[Under other, less dire circumstances, Akira would be raising his voice, by now: are you ever going to listen to me, for once, in anything. It would be an unfair thing to yell, because they've achieved things together well enough when vital, but Akira isn't used to being treated with resistance or cheek. It's unpalatable at the best of times, but right now he just doesn't have time for it. He doesn't have time to shout and he doesn't have time to argue. He presses his hand against Konoe's shoulder, firm, probably too firm, to keep him on the ground.]
Well it isn't good, [he says, dry like famine. His urgency and his impatience are coarse together, straw against straw.] I told you to be quiet. Stay there—just stay there.
[The weight of his hand lessens. His fingers slacken against Konoe's shoulder, and then he draws them down to Konoe's chest. He finds Konoe's sternum, rests there a moment, and then draws his fingers a few inches away from Konoe's body. He says quietly,] I'm going to run your meridian lines. [It's a standard thing to do, practiced even by villagers revered for having a little skill, but their hands aren't instruments of god like Akira's are. He guides his fingers along different paths, and he isn't touching Konoe, but his movements behave as though he is.] Stay still. Stay still, or this will fail, and neither of us can afford that.
[Akira is watching the work of his own hand, while it travels across whatever lines he sees. He won't look to Konoe's face, and he won't look around him to watch the gradual emergence of fireflies. They wink into view just here and there, and already knows it. He asked them to come, in his own way; fireflies, themselves just parts of the deceased, are here to take away the energy associated with death.
Even as Akira guides his hand through the air above Konoe's chest, Konoe's insides are soothed a little bit with each sweep. It's somehow as if Akira is smoothing out wet clay. His wrist is slender, but so sturdy, in all its movements.]
This is your body.
[His voice is soft, powdery, like the ash in the meadow. He retraces the line connected to Konoe's pericardium, and then moves on to Konoe's stomach.]
Just outside of your physical self. This is what you feel like; this is what's around you. The outside can aid the inside. You'll at least stop bleeding.
[Even now, traversing the energy of Konoe's rib cage, Akira refuses to let their eyes meet. The fireflies are an occasional glimmer behind the messy halo of his hair, but he's shadowing his own face with a frown. If Konoe is looking at him, Akira cannot buckle. He does seek to be steadfast as the north star. If he cannot accomplish that guidance, he hasn't accomplished anything.]
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Well it isn't good, [he says, dry like famine. His urgency and his impatience are coarse together, straw against straw.] I told you to be quiet. Stay there—just stay there.
[The weight of his hand lessens. His fingers slacken against Konoe's shoulder, and then he draws them down to Konoe's chest. He finds Konoe's sternum, rests there a moment, and then draws his fingers a few inches away from Konoe's body. He says quietly,] I'm going to run your meridian lines. [It's a standard thing to do, practiced even by villagers revered for having a little skill, but their hands aren't instruments of god like Akira's are. He guides his fingers along different paths, and he isn't touching Konoe, but his movements behave as though he is.] Stay still. Stay still, or this will fail, and neither of us can afford that.
[Akira is watching the work of his own hand, while it travels across whatever lines he sees. He won't look to Konoe's face, and he won't look around him to watch the gradual emergence of fireflies. They wink into view just here and there, and already knows it. He asked them to come, in his own way; fireflies, themselves just parts of the deceased, are here to take away the energy associated with death.
Even as Akira guides his hand through the air above Konoe's chest, Konoe's insides are soothed a little bit with each sweep. It's somehow as if Akira is smoothing out wet clay. His wrist is slender, but so sturdy, in all its movements.]
This is your body.
[His voice is soft, powdery, like the ash in the meadow. He retraces the line connected to Konoe's pericardium, and then moves on to Konoe's stomach.]
Just outside of your physical self. This is what you feel like; this is what's around you. The outside can aid the inside. You'll at least stop bleeding.
[Even now, traversing the energy of Konoe's rib cage, Akira refuses to let their eyes meet. The fireflies are an occasional glimmer behind the messy halo of his hair, but he's shadowing his own face with a frown. If Konoe is looking at him, Akira cannot buckle. He does seek to be steadfast as the north star. If he cannot accomplish that guidance, he hasn't accomplished anything.]