any time spent with you, anywhere, is worth it.

[protential]

Hey. Hey, Kamo. Hey. Hey. Hey. [Hikaru's voice is persistent, like a troublesome dragonfly, buzzing in and out of range again and again. He's too weak to do more than lightly smack Kamo across the face, and it's kind of disgusting, really, considering how his hand is covered in grey slime.] Hey, idiot, wake up already. And you're telling me I'm the one who's been overdoing it...

[Perhaps he did end up overdoing it, this time, though. He's fairly sure several of his ribs are broken, and one of his ankles, too, and there's blood--his blood, judging by its color--streaming down one side of his face. Behind him, the blackened, still-burning landscape is all that's left of the meadow where they faced off against the latest warrior of the youkai. Only this patch of ground still has any life to it, protected as it was by Kamo's magic circle. Unfortunately, through some odious trick on the youkai's part, Kamo wasn't able to finish placing his runes or reciting the sacred incantation. The psychic backlash was severe, just this tsunami of dark energy, threatening to overwhelm everything in its path... That's why Hikaru had to finish what Kamo started, although he probably should have called in some reinforcements first. He's just grateful the enchanted sword is as powerful as it is.]

You're being a real pain, you know that... shit, shit, ow...

[Kebiishi are supposed to be better than this, stronger than this, but Hikaru is struggling to focus past the hot, radiating pain. It feels like an entire mountain has been dropped on top of him, and then some. He turns over, then, sitting beside Kamo's prone body, his arms behind him and his legs straight before him, his breaths coming in very shallow intervals. If Kamo doesn't wake up soon (he has to wake up soon), Hikaru is going to have to carry him all the way back to camp, and he doesn't know how he's going to manage that just yet. Not a great situation to be in.]

Comments

[ashlar]

[The enchanted sword was supposed to be the kilned clay lid atop the funeral urn. A finishing touch. One last jab to smite the body of the youkai, after Akira had already extinguished its impurities. Ochi had called Akira a fool for that, but Ochi has always been an impudent sort of shikigami. Konoe-no-Hikaru is a bodyguard, yes, sent along to guard Akira's body, but youkai are first and foremost a blight on the soul. Akira would deal with them himself; Ochi would cover whatever was left over; the sword should was to be used only when all else was said and done.

Akira would rather not wake up and drag himself out of the dirt if it means coming conscious to a world in which he has failed so badly.

He can smell the ash, and the human blood, and the gore from Konoe's kill, and he can smell the tang of inadequate magic, even through the whistle of his thin breaths. His mouth moves before he opens his eyes. He brings his lips together, and then parts them again; they're dry, they stick, and he tastes copper and grit. He touches the tip of his tongue to them anyway, because he needs whatever help he can to facilitate speech.]

Konoe. Be quiet.

[It's a creak, old floorboards, and Akira coughs into the dirt. When he moves his body, he moves slowly, trying first to prop up his top half by resting on his elbows. His clothing is filthy; his face is filthy... He swallows most of a gasp, and ends up panting instead. His hair is mussed, pieces of it stuck to his skin with sweat and maybe a little blood. It's humiliating to be so unclean.

Regardless of the shame, Akira finds it in himself to look over his shoulder, at Konoe. Konoe has much more blood on him, and worse than blood, too. Water, thinks Akira, urgently. Both of them need pure water. The disgust he feels is wrenching at him, while he looks at Konoe's pained posture, the demonic remains clinging to him in places...] Stupid, [Akira gasps, lungs displeased, while he stares at Konoe. Then he turns his pallid face away, and his head droops back down; his forehead settles against the dirt.] Idiot. Foolish. What were you thinking. Stupid.

[His mouth is close to the dirt, and his harsh breaths are kicking up dust. More grit in his mouth. The humiliation of this moment hasn't ceased. Youkai are never meant to get far enough to attack their bodies—only an inept onmyouji would allow a catastrophe like this. That's what Akira has thought every time he's seen clansmen come back injured. He doesn't know how he could show his face at the shrine after this.

He's so angry, he might as well press his face fully into the dirt. His hands, still steadying himself against the ground, are white-knuckled fists.]

[protential]

[An octopus, even a gigantic one, even one that's been corrupted by evil forces, should not have been able to punch as hard as it did. Hikaru wouldn't be surprised if his entire body is black and blue all over, a continuous bruise both inside and out. Having to cut off one tentacle was impossible enough with the others flailing at him, slapping him into the air and down to the ground--but somehow he cleaved a path through all eight of them. Rather lightheaded, he decides it's better to just tilt his head back and try to remember how to treat a head wound. If they haven't returned by sunrise, a search party will be dispatched to find them, hopefully, and he will not have bled to death by then. Hopefully.

His pulse trills a little faster when he hears Kamo's voice. He didn't imperil his primary objective by entering the fray, at least.]

Don't tell me what to do, idiot.

[It's something of a tired line, worn down from overuse like stones before waves, but it's good to have for its enduring familiarity. Many onmyouji have suffered far worse fates than a temporary bout of unconsciousness and dirty robes for doing battle. Far, far worse. Unspeakably worse. (He was forced to cut down one such maiden himself, when she succumbed to the seduction of multiple youkai.) (He tries not to think about anything like that happening to Kamo.)

He growls with frustration.] What was I thinking? I'm thinking I just saved your life, that's what I'm thinking. [Never a single word of gratitude. He hardly ever sees a smile, for that matter. Kamo-no-Akira: the least gracious person he's ever been assigned to protect. Hikaru opens his one good eye to look at Kamo again, and there he is, sniveling and clawing at the dirt like it's the end of the world. Even though they successfully repelled another invader, it's never going to be good enough for Kamo, it feels like. Yes, this mission wasn't as quick and painless as other sanctioned cleansings have been, but it's no less of a success.] And I'm thinking... I won't be having seafood anytime soon... [He's ready to start laughing, irreverent even after all of that, but it's one of the most excruciating things ever. It makes for a sort of spluttering sound in his throat, and he tastes his own blood.]

[ashlar]

[The irreverence is better than tinder, giving life to coals, and Akira feels his insides near their boiling point. He hisses out a breath between clenched teeth, grimacing at the earth just below him, and then he begins to push himself upright. It's painful, but in an uncomfortable way; he isn't in agony. Not physically. He's able to kneel, proper and straight-spined, hands in his lap.]

I wasn't speaking to you.

[It's thin, bitter, and quiet. Quiet enough that he doesn't wish to elaborate. Kamo-no-Akira: a holy child of prodigious skill, pure-hearted in his youth, gifted—blessed—with an unrivaled aptitude for cleansing impure energies. His remarkable gifts kept him from ever failing during childhood, during training, and during his courtly endeavors.

This means he has never learned to fail gracefully.

It's indelicate, but Akira brings up the edge of one sleeve to wipe a little of the grime away from his face. He's steeling himself, it seems. Best not to let negativity consume the heart that needs to stay pristine.]

Lie on your back, [he says, then, and he's removing a tasuki from his robes. He draws up his sleeves so he can begin to tie them back.] I can help you a little right now, and then I will carry you back to our camp. The rest can be finished there.

[Ochi will bring them water from the stream; Akira will have it blessed; then he will purify himself. And Konoe. Stupid Konoe, whose bottom lip shines far too red. Holding one sleeve back, tasuki half tied, Akira touches the heel of his palm to Konoe's chin. It's slick and awful. Akira disapproves of the feeling. He's tight-lipped.] You won't be compensated if you die during work. And it would be a while before anyone else came.

[protential]

[Hikaru blinks once, twice, a third time, each slowly.]

Oh. Okay.

[He can't think of anything else to say about that, and it isn't like Kamo would be willing to answer any questions. Sometimes, he gets these small glimpses of what lies beneath Kamo's steely exterior... the peculiar parts of himself that believe he's worthy of scorn and censure. Hikaru wasn't hired to do more than protect Kamo from bandits, assassins, and all manner of monsters, but he finds himself wanting to do more than that. Even when arguing with Kamo, often resorting to insults, he thinks of Kamo as one of the most intelligent, quick-witted people he's ever met. Not stupid. Not an idiot. Not foolish, either, and definitely not someone who fails to think things through. Just an incredible person who improves the world by being in it. That's what he wants to say to Kamo.

...He must have a serious head injury if his thoughts are careening off on this dangerous, unacceptable tangent. His gaze, too, is growing more unfocused by the moment, yet it's strangely luminous, as he stares at Kamo like he would the north star. There's a swell of blood spreading into his mouth, making him wonder if this is what it feels like to die. It's a lot more painful than he hoped it would be.]

Are you going to... [Lying on his back causes something in his abdomen to stretch tight and burn--it's a torn muscle, if he had to guess. It prompts another misty, spluttery cough, blood meeting blood, a groan behind his teeth.] Y-Your magic, you're going to use that on me? [Before this assignment, his exposure to magic was incidental at best, just something foreign to be regarded with suspicion. He has always preferred to use his hands, or a handy weapon, to accomplish what he wants, rather than relying on an otherworldly force. Even now, bleeding out as he is, he regards Kamo warily. His face has gone pale under all that slime and dirt...

Finally:] Is it truly that bad? [he asks on an exhale, and he wonders if he might have failed the mission in his own way. He wasn't supposed to become a burden for Kamo-no-Akira, especially when Kamo-no-Akira is carrying the weight of the realm on his shoulders. If Hikaru is worth his pay in copper coins, he should be able to get back onto his own two feet. He's already starting to try to sit up again.]

[ashlar]

[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.]

[protential]

[Given no other choice, and with drastically ebbing strength, Hikaru yields to the firm insistence of Kamo's hand. He stays flat on his back, and instead he tries to pay attention to what Kamo is doing and what he's saying as he does it. According to castle gossip, the practitioners of this ancient magical art are discovered at an early age, their gift manifesting in any number of ways. Hikaru has never asked Kamo what his early life was like for him, what training at the shrine must have been like, mostly because he doubts Kamo would tell him... but he has wondered about it a lot. Sai told him that Kamo is the youngest onmyouji in a whole generation to reach this level of skill. Maybe several generations. Maybe ever. And now this same once-in-a-millennium onmyouji is tending to a bodyguard's wounds like it's what he was born to do.]

What are... meridian lines...? [Kamo might have mentioned them before, but Hikaru wasn't paying any attention; he isn't exactly the most educated person, either. Letters, numbers, religious precepts, whatever--it's all kind of impossible for him to grasp. His eyes glimmer brighter, a bit feverish, the onset of an infection, as he watches Kamo's hands move over him and then above him. He's expecting whatever Kamo is doing to hurt, like someone shoving their hands inside him, like a combat surgeon with nothing there to lessen the pain... but it's literally painless. It's the opposite of pain. The pain is being taken away by those hands, and by those... fireflies, it looks like...

Hikaru's eyes widen as the fireflies come into view, twinkling like a spray of stars in the sky. They're very beautiful. Kamo, himself, is also... He's also... Hikaru whispers the bare truth of it, an oh followed by so amazing, feeling himself relax from his head all the way down to his toes. His eyes fall shut involuntarily, his breaths a little deeper with every new breath he takes in. His heartbeat rebounds by degrees, too, reasserting itself, no longer being drained dry by patches of internal bleeding.

Right now, Kamo is literally saving his life, and it's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him. Hikaru isn't afraid to die--of course not--demon-hunting investigators don't last long in the field--but that doesn't mean he wants to go just yet. He wants to look at Kamo's face for a while longer, so he's wincing his eyes open again.]

Mmm, I think it's... feels like it's working, to me...

[ashlar]

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.]

[protential]

[Too late, much too late, Hikaru remembers the dire warnings given to him by the high priest of the temple. He was an older man, wrinkled with memories, exacting, and definitely imposing; he was an intimidating figure to deal with. His eyes were akin to shards of ice, and they only seemed to harden as looked upon Hikaru and appraised him from a far-off place. This high priest told him that, under no circumstances, would he be allowed to come in contact with Kamo in any way. They were to engage in the minimum of conversation, even. It was made clear to him that he could not, and he would not, do anything to distract Kamo from his divinely appointed mission. Hikaru was only there to defend Kamo from that which Kamo couldn't defend himself from.

Their first night on the road together, Hikaru infuriated Kamo by suggesting fallen stars didn't mean anything at all. In his view, there were no messages up there for the priesthood to read--no sign posts from the heavens on high. It was merely random chaos, and not even chaos that they could make sense of. He went on to question the purpose and ambitions of the Division of Divination and Supernatural Affairs, and he claimed that he could defeat all of the youkai without Kamo's help. Needless to say, their partnership almost didn't survive the months that followed, even after their first successful exorcism together. But Hikaru did do his best to abide by the other edicts, like not interrupting Kamo during prayers, and not touching him at all...

The cool skin of Kamo's hands feels like a silken tapestry wrapped around an ancient, expertly forged sword. Hikaru can feel the wisdom and experience and incomparable artistry within those fingertips, and he knows now why he was not permitted to do anything like this. To be touched by such blessed hands is to be touched by the incarnation of his own Creator. There's no question about that. No question at all. He has never once had a religious experience that he knows of, but this is something that must qualify as one, surely...

Instead of trying to sit up, Hikaru lifts one of his own hands--he can see the scars across it, the scrapes, the thick and ugly calluses. These aren't hands that deserve to settle anywhere near to Kamo's, he knows. But he's lifting one of his own hands, to press that hand on top of one of Kamo's, where he can hold it in place for the time being.] I always wondered... [His smile is the kind that gets away from him, favoring just one corner of his mouth.] ... what it would be like, to be... taken care of by one of your kind. [By you, is what his half-lidded eyes are saying. They're too dark to be called green, but they're not quite a brown, either. Just a color that belongs to the earth spread below.] It's less of an ordeal than I thought it would be. [And by that he means it feels really good. He would be perfectly content to lie here for the rest of the night, cradled in these hands, instead of making their way back to camp.

But he doesn't intend to demonstrate any more weakness than he already has, especially in front of the person he's charged to protect. He takes a deeper breath, as deep as he can get it, and then steadily, if shakily, begins to push himself up and into a sitting position. His whole body still hurts in general, but the pain is more like the aching of muscles after an exceptional workout, rather than doing battle with yet another embodiment of evil.]

You won't have to carry me back there, if you'd just, ergh... give me... a moment...