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handymanservicesvegas · 4 years ago

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wichitahandyman · 4 years ago

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Best Stairs/Steps Construction Service in Wichita KS| Handyman Services Of Wichita

More information is at: https://handymanserviceswichitakansas.com/stairs-steps-construction-near-me/

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fy-soukoku · 7 years ago

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The Holy City

Remember that Shin Soukoku No. 6 AU I promised ya’ll? Well... this is why I’ve been virtually nonexistant on Tumblr recently. So I hope you enjoy.

Atsushi is placed with the Elite when he is six years old.

He doesn’t know why, or what exactly earned him the spot. He’s anxious, quiet, and just a little too odd to fit in with the crowd. But apparently his interest in biology propels him to a new level, where he’s surrounded with toddlers breeded for success, every single one having a purpose above the mundane lives lead by the rest of the community.

His mother is ecstatic, scooping him up into her arms and spinning him around, smiling so wide he can see the dimples in her cheeks. He doesn’t understand why this is so important to her, but she looks so happy that he nods and pretends like it is just as joyous for him.

They move into a new apartment, one at the higher end of the city, made of glass and stainless steel. Atsushi has a big room to himself, one where his kitten can curl up in his lap as he does his homework for the day. Algebraic equations, history lessons, scientific vocabulary he has to memorize. He wonders how in the world he can store all of this in his brain, which feels like its about to explode from the information being barraged into his mind.

He flops back onto his bed, stares up at the ceiling and watches the light from the nearby security drone sparkle over the blank white paint. It’s a soft blue, shimmering artificially and capturing Atsushi’s eye. He kicks one of his homework sheets away, and begins to count the stencils on the ceiling, tries to find the flawless in the city’s perfect architecture.

Of course, there are none.

Atsushi sighs. Even at six, he can’t stand the perfect carving that is the Holy City. “Crafted by the hands of the gods themselves,” teachers at school often said. He doesn’t understand why the gods would make something flawless. Without flaws, there is no strife. Without strife, what is the point in living? Growing? Changing?

Atsushi simply turns on his side, mind reeling with thoughts too weighty for his tiny body. His eyelashes flutter closed, and he finally drifts to sleep.

----

At ten years old, Atsushi is alone in the world.

His mother, with her bright smile and beautiful eyes, has died. They never tell him how, or why. He simply comes home to red and blue lights flashing over the glass of his house, a tall man with dark skin leaning down and gripping his shoulder with a calloused hand.

“I’m sorry.” He says, and Atsushi deflates.

The Holy City doesn’t have many orphans, but they do what they can, passing him from foster home to foster home. Legally, the city is his parent, caring for him through the hands of the less fortunate.

He meets new people - woman with broken smiles, men who are just a little too rough in handling him. Siblings who stare at him in curiosity but never utter a word.

Atsushi watches his life develop from a seat in the back row. He does not choose his next family, he does not get to determine where he works. As a Gifted child, he has his whole future mapped out, all loose ends stitched together with fishing line, unyielding to his own wishes. But it’s the norm for this city, to not be given a choice when you prove useful. Atsushi knows that from the second his test results came in, he was nothing but a puppet to be strung up by agile fingers and flung around at someone’s whim.

At ten years old, Atsushi has his whole life planned out. At ten years old, Atsushi forgets how to live.

----

He turns twelve on May 5th, watching his digital alarm clock slowly tick minute by minute. The blue glows against his skin, which is pale from hours spent trapped in computer rooms and science labs.

Lucy gives him a sweater, blue and stitched with black lines all over. The tag is still intact, and Atsushi clips it off with rusty kitchen scissors when her back is turned.

She smiles and hands him a cupcake, her red hair twinkling underneath the vibrant lights of her house. Lucy is smart too, Atsushi knows. She understands what being an outcast is like, what having your world manipulated is like.

She walks Atsushi home after school under a red umbrella. He watches the black outline of raindrops trickle down the sides, land on the immaculate gravel road, and roll down the gutters that decorate the streets.

He promises to see her tomorrow, shakes the water from his black hair, and gives a simple nod to his foster parents as he strides up the staircase, explaining he has homework to complete.

His room is dark, empty of all except a bed and a simple desk to work on. He pulls out his tablet, pressing his palm to the center and lighting up the electric blue screen. It shines through his skin, accents the veins in his hand.

Behind him, the rain is thundering against the balcony windows. Atsushi wonders what it would feel like to have water roll down his arms, not held back by fabric or glass or steel. To just let the rain hit his skin and feel the chill in his bones.

His tablet pops up with multiple notifications, most of them from the school. His fingers hover over the email icon, but his eyes stay locked on rain that curves against the windows, making watery shapes that fade as a new wave comes. It’s addicting to watch, and he finds himself letting the tablet slowly fade to a black lockscreen, standing to open to sliding doors.

The rain is wonderfully cool against his skin, beating down on him with the ferocity of a caged tiger. He shivers as some water drops down the back of his shirt, rolling over the bumps in his spine.

Warning, temperature regulation will automatically close the doors in one minute.

Atsushi groans. He should have remembered about the stupid security systems. He can’t really bring himself to care whether or not he gets locked out, but knows that his foster parents will be aggravated if they have to call a guard to get him off the balcony. He clutches his fingers on the railing as tight as possible, lifts himself, and screams into the wind, letting it whip his voice away until all that remains is the echo of his vocals, bouncing over invisible plains that are covered by a smokescreen of gray.

He pants, setting his feet back on the ground, and resolves to go and shut off the systems. He’d risk a cold if it meant feeling something touching him that wasn’t a social worker’s hand.

He turns to input the code, when the balcony doors slam anyway. He groans, and goes to grab a towel and mop up the mess.

But he can’t, because he’s being pressed against the wall by a pale hand.

Atsushi manages to choke before his head gets too light to focus on anything but the deep black eyes that are staring up at him.

He kicks against the wall, wraps his hands around the arm pinning up up. The boy is slim, pale, even sickly looking. He’s in nothing but rags, nothing but a ragged set of clothes that are torn and stained brown. The sleeve over his left arm has a slight swell of red creeping over the fabric.

Blood? Atsushi wonders, and begins patting the boy’s hand.

“I can stitch you up.” He manages to croak out, though his mind is all foggy.

The boy tips his head to the side, watches Atsushi gasp and slide down the wall as he releases his hold. Atsushi’s hands press along the line of his throat, feels the tender spots where bruises will begin to form, creating perfect row of black roses on snowy white skin.

“Stitch me...” The boy murmurs. He’s small, Atsushi notes. A tiny frame and a thin face, his skin a type of pale that would almost be elegant if it were not tainted with the green overlay of someone inflicted by sickness. He has a cute, if somewhat strange, face, with a small nose and thin white lips. His hair is longer, it grows out to his chin, in a feminine bob, the tips soft and white, the roots dark and shadowy at the top. Atsushi looks at those coal black eyes, which flick about the room in doubt, watches surprisingly long eyelashes brush against skin dusted with pale freckles.

“Yeah,” He says, managing a smile. “Let me get my kit and I’ll take care of that.” He gestures to the wound on his arm. “That looks nasty, after all.”

The boy hesitates, watching Atsushi’s eyes like he’s trying to read his mind. Atsushi does his best to meeting him boldly, but the furrow of the boy’s brow has him too worried to be harsh.

“Okay.” He finally responds.

----

He sits the boy on the ground, holding up a thin needle that he had found from his bathroom.

“What the hell is-”

“Shush.” Atsushi manages. “This is supposed to numb your arm when I begin sewing the wound.”

The boy grumbles, but doesn’t even flinch as Atsushi sinks the needle into his skin. Instead he watches Atsushi with apprehension, studying the lines of his face. “What’s your name.”

“Atsushi.” He replies without hesitance. “How did you get this wound?”

“Bullet.” He said in a clipped tone.

Atsushi raised an eyebrow, “People shoot in the city?”

The boy glared at him. “How naive are you? You don’t ask for my name, don’t know anything about how your precious little city works.”

“What is your name?” Atsushi responded, curious.

The boy sent him a flat look. “Akutagawa.”

“I like that.” Atsushi mumbles, and sticks the sewing needle into his pale skin. Akutagawa barely moves, though his brows wrinkle slightly at the sharp press of metal to his arm.

They’re silent in the dim light of the room, save for the quiet rise and fall of Akutagawa’s chest and the sweat of concentration that rolls down Atsushi’s forehead.

When Atsushi has successfully closed the wound, he wraps it in a bandage, presses the pads of his fingers on the hollow of his wrist. “Are you hungry? I can get you some food.”

Akutagawa quietly looks up at him. His eyes glint in the dark, like black diamonds. Finally, he says, “Don’t tell anyone I’m here.”

Atsushi finds that fishy, sure, but he can’t find himself to care when this boy’s eyes are locked on his own. Even if he’s covered in dirt and sweat, draped in rags, painted with blood, he still has an attractiveness about his sharp cheekbones and big eyes.

“Sure.” He responds, and makes his way to the door.

The bright living room lights make him blink rapidly, barely catching the outlines of his foster mom as she types on her desktop. He pads to the kitchen door, hoping to stay from her sight.

“Are you joining us for dinner, Atsushi?” She asks. He freezes, pressing his hand on the hinge of the door, and glances back at her.

“No,” He lies, though the words roll out as smooth as the truth. “I have a project to finish, if that’s alright with you.”

She nodded. “Sounds good. Just don’t forget to eat, alright?”

“I was just grabbing myself some food!” He chirped, and slipped onto the ceramic tile of the kitchen.

He snags a bowl, and some soup poured in a mug, hoping to disguise it as tea - not so uncommon, as he often had green tea to soothe his nerves - and even snagged a sweet little pastry his foster sister had made the day before.

“Get some sleep, too.” The woman called, not even glancing up from her desktop as Atsushi made his way back to his dim lit bedroom.

Akutagawa was waiting on his bed, fingering the soft material of his sheets. Atsushi quietly slipped next to him, sliding the tray he had acquired next to the brunette.

“I’ll take the mug.” Atsushi explained, taking a sip of warm soup, letting the rich flavour absorb and pool into his stomach. Akutagawa took the bowl without question, bending down to examine its contents. It was then that Atsushi saw his neck.

His smooth, pale neck.

“Where’s your monitor?” Atsushi asks.

“It, uh, got taken out.” Akutagawa explains, and manages his first spoonful.

“There’s no scar,” Atsushi points out, “It looks like you’ve never had one. I thought that if you lived in the city, you needed to-”

“Look, it’s none of your business, alright?” Akutagawa snapped. “I just never got one.”

Atsushi knew what that meant. Akutagawa knew that he knew.

“You’re...”

“Look, you can kick me out if you want, but I’m going to take that pastry with me.” Akutagawa growled, his shoulders tensing in defense.

“You can stay here.” Atsushi says. Akutagawa’s shoulders stop bunching up, his wide black diamonds eyes fixating on Atsushi in shock.

“What?”

“You can stay here.” Atsushi repeats. He takes a long sip from his mug. “You’re only twelve. Whatever you did to make yourself a criminal couldn’t have been that bad, really.”

“You really are naive.” Akutagawa comments, rolling his eyes.

Atsushi shrugged. “I guess.” He puts his mug on the nightstand, and reaches back to touch his own monitor - a small gadget attached to his cerebral lobe that recorded his emotions, his perceptions of the world around him. It was given to the Elite, given as a way to track their potential.

“Does it hurt?” Akutagawa asks.

“Not really.” Atsushi admits. “It feels like a part of you. Which is good, I’ll have it until I’m of age.”

Akutagawa scoffs. “Like a dog on a leash.” He lays back on Atsushi’s bed. “I’m going to sleep here for a little bit, alright?”

Atsushi looks at the slim body of the brunette, curling into a ball among the gray sheets of his bed. Atsushi’s cheeks flame up, aware that there was a stranger on his sheets.

“Okay.” Atsushi moves onto his back, inches between their bodies.

“What are you doing?” Akutagawa cracked one eye open. The black flickered under the leaking moonlight, soft and enchanting.

“Going to sleep.” Atsushi said, slowly. “Is that... not okay with you? I can go on the floor.”

“I could strangle you while you’re asleep.” Akutagawa states bluntly.

“Oh.” Atsushi exclaims, soft in the empty air. “Well, I doubt you will.”

“And why not?” Akutagawa questions.

“Because I gave you food,” Atsushi mumbles, already drifting to sleep. “And you know they say that the way through a man’s...” His words trail out into the air, with only Akutagawa to catch the remaining syllables that linger.

Akutagawa watches the moonlight brush over his features, over his soft cheeks and the shadow of a dimple in his cheek.

He allows himself to fall asleep, his fingers barely brushing the cloth if Atsushi’s shirt.

When Atsushi wakes up, Akutagawa is gone.

#bungou stray dogs #shin soukoku #atsushi nakajima #ryuunosuke akutagawa #my writing #fanfic #the holy city

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