Don't speak so much. You don't need to speak. Don't you want to rest? [A little hoarse, with the quality of autumn leaves... Akira's voice is like a hinge in need of oil. But he's sliding open regardless, his silk screen pulling back to reveal more of his heart. That silk has been painted with pure white flowers, but as it folds away, Akira's eyes are deeper, darker ponds. Whatever lurks, lurks low. Whatever swims hasn't quite surfaced.
Despite his admonishment, he's considering his words carefully. He says,] Your meridians are pathways of energy. They direct—through you—they direct... [He shakes his head, and then he plants his hand, palm flat, against the ground, close to Konoe's shoulder. He's leaning above Konoe's face, but he's reaching, with his other arm, down near Konoe's thigh.] This route, [he murmurs,] is the meridian of your liver. [Even while speaking, he knows this is a mistake. Setting his eyes upon Konoe's face has made Akira unable to take them away. His fingers are trailing upward, through the air—through this line of energy.] The pathway leads up here. Now... for now, when I touch you here, I am feeling the circulation of your blood. [Akira frowns, and his fingers curve around the shape of Konoe's pelvis. Then he finds the dip of Konoe's rib cage.] As I do this, you'll bleed less, and less, and...
[Konoe is whispering, sighing, settling. Konoe's eyes close, and a particularly bold firefly passes in front of Akira's face. Its blink is a fleeting thing, and then Konoe is looking at him again. Akira finds that his lungs feel full of water, in that resurgence of eye contact. His hand, unpaused, travels further up the liver meridian, covering the expanse of Konoe's throat. This route encircles the mouth. It winds its shape, then carries on up to the eye, and feeling the surfaces of that energy would be suitable enough. But, at last, Akira's fingertips meet Konoe's actual skin; he touches the space beneath lips that only now are regaining color.]
It is working.
[This is quiet, and carries a line of preemptive regret for what he'll do next: Akira slides both of his hands onto either side of Konoe's face, cradling his head. His thumb rests beneath that eye of the meridian, and he strokes there slowly.]
You're stupid, but you're not impossible. You are going to be fine.
[His fingers dip from the liver meridian to that of the gallbladder. Its lines vein all throughout the head, and gently touching certain points there should help with rattled injuries. He says often, to Konoe—You're impossible! Hands thrown up, eyes rolled heavenward, hair mussed in a frustrated frazzle... In this ruined field, his brow is pinched, his hair is disheveled, but Akira is holding Konoe's head with hands gentle like the truest of priests. The only horror of his hands is how they are too duplicitous in their yearning to stay sacred.
The fireflies are beginning to rise higher into the air, away from either of the men in the grass. They curl away with the lingering wisps of smoke from burnt landscape.]
If you can sit up, sit up.
[Akira's hands have healed many. He learned how to trace the energies of a person's subtle body when he was much younger, when every path of the spirit seemed far ahead of him. Even when he first explored these routes of being, his hands were not compelled to caress the temples of the wounded. To be tender, he finds now, is different than to be merciful on its own. Tenderness is a shameful indulgence, when his own deficiencies led to the necessity of mercy in the first place.]
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Despite his admonishment, he's considering his words carefully. He says,] Your meridians are pathways of energy. They direct—through you—they direct... [He shakes his head, and then he plants his hand, palm flat, against the ground, close to Konoe's shoulder. He's leaning above Konoe's face, but he's reaching, with his other arm, down near Konoe's thigh.] This route, [he murmurs,] is the meridian of your liver. [Even while speaking, he knows this is a mistake. Setting his eyes upon Konoe's face has made Akira unable to take them away. His fingers are trailing upward, through the air—through this line of energy.] The pathway leads up here. Now... for now, when I touch you here, I am feeling the circulation of your blood. [Akira frowns, and his fingers curve around the shape of Konoe's pelvis. Then he finds the dip of Konoe's rib cage.] As I do this, you'll bleed less, and less, and...
[Konoe is whispering, sighing, settling. Konoe's eyes close, and a particularly bold firefly passes in front of Akira's face. Its blink is a fleeting thing, and then Konoe is looking at him again. Akira finds that his lungs feel full of water, in that resurgence of eye contact. His hand, unpaused, travels further up the liver meridian, covering the expanse of Konoe's throat. This route encircles the mouth. It winds its shape, then carries on up to the eye, and feeling the surfaces of that energy would be suitable enough. But, at last, Akira's fingertips meet Konoe's actual skin; he touches the space beneath lips that only now are regaining color.]
It is working.
[This is quiet, and carries a line of preemptive regret for what he'll do next: Akira slides both of his hands onto either side of Konoe's face, cradling his head. His thumb rests beneath that eye of the meridian, and he strokes there slowly.]
You're stupid, but you're not impossible. You are going to be fine.
[His fingers dip from the liver meridian to that of the gallbladder. Its lines vein all throughout the head, and gently touching certain points there should help with rattled injuries. He says often, to Konoe—You're impossible! Hands thrown up, eyes rolled heavenward, hair mussed in a frustrated frazzle... In this ruined field, his brow is pinched, his hair is disheveled, but Akira is holding Konoe's head with hands gentle like the truest of priests. The only horror of his hands is how they are too duplicitous in their yearning to stay sacred.
The fireflies are beginning to rise higher into the air, away from either of the men in the grass. They curl away with the lingering wisps of smoke from burnt landscape.]
If you can sit up, sit up.
[Akira's hands have healed many. He learned how to trace the energies of a person's subtle body when he was much younger, when every path of the spirit seemed far ahead of him. Even when he first explored these routes of being, his hands were not compelled to caress the temples of the wounded. To be tender, he finds now, is different than to be merciful on its own. Tenderness is a shameful indulgence, when his own deficiencies led to the necessity of mercy in the first place.]