though he’ll need more convincing evidence, to be certain.

“Is that so? I had thought that they’d long-since considered me heartless.” Chamomile, maybe. Or perhaps Earl Grey, though that was often too Kimlascan for his tastes. “But even if it is the case, it would take more than those blankets to warm this heart of mine.”

The reply is tired, good-natured and scathing. “Do come closer so I can sneeze on you.”

“Aren’t you generous with your maladies. I suppose even you must be generous with something.” He gets out a mug from the cabinet and prepares a teaspoon. There’s a nagging feeling that tweaks from the peripheral of his consciousness. “But still, I’ll have to graciously decline.”

There’s a weak chuckle from the direction of the blankets, muffled oddly by the layers. “Have you ever considered switching professions, sir? You would make an admirable doctor.” A pause, as though attempting to catch breath. He continues, amused. “Sick patients would die to leave your care.”

“Oh, dear. I suppose I do have a personality to die for,” he jokes in turn, even as he considers the lieutenant’s words again. There’s that nagging feeling again. He taps the spoon against the side of the mug, and watches the fonic glyph glow. “But it truly is a compliment. I am, after all, a doctor for the dead.”

“Mm, I suppose I still have a ways to go before you can treat me,” there’s a dramatic sigh coming from the general direction of The Mound. Or, there would’ve been, if it hadn’t been punctuated by watery coughing. Jade finds himself frowning mildly, and supposes that he’s glad that the blankets’ obstruction of the view goes both ways.

Not chamomile, then. Perhaps lemon. And he thinks there might be honey at the back of the cupboard—he doesn’t use it often himself, but once upon a time kept a jar for guest purposes. Opening up a cabinet, he peers in. “The blue-eyed demon ending up on the necromancer’s table due to the common cold—think about what it would do to your reputation.”

“That’s a little beyond me, right now,” comes the reply, still vaguely bemused, muffled. “Perhaps you could use my corpse to discover the cure to the incurable. Think of what that would do for your reputation, sir.”

“I do think I have enough of a reputation for now,” he replies both dryly and honestly. “But I will keep your offer in mind.”

The chuckle is tired and raspy. “Please do.”

A silence then descends upon the room as Jade pulls the honey out from the cabinet—still in its jar and sealed, it seems—and Shuusuke does whatever he wont to do underneath his Mound, punctuated by coughing or the gentle hum of fonons. When the silence threatens to stretch on for an awkward length of time, however, the water reaches a boiling point just in time, casting a blue glow around the vicinity of the fon machine. Perhaps a little gratefully, Jade takes the boiling water and sets the tea, pouring it in. Then, he stirs in the honey, watching as the viscous liquid melts in the water.

The pleasant smell of tea wafts throughout the room, giving the office a cheery and almost homely smell. It’s not a smell he often attributes to his office, but then again, this isn’t his usual sort of tea. Carrying it across the room, he notes that the lieutenant hadn’t stirred. When he makes his way to the other’s desk, he sets the mug down gently, before giving the pile of still blankets a contemplative look. It’s a little awkward, he will admit, to stare down like this—especially since he cannot recall ever having done this before, nor can he recall anyone doing so for him. He ponders absently at the possibility that the lieutenant had just expired right then and there—the blankets are still enough for that, he reckons, and if he did, how long of a wait would be kosher before he is bound by duty to check under there.

Heavy blankets, he knows, can muffle the smell of decomposition. However, it will also speed up the process. The combination might stain the seat, and he really would have to burn it. Decomp, after all, does not look professional in an office.

It’s to the lieutenant’s favour that he stirs right then. However, when no lieutenant emerges from the pile, he considers taking the tea and drinking it himself. Honey and lemon isn’t to his taste, but wasting tea is never kosher. He eyes the mug for a moment, then the pile of blankets, before pocketing his hands.

“Perhaps it would be best if the lieutenant found elsewhere for his nap,” he says aloud, pointedly. “I don’t believe we need yet another useless object in the office.”

The lieutenant stirs again, and the mound wobbles. Once. Twice. Then, the lieutenant’s voice cracks before it formulates words. “Then, shall I find a bench outside, colonel? I heard it’s all the rage nowadays.”

“If that so pleases you,” is his response, shrugging. “But I do recall that the Fuji manor is not far from headquarters. I believe you know the place—though I suppose I can draw up directions if need be.”

The reaction is almost lazy in execution. He watches as the blankets shift again, this time doing a little wiggle-shuffle, before settling. The voice, however, has an odd quality to it that he can’t quite capture. “And allow my sickened ramblings in a household like that? I suppose I really would be feeling suicidal.”

And that, Jade thinks, is his answer. In fact, it’s almost troubling. “Oh? Then I suppose I’m flattered that you think my hands are a secure place to insert prime blackmail material.”

The answer is almost jovial. The laugh is soft. Authentic. “It may be a hunch, but I think I trust you with my mad ravings.”

Shuusuke Fuji is not an irritably sick man, Jade thinks. He is a truthful one.

For the first time since Shuusuke had trundle into the office this morning, he can see wisps of brown hair poking out from the head of the pile of blankets. With the hair emerges part of a face from mouth up, blue eyes blinking blearily. From the blue eyes come disjointed blinking, and then pauses as both eyes focus first on the colonel and then on the mug on his desk and back again.

When Shuusuke lifts his face, Jade notes that the smile is tired, remnants of sickness at the corners of his lips, but above all, genuine. It almost makes him feel guilty. The lieutenant tilts his head amongst comforters, and struggles to extract a hand from the depths, before reaching for the mug.

A chuckle, throaty. “I’ll regret this, won’t I.”

Jade shrugs. “I suppose you will just have to.”

The lieutenant sips his tea thoughtfully while Jade watches, though he supposes there are better things to watch than to watch his sick lieutenant sip tea. The silence this time, however, is strangely comfortable, permeated by the smell of lemon and honey tea. He leaves, after a bit, to fix up his own cup of tea, picking up a jasmine that he had bought at a whim and Peony’s urgings (though those two things are often synonymous). As he stirs the tea, he considers the pile of gently moving blankets.

“I believe the couches are a tad more comfortable,” he says, finally, after taking his teaspoon out of the mug and dropping it into the sink along with the filter for the fon machine. “Unless, of course, you prefer the wooden print of the desk upon your cheek, sa in that case—who am I to judge?”

He watches as the movements of the blankets pause—as Shuusuke stops sipping to tea to consider his words, and then stops watching, turning around to focus his attention on the sink. Turning on the water, he washes the spoon thoroughly, then the filter, letting the sound of fourth fonons drown out whatever shuffling sounds there are in the background. He lets the water run for a tad longer than necessary, taking the opportunity to wash the honey spoon as well, then a tea saucer that had been sitting nearby. It’s only after he turns off the water that he dries the cutlery, before retuning them carefully.

When he turns around, he sees the lack of a mound of blankets at the lieutenant’s desk and a new mound of blankets at the couches, curled up like some sort of a deranged, hibernating koala. It’s amusing, he supposes. Taking the saucer and his own cup of tea, he returns to his own desk and takes a sip.

The room smells like tea, he thinks, idly, even as he turns his pen to the next set of forms. The mounds of blankets shift on the couch, but he supposes that it’s not as much trouble as he was perhaps making it out to be.

He'll make the lieutenant wash his own cup.

Entry tags:

! fic,
by: yun

elegant.

Title ;; elegant
Fandom ;; Prince of Tennis/Tales of the Abyss [AU-crossover]
Characters ;; Fuji Shuusuke, Jade Curtiss
Warnings ;; I can't write Jade's voice :(
Summary ;; in which nothing of importance is said and everything of importance is inferred. you do the math.
Dedication ;; Kosy

fhroe, because it's her birthday and I made it in time kslfjsdl. I hope you had a good one, bby.

. elegant

In a classic example of out with the old, in with the new—it isn’t long before one set of rumours find greener pastures while a new set of whispers take its place up and down the rumour vine. It’s only fitting, they agree, that the subordinate of a demon is another. The Blue-Eyed Demon, counter-part to the Red-Eyed Demon—the contrast is convenient, which is the only reason why it sticks.

The idea of it draws forth the imagery of the mythology of a foreign country; two demons sitting at the foot of a gate, one with its mouth gaping wide and the other with its mouth kept mum. Perhaps the two of them, with their equally frightening reputations, will cancel each other out, the hopeful argue. Perhaps the joint force of the two is an omen of destruction, the cynical reply. A few note that the two were on rather icy terms during their last outing; even more speculate that perhaps there is bad blood within mixed history. Rumours of how that came to be fly in all directions, ranging from office affairs to reports of illegitimacy in the families.

Bets are exchanged over the severity of the familial infractions, over the strength of the bite of the katana versus the tear of the spear, over how long before the lieutenant kicks the bucket— over everything and anything, to Shuusuke’s open amusement. Jade Curtiss, for his part, seems to pretend not to notice; though no doubt his inattention will only last until it suits him otherwise, Shuusuke muses.

This isn’t one of those times, he thinks, as he scans his paperwork one afternoon, casually noting aloud that the latest consensus was that they were a pair of illegitimate cousins, locked in tragic rivalry and seething dissent.

“I wonder which one of us they think is the illegitimate one,” he asks the empty air, tilting his head as he carefully considers the colonel’s reading form for any sign of a reaction. There’s a rustle of paper as Jade Curtiss turns the page, and he watches the other man skim the paper with practiced attention.

He glances down again, and ticks a box next to a paragraph of technical terms with his pen. “Perhaps there’s a secret you haven’t told me, Colonel?” he offers after a lull, joking mildly.

It’s a rhetorical question, open to interpretation yet far too narrow to be anything of consequence. It’s the irony that makes him smile. Both of them know, he thinks, that Jade Curtiss tells Shuusuke Fuji about as much as the other way around. Both are intensely private individuals. Both are as likely to confide in the other as they are to wear their hearts on their sleeves (some proclaim that the demons lack hearts at all; Shuusuke prefers to go about it philosophically). Jade Curtiss raises his eyes to look over the corner of his paper, a sliver of expression to the side offset by the edge of the paper’s straight edge. Shuusuke glances over carefully and unabashedly. It’s three-fourths of a business smile, with one-fourth consisting of something like dry appreciation. There’s a quick flash of mild amusement behind frames, ‘you were the one who perpetrated that one, weren’t you’, and he knows that he is caught. Shuusuke tilts his head and smiles to the side, unapologetic, and cedes gracefully.

“They’ve pushed the deadline for the appraisal,” the Colonel says, after a moment of silence. Shuusuke turns his gaze slowly from the Colonel to the ceiling, considers the time-frame.

“How long?”

“A week.” The answer is gauging, and he imagines the Colonel pushing up his glasses with the palm of his hand as he says this. Shuusuke ticks days off in his head, and doesn’t frown.

Extra missions will be needed to bolster the ranks. At least three more scours of the city and its surrounding areas that are under the Third’s jurisdiction. The closer to the date of the appraisal, the need for tightened security increases. It isn’t often that Shuusuke considers the opinions of the higher-ups to be noteworthy, but diplomacy is a powerful tool under the right circumstances. He rather likes the fact that the Third is so very free. “That’s quite a bit of overtime ahead of us,” He remarks, finally.

“I can think of a few advantages,” the Colonel’s smile is evident in the nonchalant delivery of the reply. Shuusuke understands.

“The rumour mill was rather enjoyable,” he agrees, a bit lamentably but without any true regret. Glancing down, he ticks another box before neatly inscribing his signature at the bottom right corner.

Whatever the case, the members of the Third tiptoe around the two furtively, until the ins and outs of deployment in the furthest regions of Grand Chokmah slowly grind the life out of even the most resilient rumours of the mill.

And squad life goes on.

* * *

Their first mark of overtime occurs three nights later.

The soldier before him looks perky, which isn’t always an accurate indication of the awareness levels of a tired man. Three days of night patrol can be taxing, and if Jade recalls, the man before him (Kielan Irvs, his mind supplies) is a new recruit, fresh out of the academy, diligent and eager to please as with all new recruits. Generally speaking, the new recruits were shuffled onto the night patrol as quickly as they were brought in, on the general grounds that there is no faster way of building experience than shoving them headfirst into a taxing situation, but also that new recruits were less likely to exhibit unnecessary bravado in the unknown of the night and therefore have a higher survival rate than most.

This soldier, with his bright-eyed countenance, might end up defying that assumption, Jade muses. Even as the other man gives his report, he chalks up a mental map of the general squad deployment and figures that he could always relocate him to the west wing for the rest of the night. “—two were dispatched at the outskirts, but three more escaped. They were last seen fleeing towards the palace, sir. Squad three is in pursuit.”

There is very little novelty in this information, considering that the movements of this particularly unsavoury band could’ve been read by anyone who was in the business of staying alive long enough. He keeps this piece of information to himself as he nods, generous. “Thank you for the report. Please convey to squads four through six should remain their ground for the time being. I trust you know the way?”

The last question, tacked on at the end, is rhetorical in nature. No soldier has any right to wander the night without knowing the positions of their superiors. The soldier nods, once, and salutes. “Sir.” Then, after a slight lull, seems to be embroiled in an internal debate of a sort.

Jade raises an eyebrow.

“Sir,” the soldier blurts out, reiterating, before bowing low. “Pardon my impudence, sir, but from the movements of the bandits, I believe that they must be aiming for the emperor himself. I would like to advise that all squads convene at the location of the palace, sir. Please consider it!”

Jade’s other eyebrow raises as well. The man must be tired—in a way, it’s almost amusing, if it weren’t for the situation. As he considers the best way to convey his intentions in the least possible amount of unnecessary exposition as possible, there’s a shift in presence to his right.

Shuusuke Fuji walks out of the alleyway, a hand in his pocket and the other hung loosely at his side in a gesture that would almost be considered ‘nonchalant’ if it weren’t for the katana hanging by his side, deadly. In the light of the moon, he looks absurdly small in his uniform, despite the fact that he wears it as though it were form-fitted to his designs. Even in the darkness, the specks of blood on his uniform and cheek were undeniable.

Jade isn’t surprised. Kielan Irvs isn’t, either, but he is wary, shown by the slight shift in posture. The Blue-Eyed Demon lives up to his recently coined nickname, and must still remain fresh in the recruit’s mind. Shuuske Fuji, for his part, merely tilts his head in a gesture that almost conveys laziness. He doesn’t bother with a greeting, nor a raise of his hand in the gesture of ‘at peace’ that most superior officers contract through sheer habit alone—his still posture says the night is still young, please remain wary in my presence; you still have reason to fear.

It’s almost elegant.

“The emperor is not at the palace,” Shuusuke Fuji explains, quietly. With a gloved hand, he reaches up to rub the flecks of blood on his cheek, and when his hand falls away, Jade notes that he is smiling. “Isn’t that it, Colonel?”

And therein lies the difference between Kielan Irvs and Shuusuke Fuji, Jade muses. He doesn’t acknowledge Shuusuke’s words, nor does he repeat them—rather, the exposition would be useless, and Jade isn’t in the interest of wasting time and breath. Leveling a look at Kielan Irvs, he merely goes on. “And please convey that the second and seventh squads relocate to the mansion of Lady Antoine Estralga. Fuji, a word?”

A graceful exit for the messenger. The recruit bows again, hurriedly ‘sir!’, and out of the corner of his eyes, Jade could see Kielan Irvs shoot a perplexed glance between himself and the lieutenant, before hurrying off to convey the messages to the next set of runners, who will spread it along until the squads are aligned once more.

He then turns on his heels and begins walking. He feels the presence of Shuusuke Fuji fall into step next to his left, discreet and fluid. They are, Jade notes, heading in the opposite direction of where they knew the mansion of Lady Antoine Estralga lay.

Jade feels the shift as the lieutenant looks up. There’s a murmur. “A beautiful night for a botched assassination attempt.”

“How quickly you discredit their attempts,” is his own mild rejoinder. Shuusuke, he remarks, isn’t inquiring about their direction. Either that the other man doesn’t entirely care, or that the other man has already caught on—and it could really be either, he thinks. Some give the man too much credit, others too little. Jade prefers a balance—enough for educated guesses, but not enough to be wholly impressed.

“Unless they haven’t realized it yet.” The answer from the shorter man is both philosophical and whimsical. “In which we can afford an even slower pace, don’t you think?”

Ah, he did catch on.

“Perhaps.” He offers offhandedly, and the conversation dies.

The thrum of his spear’s fonons are at ready at the peripheral of his mind as he focuses on navigating the streets of Grand Chokmah. The first alleyway, then the second alleyway, and then a third, keeping the moon to their left. Then, the wall. Beside him, the lieutenant follows silently—he doesn’t bother keeping track of the other’s position, knowing that it would be a waste of time. Quiet steps lead them to the narrow positioning of buildings, both discreet and shady.

They stop at the peripheral of the wall, the moonlight glancing over the uneven bricks.

“It doesn’t look as though they’re here, yet. Shall we set up position?” Fuji’s voice doesn’t echo in the night. Perhaps it’s intentional. A careful character with far too much time on his hands—no, it wouldn’t be surprisingly if it were intentional. Jade finds himself musing, as the silence of the night wears on.

“It’s an elegant trap,” he replies mildly, letting one hand fall into his pocket as if by habit. “I believe it was your forefather that came up with the design.”

“Was it?” It wasn’t ignorance that was being feigned, here, but a lack of interest. His eyes glance over to Shuusuke, even as he scans the night for any sign of overt movements amongst the shadows. Several decades ago, an architect redesigned this part of the city in order to, as the public knows it: to better facilitate the inclusion of a third aqueduct. What wasn’t common knowledge was that it was essentially the restructuring of a part of the city designed so that whomever escaping from the direction of the Palace would immediately be able to pinpoint said part as the most difficult to navigate—the part of the city that acted as a natural cover for fugitives. As an escape route, it couldn’t be more perfect—something that the military and city guards count on.

It’s a trap of their own choosing, and it’s saved the armed forces quite a bit of time within the last few decades when it comes to fugitives in the night.

It’s well known that a Fuji designed it.

“My grandfather was a man of many talents.” Shuusuke finally offers after a moment of silence.

“That’s quite the understatement,” is Jade’s rejoinder, neither accusatory nor dry, because there is something fundamentally very amusing by the use of an understatement as a deflection tactic. Shuusuke Fuji must have never known his grandfather.

“Even the obvious needs to be stated, once in a while,” is Fuji’s reply. It’s a neutral reply, quiet in the night, and good enough for the occasion. There’s a sound to his right, a scrabble across a rooftop, and he can’t help but make one last rejoinder.

“Do be careful with that, or you might run out of things to say.”

As he says this, he draws his spear, letting the fonons drain from the outside of his arm in a natural arc until the weapon materializes itself. Shuusuke doesn’t draw his katana, though it’s known that the man doesn’t bother drawing unless he needs it. His hand, however, leaves his pocket fluidly. As Jade advances with quick steps, he feels the presence of the lieutenant, matching him step for step.

There are three other presences in the night, desperate scrabblings, angry curses as they find themselves hemmed in by the wall of the aqueduct. Jade almost hums, but he doesn’t.

“Shall I stand by and watch you take them out single-handedly?” Comes Shuuske’s cheery voice, a quiet murmur. “Or shall I at least pretend to make a lunge?”

“Making an old man take on the burden of the work?” He replies, amused, “No respect for your elders at all, for shame.”

Shuusuke chuckles under his breath. They split up and approach with quick steps.

By morning, news of the Third's successful appropriation of a squad of assassins make its rounds.

And it goes on and on.

Entry tags:

! fic,
by: kosy

drabble collection.

i. meeting

‘Necromancer’ is both a fearful and common thing in his profession.

There are tales of that Necromancer. One who plays with the lifeless corpses of those he slays, placing them into experiments for his own gain or enjoyment; one who has no value for life; one who has killed more people than he can count of hundreds of hands. One whose eyes reflect the blood of those he’s killed. A glowing red, they say. Necromancer—he sees the real one, in front of him, those same red eyes and playful smile… sipping tea quietly, reviewing papers, not a single dead body in sight.

For a moment, Fuji wonders how those things ever came to be.

Of course, Fuji is not free of rumors himself. Perhaps that is the exact reason why he does not recoil in fear of Colonel Jade’s supposed killer atmosphere, killer hands. He doesn’t even blink as Jade lifts those to bend the corner of one of his endless sheets of paper, instead opting to take a look over to the corner. Books, sheets, rappig hairs. A real pigsty. Who would’ve thought that the Jade Curtiss would be as messy as that?

“What were you here for, again,” is all the Colonel asks. He says it like a passing thought, sparing Fuji only one glance, over the top of his stack of paperwork. “I don’t frequently get visitors.”

“Colonel,” he lets out in reply. His mind’s still on the mess on the corner of the room, but he does find the willpower to stand at attention and address the man rumored monster in front of him. He’s still wondering how those things ever came to be. “I’m a bit of a new recruit to your division. Shuusuke Fuji.”

Something’s wrong. “Sir,” he tacks on to the end. It sounds a bit forced, unnatural, but Fuji’s good at making things like that sound like they belong, regardless. Somehow, he has a feeling Jade’s smiling from beneath the stacks of paper on his desk.

If there is any hint of that smile in Jade’s voice, Fuji is not able to hear it. Not that he is shocked when the Colonel’s reply is a cryptic, even: “Fuji. I see.”

He sees. Fuji offers a shallow bow, a small “that is my name, yes,” before he travels the distance to the desk in the opposite side of the room. The Curtiss name has a lot of benefits, of course—a large office being one of them. Only a Curtiss office could have two desks, bookshelves, and some disaster in the corner.

To be completely honest, he isn’t the competitive sort. But there’s a thought that passes by in his mind— the Fuji name isn’t without benefits as well. It is that reason that allows him to take a seat in the second desk in Jade’s office, and his second thought is that he really must’ve started some kind of record, making the Colonel react after just meeting him.

There's a shift. A stack of papers back on the desk. Two fingers from those rumored hands push up glasses, and Fuji finds himself the target of two very inquiring red eyes. “Did His Majesty organize this little arrangement?”

“I requested it,” he finishes with a smile. “Lieutenant Colonel Shuusuke Fuji.”

"Lieutenant Colonel," Jade repeats. From the rumors, Fuji knows that Jade is used to isolation. So is he. It's for that very reason that he seems to understand the subtle shifts in expression on Jade's face. It's like a simple window into the other's mind.

Except Fuji knows it's not that simple. He finds it an enjoyable lie, though--knowing all of Colonel Jade Curtiss' thoughts.

ii. discovery

The next time Jade sees Peony, he makes it a point to mention Lieutenant Colonel Shuusuke Fuji at least once every other sentence. Repetition makes things memorable, after all, and Jade certainly wanted to make this grand scheme turned mistake memorable.

"Ah, yes. That rappig's coat is looking rather beautiful indeed, Your Majesty. The brown is similar to Lieutenant Colonel Shuusuke Fuji's shade of hair, in fact."

It's the tenth time he's mentioned it. He's said eleven lines of dialogue. It's been half-an-hour. Everything he's said he's said in reply to Peony's comments. Everything he's said he's brought back to Lieutenant Colonel Shuusuke Fuji. Peony didn't have to be a childhood friend to know Jade's thoughts on his little decision, and he certainly didn't have to be a childhood friend to know what, exactly, he wanted to be done.

"Nephry," he mentions, kneeling beside his most-beloved rappig, petting her neatly behind the ears. Jade looms beside him, standing much taller than he--something unacceptable, really, but they were often breaking rules--and also looking much more annoyed. "It was his idea, Jade. He comes from an old military family. I can't really ignore that simple of a request, especially not from someone like him, you know? Besides, you could use some company."

Were Jade a lesser man, he would call bullshit. "Not in my office," he adds in.

"In your office," Peony counters. With a final pet to a certain sensitive spot behind Nephry's ears he stops, stands and dusts his hands off. For all his lighthearted taunting, Peony has the annoying habit of being almost incredibly stubborn on trivial matters. "If it bothers you that much, just ask him to move. Simple enough, right?"

It really isn't, Your Majesty.

It really isn't.

***

There's something about being Jade Curtiss that makes you an extremely nosy individual, for lack of a better word. Being Jade Curtiss means that the acquisition of information is not a difficult thing, and so it takes less than an hour for him to find all he can on one Lieutenant Colonel Shuusuke Fuji.

A member of nobility. He knows that. Fuji is a name you have to put effort into forgetting, and Jade had put next to no effort into forgetting that name. As for their son, well--there are rumors, certainly. A genius, though there's hardly any focus on specifics. Passing things about some kind of skill with a one-handed sword, but apparently it's in fonic artes that the Fuji child really shines.

Quite literally, in fact. He had a reputation of being both flashy and deadly, and even more so when he wasn't attempting the former. Both as a boy and a man--someone who could adjust to the frontlines or the backlines without flinching. A perfect counter.

Of course, Jade's not shocked. You don't get a rank of Lieutenant Colonel by being unskilled or idle, especially not at the age of twenty-four, and especially not when you're a Fuji. Unskilled and idle did not have place in any of the places that Fuji fit into. There seemed to be a natural place for him.

Jade's reminded of a snowy field and a demonic child he wishes he could kill.

iii. rumor

Division Three learns very quickly about their new Lieutenant Colonel.

Jade makes no move to introduce Fuji to the troops. He says this is a business decision, but there are also quite personal influences that he cannot ignore. Part of him does not acknowledge the fact that he has an assistant, officially, on paper. Another part of him deems the task a waste of time. Fuji is infamous--from both word-of-mouth and academy days--and that rumor-mongering atmosphere that would drive anyone else to awkwardness only serves to make Fuji more comfortable. He smiles and waves to those that greet him in both jest and seriousness, and orders around those with fear easily enough.

With no other way to say it, Jade feels like he's very much looking at himself. Looking right into his own situation.

Fuji's no Necromancer, but he is twenty-four and a respectable part of the Malkuth Army. A right-hand man (officially, on paper) to the Red-Eyed demon, Jade Curtiss. That, with his own already impressive resume, only makes the rumors spread further. The Third Division is home to not only one genius, but another.

Jade goes back to his daily business. Some young soldiers in the Third brag about the prosperity of their Division, while younger ones from other sections debunk the singing praises to Colonel Jade and Lieutenant Colonel Fuji by calling them demons.

"How scary. You're a demon at twenty-four, Fuji," Jade says off-hand in his office one day. He isn't used to speaking out loud and having someone respond, but Fuji is quick as he leans on his chair, looking at Jade over the back.

"Didn't you rule Hell at twenty, Colonel? I feel like I can aim higher."

He chuckles. "That's a throne you'll have to steal from me, I'm afraid. And that's no easy task."

The other man hardly moves. It's a little reaction, but there's a small squeak of the chair that Jade catches, and that's enough of a response for him. Fuji returns to his work with the same smile he had before the beginning of their small exchange. One small pen twist attempt later, he's getting up to deliver the final pieces of paperwork to Jade's desk, and then leaving to take a walk.

No one makes coming out of Jade the Necromancer's office as casual as Fuji does. To some, that room is as daunting as the Emperor's Audience chamber.

But most had, at least, seen the inside of that at least once.

***

Fuji hears that he's slept his way to the top of everything. The idea is amusing, no, even more amusing when he considers that he, truthfully honestly completely has no idea who he could've possible slept with to get to his current rank. Fuji pays attention to those that catch his eye, and those are few and far between. He requested Jade's division for that reason--Father of Fomicry, Genius Fonist. Balfour and Curtiss. There is nothing about Jade that doesn't catch his eye. But Jade would hardly get him a promotion.

If you want to get a promotion from sleeping with someone, it helps to know who you're sleeping with. Fuji, unfortunately, does not. Can he name some higher-ups? Yes, a couple. The interesting ones, with substance. A few. And they are skilled, loyal, aged. Uninteresting. In fact, there is nothing about official business that interests Fuji. He pays attention when it is convenient.

He can count the officials he knows on one hand. He should know ten.

Fuji doesn't tell the chattering pair in front of him that, of course. Instead he states off-hand that he would've much preferred that method to the method he took. "Pillows are much softer than knives," he adds.

The two merely freeze at their rumors in physical form, sipping idly on a juice box while leaning against the side of the wall. "Lieutenant Colonel," they manage to slip out while bowing, and then running.

Fuji gives them a meek wave as the box hangs from his mouth by a straw.

When Fuji returns to Jade's office, it's only to tell the Colonel that he could possibly be sleeping with him. Were this anyone but Jade, the proclamation may have ended badly. Instead, Jade only replies with:

"If you're sure you can handle me,"

Before he goes back to work. Fuji smiles. Another casual exit.

iv. lucifer

For all his sleeping around, Fuji is indeed good with a sword, and the rumormongers learn that quickly enough.

Of course, he hadn't been clueless to that. It's with little surprise that Jade puts down the hand he was casting with, staring at the mutilated remains of several large monsters. The Lieutenant Colonel had cut through all of them easily, taking 'move forward while I cast' as an invitation to cut through everything in his path. Everyone else is forced to watch as Fuji twists, fanning his sword behind him and making victims of more monsters, and Jade only barely catches the whispers of 'Higuma Otoshi' before Fuji moves onto more.

"Leave some for the rest of us," Jade calls, though his concern on whether or not Fuji ceased his sword swinging could only be described as non-existent. The group behind him freezes as they're referred to, and Fuji spares them all a glance as he cuts down a Liger, shaking blood off his blade.

"Are you finished casting then, Colonel?" Fuji asks lightheartedly, sinking his katana into the blood-dampened earth with a nonchalant expression. He shakes his head just the slightest, and his hand goes up to remove the flecks of blood from his face. Everyone stares, frozen. That is not really the actions of someone who's slept to get to where he is, and their dropped jaws only serve to widen Fuji's smile. "You don't seem to be chanting. What a subtle spell."

"Casting without a target seems counter-productive," and Jade has only seconds to materialize his spear from his arm, throwing straight into the eyes of a monster who rises behind the man with the sword.

Fuji doesn't even blink. He wraps his hands around the hilt of his weapon, pulls it out of the ground. His voice is lighthearted and, when he speaks, it's almost like a joke that only he and Jade can understand. "Were you aiming for me, Colonel?"

"Not at all. I wouldn't have missed if I had been," he says this as if its obvious.

Fuji nods, twirling his katana back into its sheath. He acts like they haven't just subtly implied they have hands at each other's necks.

With that, the rumors grind to a halt.

Entry tags:

! fic,
by: yun

cold.

.cold [ fic ]

title ▸ cold
characters ▸ shuusuke
timeline ▸ pre-series
divergence ▸ albatross and swallow

.cold

His memories of his aunt's death are cold.

Shuusuke had been entirely too young to have witnessed it firsthand. In fact, he barely remembers her face, the way her hands held his waist, the way she smiled when his sister brought her a stone that she proclaimed to be an aquamarine, paragon of the fourth fonon. But he remembers that the death occurs after he’s stopped thinking of his father as ‘his father’ and his mother as ‘his mother’, and started thinking of them as ‘Shuukaku’ and ‘Yoshiko’. It’s a long time ago, he knows, but he’s never particularly been good with time. He had been young enough that he should’ve not retained any memories of the time, but did, anyway. He doesn’t know if he is lucky.

He doesn’t remember the snow the day she died, but he does remember the cold. The messenger at the open door, ushering in the cold, winter air, his face pale and taut. The flash of recognition in his father’s eyes. The confusion in the maid’s eyes as his father quietly tells her to get Yoshiko.

He remembers the way he holds onto Yuuta’s hand, the two of them standing quietly to the side, having been interrupted from a review session with the tutor. The way Yumiko looks grave, serious beyond her years, even despite her glassy eyes. Remembers the fonstone fragments that scatter around her feet, even as the maids are hurrying to shuffle her away and to sweep up the broken pieces.

He doesn’t remember the way the messenger gives him a look, a fleeting, flickering, indecisive thing, even as he bows to Yoshiko in deference.

He remembers the even look that Yoshiko gives the messenger as he speaks. Remembers the way she does not falter, even as he bows his head. He remembers the look of detached concern on Shuukaku’s face—not a look of concern for her well-being, he later realizes, when the same look passes his own face like a ghost of a memory, but a look that gauges for complications that must be watched for. Deviations from patterns. Abnormalities to be studied but not to be understood.

What he remembers most starkly are those five words that come clipped from her lips, even and steady.

“And what of her murderer?”

“He is a mere child,” the messenger goes on to explain, looking properly contrite for his station. “It was an accident; a mishap. A fonic arte gone wrong.” The child is blameless, misguided, surely, but innocent. It’s to the messenger’s credit, he would later think, wryly, that he did not convey how such an action for a child like that is unprecedented—a stroke of genius, unfounded prodigy found in an orphan that they would otherwise not care about. Those unsaid tones fly over his young head at the time, because all he can remember is the clipped tones of those five words that come like a steady march.

“And what of her murderer?”

The child is being questioned, the messenger conveys. The child will be punished in due time. The child will understand the severity of its actions, and will repent as proper.

“And what of her murderer?”

And what of the child? Shuukaku asks. He remembers the look of shrewd amusement on his face, the gauging look he gives to Yoshiko.

“And what of her murderer?”

Mother? Yuuta is looking plaintive now, eyes darting from person to person as though not quite understanding the on-goings. Of course he doesn’t understand, Shuusuke knows. Yuuta doesn’t have to understand. Not now. He squeezes Yuuta’s hand and whispers to him quietly. Shh, Yuuta, it’s okay. Mother is okay. It’s going to be okay.

And what of her murderer?

In a way, those words are frozen in memory. She asks them again, and again, and again. And long after the messenger has taken his mead and left, she sits in the parlour, sipping tea quietly. Shuusuke remembers peering in after he’s taken Yuuta to Yumiko’s room and set him to watch over her for the time being. Remembers Shuukaku sitting across from Yoshiko, fingers crossed and contemplative.

“Perhaps you married the wrong sister,” he hears Yoshiko say, evenly.

Shuukaku hums, a tilt of his head to the right which Shuusuke will eventually recognize as a motion of contemplation.

Dispassionately. “I have little use for corpses.”

In hindsight, this is why he finds the colonel’s nickname so fascinating when he hears of it for the first time, sitting in the cafeteria with an acquaintance on either side and gossip all around.

“The Necromancer,” he hums, idly, even as he twirls his spoon in his tea. “I don’t know. He sounds like a pleasant person, doesn’t he?”

“It’s said that he uses corpses in battle,” a young cadet to his left pipes up, disgust evident in his tone of voice. He must be from Engeve, he thinks, where respect for the dead is the first thing they drill into you, after they show you how to lasso a rappig by the tail blindfolded. “Even though they're rumours, they're still despicable.”

He thinks back on Shuukaku’s laced hands, and closes his eyes. “Even corpses have their uses.”

Then, before silence can descend upon their little group, he takes a sip of his tea and frowns mournfully. “It’s gotten too cold to drink.” Three seats down to his right, a bespectacled boy with tousled hair raises his head, subtle motion at the corner of his eyes.

“Want to get to the training hall early?” A classmate proposes. “We can snag a good area before the rest of ‘em.”

"I say we go for it," another classmate pipes up, shuffling his chair back. It makes a noise that both rumbled and screeched. "I'm through with settling for courtyard corners. You comin', Fuji?"

It’s no longer cold outside, he knows. So Shuusuke leaves his teaspoon in his cup with a gentle clink of metal against porcelain and shrugs.

“Sure.”

original post; here

Entry tags:

! index

masterpost.

( albatross and swallow )

the chronicles of colonel jade curtiss and lieutenant-colonel shuusuke fuji
▸ [ tag: + albatross and swallow ~~+ albatross and swallow~~ ]

▶ ▶ backstory series

♞ cold. (fic) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ his memories of his aunt's death are cold.
▸ shuusuke fuji

▶ ▶ main timeline

♞ meeting. (fic) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ a soldier becomes lieutenant-colonel; a colonel gains an aide.
▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss

♞ discovery. (fic) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ in which jade complains and peony is stubborn.
▸ peony ix, jade curtiss

♞ rumour. (fic) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ squad life and gossip girl collide.
▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss

♞ lucifer. (fic) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ it's not really teammwork.
▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss

♞ elegant. (fic) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ overtime can be rewarding.
▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss

♞ ceremony. (thread) [ link ] [ archive ]

▸ ND???? ❧ they speak of rappigs, jade curtiss and a sea of corpses.
▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss

♞ tea. (fic) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ even the blue-eyed demon is not infallible.
▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss

♞ awkward. (thread) [ link ] [ archive ]

▸ ND???? ❧ in which an engagement banquet goes wrong.
▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss

♞ portraits. (thread) [ link ] [ archive ]

▸ ND???? ❧ they speak of the dead.
▸ three months after '♞ meeting'
▸ yumiko fuji, jade curtiss

♞ clarity. (thread) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ the world comes into focus.
▸ two months after '♞ portraits'
▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss

♞ obscurity. (thread) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ what the truth is.
▸ a few days after after '♞ clarity'
▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss

♞ politesse. (thread) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ an exercise in being polite.
▸ yumiko fuji, jade curtiss

▶ ▶ divergence: swallow

♗ ???. (thread) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ cheagle forest as a digression.
▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss
▸ [ divergence: swallow ]

☀ ☁ ☂

( the switch )

in which the characters are played by the people you'd least expect
▸ [ tag: + the switch ]

♗ ???. (thread) [ link ]

▸ ND???? ❧ cheagle forest as a digression.
▸ shuusuke fuji, jade curtiss
▸ [ divergence: swallow ]