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sabraeal · 3 months ago

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Sic Semper Monstrum, Chapter 10

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2024, Day 2: Foxtrot

Written not only for Obiyukiweek but also for @sepalina, the last winner of the holiday raffle! It was never supposed to take so long to finish all of these but HERE WE ARE 🤣

The Marshal’s office might be the finest under the fortieth floor, but as nice as it is, Shirayuki has to admit: she’s getting sick of it.

“Sit down.” He already is, sparing her no more than a curl of his fingers as he pores over the tablet in his hand. “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging some tea.”

Making her mug appear was magic the first dozen times he managed it, but over that last two weeks, it’s turned from treat to trick. Just another one of the hundreds of ways the Marshal can pull the dome’s strings, closing and opening curtains, making tea mugs and pilots appear out of thin air. Maybe for his next trick, he’ll saw Zen in half too.

Shirayuki takes her seat, but she declines to take a sip. A detail that draws the Marshal’s interest; he glances up, setting aside the tablet with a hum. “All business today, I see, Dr Lyon.”

“We’re both busy people.” He is, at least, and it’s not as if he can tell how many hours she’s spent staring at the drop ceiling panels rather than academic journals lately just by looking at her. “I didn’t imagine you called me in here to catch up.”

Not when he’s had her in here every other day for the last seven. Shirayuki’s gotten more oversight in the past two weeks than she’s had the whole two years she’s been under this dome, and every last bit of it’s been about—

“The report on Obi’s postmortem.” Izana shifts in his chair without so much as a creak. “I haven’t seen it yet. Was wondering where it might be, in fact.”

Her palms press to the chair’s arms, steadying her. His mouth curls, too knowing, with every stretch of her knuckles. “I’m not done with it.”

“Is that so?” His eyebrows arch toward his hairline, like two terns taking flight. “It’s been several days, Dr Lyon. How unlike you.”

“My analysis” — is protected by doctor-patient confidentiality. That’s what she wants to say, at least, but this isn’t private sector, where the most dangerous piece of machinery one of her clients could get behind is the car they drive home in. No, this is the PPDC and all these people are soldiers, rated to handle ordnance that could take out whole cities, and—

And Obi had pointed one of them right at CIC. “It’s taking longer than expected.”

And would probably never be done. One session was hardly enough to get the broad strokes of something so…complex, let alone declare whether he was mentally fit enough to climb back in a Jaeger. And Obi didn’t seem to be in any rush to put himself back in the Conn-Pod— let alone her couch.

“Then give me your opinion.”

“Excuse me?” Shirayuki blinks. “It would hardly be professional to—”

“I am not interested in your professional integrity, Dr Lyon.” No, of course not; the Marshal’s made it supremely clear that his only concern is whether there will be two bodies strapped into Rex Tyrannis when the next siren blares. “I am interested in your expertise.”

“But it— it’s all conjecture,” she sputters, an indignant flush struggling its way over her cheeks. “There’s no possible precedence for me to base an opinion on…just…just…gut feeling!”

“You sell yourself short, Doctor.” Sharks smile with more sincerity than the Marshal smirks. “Around here, they call that instinct. All those rangers— they live or die by it.”

With his three-piece suit and hair longer than the regulations that ban it, it’s easy to forget: Izana Wisteria used to be one of them. “I can’t—”

“Tell yourself we’re having a friendly chat, if you have to.” His hands fold neatly over his desk, impatience in every twitch. “But for God’s sake, Doctor, tell me something.”

Her mouth works, trying to conjure some other excuse— integrity, ignorance, anything that might buy her another day, another week before she has to label Obi a lost cause or ready for action—

But when her eyes close, the lids bleed plasma blue, just the way they had in the CIC. “If I were treating a patient in the private sector, I would say they were experiencing chronic, coherent, and vivid auditory hallucinations, possibly consistent with a trauma of some kind, either physical or psychological.”

“You think he’s experiencing a break with reality.” The Marshal doesn’t so much move as lengthen, the space between chair and desk yawning into a chasm with only a tilt of his chin. “Schizophrenic. That’s what you would call it, isn’t it?”

His teeth snap around the word, steely enough to make her toes curl.

“That’s only one out of a dozen possible diagnoses.” Though certainly the top of a very small list. “And even with a typical patient, the lack of other obvious and intrusive psychoses would make a schizophrenia diagnosis hardly past muster.”

“A typical patient, hm?” One elegant brow raises. “And what about our dear Major, then?”

“With Obi…” She licks her lips, one knee crossing tightly over the other until she half twisted in her seat. “With Obi, I’m not even certain it is a psychosis.”

His head tilts. “Explain.”

Shirayuki clears her throat, nerves making her voice threadier, higher as she says, “There is an observable phenomenon found among rangers that have drifted for a prolonged period of time with the same copilot, a…synchronicity that extends past the initial Neural Handshake and into their everyday lives. You might be familiar with the term ghost drifting.”

The Marshal’s mouth curls at a corner. “Intimately.”

“Right, well, some people might find themselves reaching for a snack that they can’t stand simply because their copilot craves it, while others report a…heightened awareness of their partner’s emotions— or sometimes even thoughts— without them being expressed verbally.” There were its skeptics, of course, but most of those papers came from the private sector, from professionals who has never set foot on a hangar deck but wrote analyses of works of those who did, calling them sentimental at best and intellectually compromised at worst. The sort of baseless, armchair speculation that could be cured by five minutes in any dome’s commissary. “There’s not much independent study on the exact mechanics of it, but there’s theories based on casual observation from data collected from K-Science. That at some point the brain stops thinking of the other mind as a foreign entity but some other part of itself, and when the Handshake is over and the Pons completely disconnects, it experiences the copilot’s body as a, er…”

“Phantom limb?”

“Yes, exactly.” Shirayuki does not smile so much as relax, the corners of her mouth naturally settling more up than down. PPDC may not see much human conflict— few soldiers do nowadays, not when there’s a much more extraterrestrial threat looming on the doorstep— but it’s still military. As much as the branches might love to butt heads, jockeying to be the biggest, buffest kid on the world’s playground, amputation’s always been the great equalizer. “Except— ah, I don’t know if you know the science behind it, but…?”

Izana opens a hand, magnanimous. “Assume that I don’t.”

Ah, right. With the other branches, their soldiers still get to go home after a failed engagement. The most Rangers can hope for is for the kaiju to take them out quick before their Jaeger becomes a titanium coffin on the ocean floor. “I’m sure it comes as no surprise when I say that the amputation process is traumatic— not just for the patient, but for their body as well. Multiple organ systems are cut— bone, muscle, skin, blood vessels, and, most importantly, their nerves. They all heal over time, but it’s the nerves that take the longest. So when they get stimulated— ah, like when a patient moves, or twitches, or even just gets an itch— the sensory fibers will report what they should be feeling, rather than what they do. It’s…it’s neural feedback, with nowhere to go. No, wait, more like…with no place to come from.”

“And this…is what you think the Major is experiencing?” It’s impossible to tell what Izana thinks; his face might as well be a mirror for as much as she’s getting off of him. “That it’s all…neural feedback he’s interpreting as his dead copilots.”

“No. Yes. Ah…maybe.” Sweat prickles under her arms and behind her ears, itchy and off-putting. Distracting, which is the last thing she needs to be in front of a man who might as well be a tank of starving piranhas considering his potential to chew up her professional reputation and spit it out. “That’s all theoretical. And it certainly seems plausible, it just…it doesn’t seem to account for, ah…”

He raises a brow. “I am patient, Dr Lyon, but I don’t have all day.”

“Right, it’s just…the phantom limb phenomenon seems to explain what we see when both partners are…extant. But when one dies— especially when they’re in the drift when it happens…” Her shoulders don’t so much shrug as twitch, flinching back from the unknown. “You’ll have to forgive me, there’s not much data on this, since…”

Since most Jaegers don’t make it back home with solo pilots. And the ones that do, well— the PPDC is still military. As far as most Rangers are concerned, psychiatrists are the enemy. “It seems that what remains of them continues to…drift with their copilot. Even after they’re disengaged from the Pons.”

“Are you trying to say that there is an actual ghost in the drift?” Izana leans back in his chair, shadows gathering in the sharp, patrician planes of his face. “That Obi is being haunted by the crew of the Hachimaru?”

“Not haunted.” Her tongue tangles, science and speculation at a roiling boil in her mind before she stumbles out, “Just…what if while they were in the Neural Handshake, they never let go?”

“Does that bring us back to the phantom limb, then?” The Marshal has never posed a question that hasn’t been half an interrogation too, but even Shirayuki has to admit he seems…interested. Invested, even. “A reflexive reach for the familiar? Neural impulses with nowhere to go?”

A shrug is never an answer— it’s a placeholder, an um or a hm in physical form. A pause right before the threshold of discovery, a stalling tactic to keep from facing what lays beyond just not thinking about it. And yet, it’s what Shirayuki does now, trying to keep the rest of her from squirming under the searing light of Izana’s attention. “It’s as likely a theory as any, at least. And in line with the current conclusions being drawn in drift research. It’s just…”

The Marshal’s brow curves in an arc too elegant for a man whose office is so far below the bay it can’t even have windows. “Just?”

There’s an itch this theory doesn’t quite scratch, a niggling that won’t stop pulling at her sleeve. “I don’t know what happened with the Hachimaru. I mean— before what Obi can remember. There’s nothing in the PPDC database on it” — or at least, none that she is cleared to see— “but everything we’ve been told…I mean, child soldiers? The training? There wasn’t even supposed to be a base in Osaka. There’s no telling what was done to those kids, let alone what long-term effects it could have had on their psyche.”

Or their bodies. Or even— even the drift. The implications of who Obi is— what Obi is—

“I’ll see what I can find.”

Shirayuki jerks back as Izana rises from his desk to pace the room. “Pardon me?”

“I’m sure you know my arms have a much further reach than yours, Dr Lyon.” His mouth slants into a smirk; wry, she thinks at first, but when he turns his head, it reads rueful. “If there’s something to find, I’ll find it. And if there isn’t…”

It’s him who shrugs now, but not to say, who knows, but rather— I’ll find it even so. “Now if you’ll excuse me, doctor, I should be getting myself down to the infirmary.”

Instinct has her half out of her chair before she manages, “Has something happened?”

“Ah.” Rueful widens into amused. “So you haven’t heard.”

It’s the sort of thing that’s bound to happen in any testosterone-soaked environment; get some young men together, force them to compete for a few coveted opportunities for promotion— and, most importantly, recognition— and it’s inevitable that tempers flare. The Academy’s major export is big egos, and the dome is the pressure cooker the PPDC puts them under, trying to see which will crack first. That Obi’s gotten himself in a dust up now isn’t so much a surprise as it is that it didn’t happen before, but…

She didn’t think it’d be Mitsuhide who put him in the infirmary.

“They’re both there, if you want to get right down to it,” Yuzuri informs her with no little relish, warming up for what will undoubtedly be an entertaining— if not extended— bout of complaining over commissary chicken and rice. “Lowen may have gotten in the harder hit, but I gotta say, that guy gave as good as he got. The major’s covered head to toe in bruises, and none of them are in comfortable places.”

“Is there a comfortable place to have a bruise?” Suzu asks around a mouthful of pudding— eaten first, no matter how many times Shirayuki’s insinuated dessert is supposed to be a treat for finishing a meal, not just sitting down to one. “I’ve gotten a couple in some pretty inaccessible places, and I don’t know, they always seem to hurt more than just like, my elbow, or even my leg.”

“That’s not the point, Suzu.” Yuzuri flicks her ponytail over her shoulder, unconcerned by how much of him is caught in the spray. “There’s not a single guy under the dome that hasn’t thrown down with the major and been dismantled for the trouble, and here Obi goes, deciding to go bare fists against him with no ref, no rules. He should have been wheeled out of the gym in a body bag, but the guy doesn’t even have a concussion.”

“Woah.” His eyes blow wide, mouth rounding to match— or at least, it tries; Suzu snaps his teeth shut just as they all are reminded that pudding isn’t liquid or solid, but a third, utterly different state of matter, beholden to its own rules. “I’ll have to tell him—”

“Don’t you say a word about it!” Yuzuri waggles a warning finger at him; her implied menace more effective at stopping Suzu in his tracks than if she’d laid hands on him. “Sure, I’m impressed as hell, but if that guy gets one whiff of positive reinforcement on this, he’ll be unlivable, and you know it!”

“Aw, but—”

“Nope! You figure out some other way to make your bromance blossom or whatever” She huffs, taking a desultory bite of the world’s saddest salad. “I refuse to have him hovering around, asking me to tell him how cool he is again. I’ve got my hands full just convincing him he can pee without me holding his dick for him, god.”

The fork jitters right out of Shirayuki’s fingers, landing on the tray with a clink they might be able to hear all the way in the hangar. “Is he really that bad?”

“Huh? Oh, no.” Yuzuri waves her off, scraping out a laugh. “If that was the case, I’d be enjoying this nearly food-like meal in a doggy bag at my desk. But they’re both fine— Obi just likes to see how far he can push this whole invalid shtick before I kick him out for a little peace and quiet.”

Suzu blinks. “How long do you think that is?”

“Twenty-four hours on the dot.” She spears a tomato, letting it bleed all over lettuce and croutons before she puts it behind her teeth. “If he hasn’t fallen into a concussive coma by then, he’s not my problem.”

“Unless he finds another way to hurt himself,” Suzu offers, thoughtful. “The Rangers are pretty good at that.”

Yuzuri sighs hard enough her bangs flutter. “Don’t remind me.”

“But he’s all right?” Shirayuki clears her throat as they turn to stare at her. “I mean, both of them. They’re…fine?”

“Well, obviously I can’t say uninjured, but it’s all just bumps and bruises.” Yuzuri’s shoulders twitch toward a shrug. “They’re in the infirmary more out of an abundance of caution than any real concern. And in Obi’s case, well”—she snorts, shaking her head— “he’s enjoying the idea of being waited on hand and foot. I’m just lucky the Marshal wanted a word, otherwise I’d be fending off spoon-feeding requests all dinner.”

Shirayuki blinks. “The Marshal’s still down there?”

“Oh yeah.” There’s a vengeful slant to Yuzuri’s grin, enough to send a shiver down her spine. “He told me to take a whole hour before coming back. And to smell the roses on the way down.”

Suzu lets out a long whistle. “Someone’s in trouble.”

“Multiple someones,” Yuzuri corrects. “Big trouble.”

Shirayuki’s stomach twists, tying itself not just into worried knots but discovering wholly unknown polygons of anxiety. It’s hard to handle Izana seated, even at his friendliest, but Obi— Obi’s stuck in one of the infirmary cots, the Marshal no doubt looming over him, unleashing the full force of his wrath. Oh, she’s run the gamut of Izana’s displeasure in the year and change since she’s come under the dome; she’s weathered his frustration, and impatience, and sometimes downright civil hostility. But mad?

She swallows, nearly choking on the heart lodged in her throat. Mad is something else entirely.

“Too bad,” Suzu sighs, finally scooping up a spoonful of rice. “I’d been hoping to stop by his office and show him the new projections. Now that we’ve solved the rounding error—”

“Wasn’t it a variable?” Yuzuri reminds him, too sweet. “A whole number you completely left out of your precious—”

“—ROUNDING ERROR that Ryuu discovered,” Suzu continues, undaunted, “I think we’re really starting to see that there’s a marked decrease of interval length, followed by an increase of kaiju—”

The table rattles as she stands, half-eaten rice making a liar out of her even as she says, “I think I’m finished.”

Yuzuri glances down at her tray, mouth pursing as she takes in what’s left. “Are you sure? The food actually looks halfway decent tonight. Better than this salad, at least. Should have just taken the lumps with those calories instead of—”

“Yeah.” She can’t eat when her stomach taking more tumbles than an acrobat, no safety net on this bout of nerves. “I just…”

Don’t know what a concussion will do to someone like him, is what she wants to say— what she should say as a professional, as the person who’s being pinned handle his condition long-term. But what she means is, I can’t just let him deal with Izana all on his own.

“I have a thing,” she says lamely. “And some paperwork. I’ll, uh, come back later if I get hungry.”

“Uh-huh,” Yuzuri hums, utterly unconvinced. “Sure.”

Suzu only nods as she slips out from the bench, adding, “Say ‘hi’ to Obi for me.”

Worry dogs her heels with every stride she takes down the quiet corridors, the metallic echo of her steps chasing her around every corner. It’s eerie at this time of night; the dome buzzes at most hours, day and night having no meaning without windows to help mark when one rises and the other sets, but with dinner served up hot and ready, only the PPDC’s most essential personal stay at their posts, waiting for the next shift to relieved them.

Shirayuki should be relieved too; going toe-to-toe with the Marshal is the sort of event that some enterprising officer could sell tickets to. With halls this bare— and the only spare set of eyes being Mitsuhide’s, who could probably make a career out of taking other people’s secrets to the grave— she’s practically guaranteed to keep this tête-à-tête private, and yet—

Yet she turns the last corner, and suddenly her slip-ons’ soles might as well be magnets for all struggle it takes to lift them an inch off the floor. It’s impossible to keep forward momentum, to do anything but stand still and wait, and— and—

Interrupting’s the right thing to do— she feels it, deep in her gut; the same place Rangers say they know when someone will take their hand in the drift, or whether a Kaiju’s going to fight to the death or cut and run once they’re against the ropes. It’s what she’d hope someone would do for her, if she was stuck playing wave breaker for Izana’s storm, but still, still—

She’s not sure she’d thank them for it. It might be nice dreaming of the rescue, but when someone actually rides to it, when they take the whole situation out of her hands and tells her to take a back seat, well…

Shirayuki’s known enough princes not to find that charming. Or at least the ones that think they are, taking choices right out of her hands and calling it kindness. The last thing she wants is Obi see her stride in and think, here we go, another person who thinks they can run my life better than me.

Her fingers curl, nails biting into the fleshy part of her palms. She could go in there still, just— just sit beside him as he took his lumps, but it feels too passive, too much like she’s just acting as witness rather than support, like this whole thing is an official part of his treatment, and she— she—

She sees someone idling down the corridor, just across from the infirmary door. A familiar someone, pale hair flopping as he runs his hand through it, looking just as tortured each time he reached for the door, only to flinch away, like it burns.

“Zen?” His name falls off her tongue before she can swallow it, lips too numb to do more than let it stumble out, more habit than question.

He startles, eyes wild as they dart up, looking for all the world like he’d rather have been caught in the women’s locker room than found here. “S-shirayuki! I wasn’t— I mean, I was just” — hanging around in the hallway, it seems like— “I’d been passing by and I thought I’d, er…”

His chin jerks down the junction of corridors; not the way she came, or the way directly opposite where the hangar sits, but the third option, leading back toward— “You were coming from the women’s bathroom?”

“What?” Zen’s neck swivels, chasing grating and plate all the way back to where the sign reads RESTROOM, a clear stick figure and skirt painted next to it. A strange sign to have in a facility where ninety percent of the population elects to wear BDUs regardless of gender, but Shirayuki supposes it makes its point. “No! I, er…”

It’s habit to wait him out, to let him finish composing his thoughts before she makes any attempt to guide him— but impatience wins out, this time. “Were on your way to the infirmary?”

“Ah…yeah. That’s it.” Red blooms over the tips of his ears, like he’s seen too much sun. “I just heard that Mitsuhide was down here, so I thought that I would, you know, check up on him.”

Her head tilts, and oh, she hopes it looks more curious than confrontational. “You’re here for Mitsuhide?”

“Well, you know, it’s just weird for him to get caught up in something like this.” He scratches at the back of his neck, and Shirayuki would bet dollars to donuts that if she could see under his jacket collar, it’d be sunburn red there too. “A fight, I mean. He’ll spar with the other guys of whatever, but they don’t, you know…”

End up in the infirmary. Rangers are tough by design, not easy to break; once they roll out the Academy doors, they’re combat rated and ready, eager to take down monsters a hundred times their size. A man head and shoulders taller doesn’t give even a cadet pause— not until they end up flat on their backs, wondering how they mistook strength for slow.

But Mitsuhide— Mitsuhide is careful too. He might be a decorated combatant, a seasoned killer of kaiju, but when it comes to squaring up with humans, he might as well be fighting with kid gloves. She’s seen him on the mats before, carefully feeling out the edges of what his partner can take, making sure their spar is a challenge but not a rout.

Mistakes happen, she knows. Too much force behind a swing or fumbled footwork could send anyone to med bay, looking for a bandaid or a cold compress. Even Mitsuhide’s had his bell rung once or twice, too focused on keeping his opponent on their feet to watch how close their jo came to sweeping his. But for both of them to end up on a cot, well…

It’s concerning to say the least. Especially when the other body in that bay is supposed to be—

“I heard it was Obi in there with him.” Zen shrugs, but it doesn’t look casual. Not a smooth motion, but two pickets rattling up and down by his ears, never quite settling back to where they shoulder. By the pink spreading over his cheeks, he’s well aware. “I just thought that I…I don’t know, that I could…”

Talk to him. He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t need to: the words are scrawled across his face, written in bold-faced print for anyone to see. Fix something.

“Would you like to talk about it?” It’s reflex to ask, really— one she doesn’t even realize she’s done until his eyes blink wide, jaw slackening to match. “My office isn’t too far down the hall.”

He hesitates, eyeing her warily before he asks, “Unofficially?”

“Of course. As friends.” That’s what she’d meant anyway, she thinks. “If that’s what you want.”

There’s another, longer pause; his eyes shifting away from her to the door and then back again before her nods. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Her fingers are already reaching for a pen, palm pressed right against the soft cover of her notebook when Zen says, “You promised.”

The pen rattles back into the holder, knocking aside its mismatched brethren before settling into place.

“Habit,” Shirayuki laughs, suddenly all too aware of herself in space, of how she’s practically hanging over her desk. Of how desperate she looks to categorize his thoughts into neat little boxes, like somehow it might make hers more orderly too. “It won’t happen again.”

“Are you sure?” The corner of his mouth hitches up, a smirk she knows all too well. “I am about to be really interesting, you know. You’ll be itching to put it in my file.”

It would be entirely inappropriate to say, I know. “I promised,” she says instead. “Boundaries are important. For both professionals and clients.”

“Is that what I am now?” He’s smiling still, joking, but there’s no humor in it. “Your client?”

“No, you are what you’ve always been.” It stings as she smiles, folding up her legs beneath her, but sweetly. “My friend.”

His smirk falters into a frown, that direct, almost challenging stare of his foundering to the floor. “Really? I don’t think I’ve been a very good one lately. Not to you.” He sighs, leaning into his hand. “Hell, not to anyone, I guess.”

“Is that what’s worrying you right now? That you’re not being a good friend?”

Zen snorts, sending her a wry look. “You’re doing it again. The therapist thing.”

“Ah! Er…” Heat prickles at her cheeks, and she doesn’t have to see Zen’s grin to know it’s a blush breaking out over them, just as obvious as any of his. “Sorry, force of habit.”

“Don’t worry about it. Honestly, I think it’d be weirder if you didn’t try,” he admits, letting himself relax into the couch cushions. The way he used to before, when it was just him and her and a way to steal time under his brother’s nose. “I don’t really care about the friend thing. No wait, I don’t mean—I do care about being friends, and er, being a good one, but that’s not really my biggest problem right now.”

“It isn’t?” Her head tilts, an invitation. “Then what is?”

He stares at her wearily. “Really?”

“Oh! I really…” Her hands clap to her cheeks, but it does nothing for the heat radiating beneath her palms. “I didn’t meant to that time. I just…it’s Obi, isn’t it? You’re worried about him, even more than Mitsuhide.”

Zen lets his head drop back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s kinda hard not to be. I mean, if you’d seen what I saw in there…”

“You mean in the drift?” Electricity zips through her fingers, chasing her nerves up her spine, and she pitches forward, struggling to keep the eagerness from her voice. “Can I…can ask what happened? When you were in there, in his…?”

Mind. Memories. There’s hardly a difference either way,

He doesn’t lift his head, but she sees the muscles of his neck move, the furrow of his brow implied rather than implicit. “You don’t know? I thought you and Obi had some sort of postmortem or whatever. I figured he’d be your favorite patient by now.”

“No. We never got past broad strokes. I don’t even think I could call him a patient.” It’s strange how relief floods her as she says that— not my patient— and how quickly guilt twists her stomach right after. He should be her patient, she should be helping, she just— just—

Doesn’t want to. Not like that anyway. From the outside. Professionally. But she’s not being given much of a choice. “I think it was too difficult for him to get past all the…commentary.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He eyes her, almost speculative, before shaking his head. “It’s confusing in there. I don’t even know how he manages to walk and think at the same time, let alone mouth off the way he does. But you know about…?”

“Osaka, and the Hachimaru,” she confirms, the fabric of her skirt dimpling between her fingers. “That there were unauthorized experiments going on with the number of pilots in a Jaeger. That they were all…” Children. She can’t bring herself to say it. “You probably know more than me.”

“Maybe. Not enough. Too much. I don’t know.” Zen sighs, his head rocking forward, bowing over his knees. “It’s just…I don’t want to go talking about stuff that’s really his to tell. But…yeah, there was something with Osaka’s program. Some lack of oversight— or maybe everyone was purposefully looking away, who can tell? But there was seven of them, all packed into one Jaeger, in a big row like— like sardines in a can, and their commander, this woman, she—”

He rubs at his arm, teeth grit. “Let’s just say, she wasn’t a good mother figure.”

“Seven of them?” She’d heard of three— Crimson Typhoon and its triplet pilots— but more than one report had said they were like one mind in three bodies, rather than the other way around. That there was something wrong with them from drifting so often so young. Seven completely different children, forced to link mind in some unregulated daisy chain since before they were even in puberty… “How many of them are…?”

“They’re all in there,” he says, toneless. “Like they never left. Just a whole Con-Pod filled with…”

Ghosts. Shirayuki never was one of the girls who would shiver at a scary story, or see faces in the dark— no point in inventing horrors when there were plenty more real ones lurking just off shore. But there’s no better term for this, these leftover impulses that stalk Obi’s brain stem, or…whatever they were.

“I wish…” Zen doesn’t have Obi’s sharp jaw or Mitsuhide’s square one; his muscles don’t stand out in relief when they flex, but she sees the tension in his throat, the swallow. “I wish he’d just talk to me about it, you know? He saw all my shit and just took it, and now that I’ve seen all his…”

His hand scrapes through his hair, tugging at the ends. “He knows I’m not afraid of him, doesn’t he? That I don’t care? I just want…”

She thought she’d known what yearning looked like on his face, what harsh planes even the briefest touch of it could carve, but she sees him now, mouth twisted so tight it carves new fissures into his cheeks, biting runnels into the corners of his eyes, and she knows— however much he’d wanted her, it doesn’t come close to how much he wants this.

“I don’t know. We’ve talked, but Obi hasn’t really told me what he’s thinking.” And by now, Shirayuki knows better than to guess. “But I think…I think he does. He just…isn’t ready for that right now.”

For being known. For being accepted despite it.

“When he is though,” she adds, carefully picking around the words. “You should tell him.”

“I’m trying,” Zen sighs, sliding further onto her couch. “I’m trying.”

#obiyukiweek24 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #pacific rim au #my fic #ans #man there is a scene i have been dying to get to for CHAPTERS but i keep realizing that it's not TIME #it's COMING and temporally in the story it's not far #but like...so much stuff has to happen to get there #SO MANY POVS #but think we're only like...two chapters away at this point #maybe three #and then a lot of things happen very quickly #and ohhhh i am very excited for it 🤣

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batgirlsay · 3 months ago

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Fallen Threads Across the Dancefloor

An Obiyuki Week 2024 Playlist for Day 7: West Coast Swing (Free Day) by @snowwhite-andtheknight

Been waiting to use these songs for over a year after remembering some perfect Postal Service songs and discovering some new Beths songs! The playlist started out with a “Red String of Fate” theme, but it also works for this swinging friends-to-lovers theme. There’s even kinda a swing beat in the title lyric track “Our Braided Lives” and maybe a few more. I actually used to swing dance for fun and I’m glad West Coast Swing was added to the prompt list, it’s perfect for Obiyuki!

Took a while to figure out a good order for this playlist without putting two songs by the same band next to each other… ended up starting with a night out and the consequences (and feelings) that ensued… ending in Obi style with his overwhelming doubts.

Fallen Threads Across the Dancefloor

A Tattered Line of String- The Postal Service Untangled Love- Brandon Flowers Our Braided Lives- Matt Pond PA Brand New Colony- The Postal Service Jump Rope Gazers- The Beths Sugar River- Matt Pond PA Just Shy of Sure- The Beths Glory of the Snow- Clairo Unraveling- Violents and Monica Martin Keep The Distance (Demo)- The Beths

Summary lyrics are cited after the cut (and bonus feels Obi):

A Tattered Line of String- The Postal Service

You've got a tattered line of string And you tied 'round everything That you want to call your own But it never seems to hold

When we walk, we agreed That we would not ever speak of of this night to anyone that we both knew

Then you said "Every time we kissed I felt something that couldn't exist"

Untangled Love- Brandon Flowers

Well let's say that now's the time to start Blessed all, the young at heart

I've been looking for untangled love But it's hard to get a handle on I always hoped I'd see the light Break the bad luck in my life

It's been twenty-one years since I left home I've been looking for a place to call my own I see the silver lining shining like polished gold

Untangled love I can see it in your eyes Untangled love You took me by surprise

Our Braided Lives- Matt Pond PA

Our braided lives At times I'm tied Fallen threads across The bedroom floor

Will this not end? Will this star claim us all?

The space between Our wandering hands I might not have to be Alone anymore The night could end The dark could leave us all

Far below the glowing Ceiling sky The night will end The dark will leave The time begins For us to see it all

Brand New Colony- The Postal Service

I'll be the phonograph that plays your favorite albums back As you're lying there, drifting off to sleep

I'll be the platform shoes, undo what heredity's done to you You won't have to strain to look into my eyes

I'll be your winter coat, buttoned and zipped straight to the throat With the collar up, so you won't catch a cold

Start a brand new colony Where everything will change We'll give ourselves new names, identities erased The sun will heat the grounds Under our bare feet in this brand new colony

Jump Rope Gazers- The Beths

I've never been the dramatic type But if I don't see your face tonight I, well I guess I'll be fine

Decipher the signs Like we're slowly coming together Yeah it's slowly coming out about us

Oh I, I think I love you And I think that I loved you the whole time

How could this happen We were jump rope gazers in the middle of the night Hide my heart behind a brighter light So you struggle straining eyes to find Why we made it this way

My hopes are prone to elevate But the way your mind and mine relate It breaks the patterns we make

I was just waiting for the grazes on my hands to mend I was afraid of the sting

And I wanna give it my best try How could this happen We were jump rope gazers

Sugar River- Matt Pond PA

Hollow hearts don't know their wrong from right The world we're waiting for won't disappear The world we're waiting for is all right here

Along the river bank the root stays strong Heart of hearts you know there's nothing wrong

The world we're waiting for will shake our dreams Move them through the dark and down the street

Reaching and rallying they merge every time Our ties become part of the way we survive To stare down the shadows Made up in the hollows We're safe in these seconds There's proof in your eyes

Sugar river rolling through the night Rushing under the midnight sky

Just Shy of Sure- The Beths

Love in memory Was a plague that consumed me Shifted all my priorities

I have kept the hurt buried deep into winter dirt I watch at night when the mound stirs This is not the burn I've known It's an ache in my every bone Maybe you want to be alone

When do things suffice? Can you be happy all your life? Do you think it can happen twice? Maybe that's a swing Hey, you can't win without entering Are you cool to lose everything?

Weak, but I'll pretend That you still want me I'm the one you adore But I'm just shy of sure

Glory of the Snow- Clairo

I can feel there's something in the between For a moment, I heard you talking to me

I pull on the string that binds me To memories of the way I loved you I push on the door, the one I've ignored The one that leads me to you

Glory of the snow I'm waking up and now I know

I can see there's someone looking for me For a moment, I heard the rustling lеaves

Sweeping under rugs, the one I was not gonna Gonna dance on again

Unraveling- Violents and Monica Martin

Wide-eyed wonder, where did you go? Pagan cynic, constant critic, friend to a foe I'm unraveling

I much prefer you the way that I found you And I hate who I am when I am around you But you're far away and I need you close to me A sad simple truth that's lost in the irony

Keep The Distance (Demo)- The Beths

We kept the distance Kept it at no one’s insistence Pushing against no resistance but ourselves It’s not complicated Lovers get humiliated I wanted you but couldn’t say it out loud

There's a hole in my memory It's widening with each new entry Blooming like a flower when everything falls through Each death and redemption Each second of increasing tension Every ounce of pure prevention we hеld to

If you’re heading out then I insist you make a move But if it’s not the moment Then bottle up the breath I’m holding Sorry to my serotonin Some bad news

We’re caught, torn in the fabric Enthrallеd, drawn like a magnet But we keep the distance Just an attempt to get by

#obiyukiweek24 #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #obiyuki #playlist #the postal service #brandon flowers #matt pond pa #the beths #clairo #violents band #I love the jump rope analogy from the Beths album #“sorry to my serotonin some bad news” is the best lyric ever #followed closely by the winter coat verse in Brand New Colony #also “waiting for the grazes on my hands to mend” is so obi

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glitterberry · 3 months ago

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Obiyuki Week | Day 7: West Coast Swing (Free Day) Themes: Improvising, Adventure, Friends-to-Lovers; Gold

#obiyuki #obiyukiweek #obiyukiweek24 #akagami no shirayukihime #obi #shirayuki #AND IM DONE~~#why are they so cute #my graphics

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claudeng80 · 3 months ago

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in the circle of your arms

All of Clarines is dancing, today.

The king’s wedding-day has had musicians loosing their strings and inns running their taps all over the kingdom. The songs and cheering from Wistal-town have drifted through the open castle windows all day, peaking with a roar like the ocean when the king and new queen showed themselves on the walls, but far more often tinkling in the distance with half-familiar melodies.

Shirayuki’s humming one of them when Obi slips into his spot by her side. The nobles’ orchestra is pausing between sets for the musicians to wet their own tired throats, and footmen are lighting the ballroom lamps. The court is in no hurry to end their own revels, it seems.

In the distance, Zen nods at an ambassador who doesn’t seem to be letting him get a word in edgewise. He was a wreck this morning, a knot of anxiety for Obi and Mitsuhide to untie, wrestle into his own weight of velvet and cloth-of gold, and deliver to the chapel, but he looked a proper prince standing as his brother’s second. It’s been a long day’s work well done for his aides. “Surely he’s saved a spot on his dance card for you,” he says, and Shirayuki jumps.

“Not a one,” she says, but she’s not frowning. Honestly, he can’t quite tell what the look on her face is, and that by itself is a little worrying.

“That’s no excuse for you to stand around holding up the walls.” He leans in, whispering. “I have it on good authority that they will not fall down if you go dance.”

She giggles, and it’s more beautiful music than the orchestra is making.

“Surely Lord Eisetsu would be happy to partner you for a dance, after he went through so much effort the first time,” he adds. His mouth is a little dry, and the champagne isn’t helping. She shakes her head, and he supposes that’s fair. He wouldn’t want to dance with him either. “Or Sir Tsuruba. I think he owes you a favor, it would be a kindness for you to put him out of his misery.”

It would be a blessing more than that guy deserved. “No thank you,” she says.

“Then what about Prince Raj-” he starts, and her glare shrivels the words before he can even finish.

She sighs, but he knows when a battle’s already been won. Unfortunately the king’s ball is short of acceptable dance partners. There’s only one left he can offer, the least of them all. “Then would you dance with me?”

Her eyes go round. “But you don’t like dancing.”

“It’s not so bad.” He bows, letting his formal cape swish just a bit, and extends a hand. “When it’s with you.”

The next song starts with a simple beat, thankfully, something he won’t embarrass them too badly. “I know this one,” she says as she catches his hand and steps closer. Her left hand lights on his shoulder, her skirts swishes against his boots, and suddenly he can’t hear his own heartbeat in his ears anymore. She breathes in and out, and perhaps he’s merely seeing his own feelings in the evidence of her actions, but just perhaps she feels a little calmer close to him as well.

Her back is cold against his fingers where she’d been pressing it against the wall; he rubs his hand back and forth a bit to banish the chill, and she smiles up at him. He counts out the beat, for both their benefits, and cautiously they join the swirl of dancers.

“Once this is over, do you know where they’ll be sending you?” The wedding has consumed every minute for the last month for everyone. She’s spent more than one night on duty in the infirmary, just as Obi’s slept the last week at the foot of Zen’s bed. It would be nice to have a rest before the next assignment, but he’s afraid to hope.

“Us,” she corrects, absently. She’s counting under her breath.

“Master’s heading back to Wirant in a week. Wouldn’t it be nice to go back to Lilias?”

“Mm,” she says. It’s not much of a dance or a conversation when she’s this distracted, but he knows just the thing. He pulls their twined hands in, freeing a finger to hook just below her chin. A feather’s weight of pressure tips it up, the numbers scattering as she meets his eyes and her lips lose the count. “Obi,” she chides, but when he leads her into a turn it’s no longer a wrestling match.

But of course he doesn’t know what to say next. They make a whole circuit of the dance floor in silence, navigating a few more simple turns with a minimum of catastrophe. The third attempt ends in something of a tangle, and they’re still rearranging themselves then the end of the song rescues them.

Shirayuki’s fingers dig into his shoulder. “Another?” she asks. He would have thought she’d jump at the chance to be done, but he can’t say no when she smiles at him like that.

Everything’s a little different for the second dance. Her hip bumps his on the turns, not enough to throw her off balance, just to remind Obi how close they are. His hand sits flat on her back instead of just the fingertips, and it’s almost half a hug, he thinks.

He shouldn’t think about that. It’s been months since that moment in Shinsu Jiran’s garden. Years since she left alone for Lilias or they danced here in the castle after cornering Lata. Longer still since he caught her in Tanbarun’s library or Laxdo’s courtyard, but he can feel every single time.

“I like it here,” she says. He can feel the vibration of the words in her bones.

“The ballroom?” He looks around; it’s a fancy room, with gold literally on the walls, but they’ve been there plenty of times before. He doesn’t know what there is to particularly like about it. “Or did you mean Wistal? I’m sure Master would take that into account if this is where you want to stay now-”

She isn’t looking at the room, isn’t staring at the floor or counting beats. She’s just looking at him. “I didn't mean the place.”

Surely there’s something else she could mean. But for once his wit deserts him. The woman he loves is all but wrapped in his arms and he can’t think of a single word to answer her.

“I mean with you,” she continues patiently, like it’s not turning him inside out. “I’ve missed you since we got here. You spoil me with your attention.”

He has to have known she would notice eventually. They’re not dancing anymore.

“It took me too long to ask myself what you see when you’re watching me,” she continues.

“Just you.” The words pull themselves from his throat, as dry and rough as sand. His heart is on display for her.

“Why haven’t you touched me again?” she asks, a change of subject. “I thought I understood, that night at Jiran’s, but then it was the last time. You didn’t come back, or say anything.” Her hand shifts then, off his arm and across his chest, coming to rest just over his heart.

He was wise not to drink at the wedding banquet. He would never have believed this, otherwise. “And that was something you wanted?” She nods, never dropping her eyes from his. “And you still do?”

The answer to that is a blush as clear as words.

If they weren’t in the middle of a wedding reception, he would take her up on it this instant.

“We’ve done our part, right? Nobody will notice if we leave?” She’s not as patient as he is, her voice breathless as she asks, and suddenly the air must be thin in the ballroom because he can’t breathe either. There must be a way out. By the grand ballroom doors, the king and queen hold court, impatient to make their exit as well and almost too well-bred to show it. The steady stream of attendants lighting lamps and serving food blocks the other doors.

Shirayuki’s hand grasps his tightly, the moment his fingers slip between hers. The balcony windows are wide open, the curtains hanging stately in the still night no barrier at all. His miss squeaks as he sweeps her off her feet. “I can climb-” she complains.

“What kind of knight would I be if I let my lady foul her slippers?” Her scowl is like champagne, the breath she catches as he sets his boot on the railing better than the finest canapes they’re leaving behind as they take flight.

#obiyukiweek24 #day 7

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bubblesthemonsterartist · 3 months ago

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i told the stars about you

The wide expanse of stars twinkle outside her window, glittering like goldstone. Shirayuki wonders if it’s her imagination or if the skies in the North truly are more arresting. The nights of Wistal were beautiful, yes, but fogged by firelight, paler perhaps than the shades of blue and purple she can make out here. Or was she just not looking? Her impressions could be shaded by the rarity of a clear evening in the North, or perhaps the memory of those early years in Clarines have faded. And yet-

And yet something about this night sky in particular strikes her.

She hugs herself, the heat of another body still soaked into hers long after they’ve returned to their respective rooms. Long after she has changed into her nightgown and set aside all the accoutrements of professionalism, brushing her hair until it crackled with static. Long after she stationed herself at this window, looking up to once familiar stars for answers.

Emotionally exhausted, but... happy. So, so happy.

It must be her imagination how she can still smell the wool and leather and wild that never quite left him. Can still feel his broad hand alighted upon her back, tentative as if anything more might break him. Can still feel the shape of his words murmured against her ear.

“Keep this?”

Shirayuki’s eyes squeeze shut, tight as the fist in her chest. Always, always, she would never think to do otherwise. She would keep it, treasure it, honor the bravery it took him to offer it.

Her grip tightens on herself, but it’s- not the same, not enough.

She can bear it no longer.

Shirayuki spins on her heels, flying towards the door connecting their rooms. Without a moments pause, she flings it open and there—

There are two wide eyes, staring into hers, hand hovering in the space between them.

“Oh. Miss. I—”

“Obi! I- Earlier. We were interrupted and I just thought—”

…that our hug wasn’t finished.

Embarrassment starts to creep up her neck, disbelief at her own reasoning. Hands flutter helplessly in that too large of an expanse between them, and she grasps at nothing for words, hoping to catch a more rational thought. But then she looks up at him, helpless. Between the two of them, he was always the better one at reading her meaning when she didn’t know what to say, and—

His eyes are red at the corners, glossy in the dim light.

The air pulls out of her lungs. He hugged her before. Just an hour ago. Held her, even. So she doesn’t think, she just… flings herself forward, arms wrapping themselves around his middle. He must’ve taken his night gown from Eisetsu’s place, the silk feels familiar. Far better than either of them could afford. She’s half a mind to scold him for stealing from their host, but—

But his ribs collapse under her hold, spine rounding as his body curls over hers. He pulls her closer. So, so gingerly. She doesn’t know how to tell him that her body can take his strength, too. That he can- that he can hold her the way his body needs.

He sucks a breath next to her ear as if in pain and alarm spikes up her spine. Did she hurt him??? Shirayuki braces her palms against his arms, arching backwards to take a look—

His hand tangles in her hair, pressing her face tight to his chest.

“Obi?” Her voice is muffled against his collarbone, sight blocked by the dark fabric of his clothes.

“Miss,” he breathes, voice hoarse, and it’s only now that she feels how he shakes, how he trembles, and—

Wetness spills onto her cheek. It’s not hers.

Not yet at least.

“I thought--” she chokes, wrapping her arms around him once more-- “that we weren’t done hugging it out yet.”

Laughter rattles out of him, his thumb stroking a line along the nape of her neck. “No, Miss.” Obi sniffs, his cheek resting against the crown of her head, and her eyes well. He can’t cry because that means she has to cry, too. “I don’t think we were.”

#bubbleswrites #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #obiyuki #obiyukiweek24 #chapter 136 spoilers #OKAY I THINK I MAY HAVE GOTTEN IT OUT OF MY SYSTEM NOW WE'LL SEE

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onedivinemisfit · 3 months ago

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Much ado about sleeping arrangements

Obiyukiweek24: ‘silver’ - like an unforeseen silver lining

#akagami no shirayukihime #ans #snow white with the red hair #shirayuki #obi #obiyuki #myart #obiyukiweek24 #throwing everything at the event to see what sticks #kinda proud i’ve been able to wrestle topics into the color prompts all this time

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snowwhite-andtheknight · 3 months ago

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Obiyukiweek 2024 Masterpost

We have reach the end of Obiyukiweek 2024, and what an exciting one it was! Spurred on by Sorata's submission of Ch 136, we had 35 words total from 13 different participants, as well as two people who manages to post every day! Than you so much to everyone who participated, including the ones who struggled through to post in our bonus week! We literally could not do this without all of you.

Works By Day

[Works by Creator under the cut]

@aeroplaneblues A Set

@another-miracle if not for the stars

@batgirlsay Fallen Threads Across the Dance Floor

@bubblesthemonsterartist i told the stars about you oaths muffled by pillows [NSFW] the poison is in the tail this mess I made I made with love

@claudeng80 in the circle of your arms

@glitterberry Blue Change of Partners face to face a good luck charm I came with you it’s yours now Paso Doble

@itspotatobee It’s too late for running

@miinah13 little moments

@obsidiancorner THEN DECIDE

@onedivinemisfit Blue under a blue moon if you are both quite finished? I’ll take all of you In the snows of Windhelm a little more fortune than a cookie much ado about sleeping arrangements red like the blood I’ll shed to avenge you

@sabraeal a heart felled by you, held by you; Chapter 2 Sic Semper Monstrum, Chapter 10

@what-plant-metaphor-am-i Swept off their feet

@writing-my-mind-ink Always by Your Side, Chapter 4 Always by Your Side, Chapter 5 Always by Your Side, Chapter 6 Always by Your Side, Chapter 7 Always by Your Side, Chapter 8 Memories Like Stars, Chapter 1 What Haunts the Shadows, Chapter 1

#obiyukiweek24 #obiyuki #shiraobi #obi x shirayuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #masterpost

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sabraeal · 3 months ago

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a heart felled by you, held by you; Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2024, Day 1: Quadrille

It’s not that Suzu didn’t know Lata’s name or whatever; it’s impossible to forget when it’s stamped right across the office he refuses to use three months out of the academic year— why should I let the university know where to find me? he’d huff, stoking the forge. If they’re going to interrupt my work to harangue me about class numbers and securing grant funding, I have no interest in making it easy for them— and scrawled on every lower right corner of his notes. It’s what every colleague calls across the university atrium before he hurries to out pace the persistence hunter that is professional collaboration; and what Ryuu had tried to stutter through for a whole week when he confused formality for maturity.

But between the towering aisles of his yet-to-be-catalogued accessions, and the number of times Shirayuki— and sometimes even Suzu himself— have been left to make his excuses to professors and professionals far above their pay grade, the idea that’s he’s a noble— a capital ‘F,’ weasel-thing-rampant Forzeno— well, it doesn’t seem quite real.

Not until now, when the doors on this stately manor swing open, and—

“I thought you lived in a shithole,” Suzu blurts out, momentarily blinded by polished marble and gold filigree. He’s no expert on architecture and has only a dubious grasp on history, but even he can tell this place is old. Storied, his mental Kazaha supplies, buzzing through his thoughts like flies over an ungrammatical carcass. “Or at least, that’s what Shidan said when—”

“I said apartment.” Shidan glares at him, like it’s Suzu’s fault he spent ten highly memorable minutes complaining about the stack of specimens that almost toppled onto him that one time he tried to brave Lata’s front parlor.

“It’s a townhouse.” Lata’s all noblesse oblige now that they’re ensconced in his family’s home, acting generous and tolerant, like they’re a good friend’s dogs that he knows are going to piddle on the carpet and he’s determined to be gracious about it. The kind of patience that’s pushed out between a man’s teeth instead of welling up from some internal font of goodness or whatever. “Private land ownership is the only way to receive permission for a forge of that size. And yes, I do.”

“But why not hang out here?” Suzu peeks into one of the fancy urns lining the walkway— disappointingly empty— before letting it rock back onto its pedestal. “It’s big and fancy and there’s a bunch of people whose job is to wait on you hand and foot. I’d never leave.”

“The commute,” Obi offers, sticking his own head down some fancy pot too. “Or maybe the wallpaper bothers him.”

“That’s certainly one way to put it,” Lata mutters, steering Obi away from the crockery with a scowl. “This is family land, owned by countless generations of Forzeno since time immemorial—”

“672.” Kazaha strides down the runner with his hands clasped behind his back, like he’s the king of the castle— or like it might convince the man who is that he’s not about to have any sticky fingers. “That’s when Motouji Forzeno ordered a fitting home to be built for him within a day’s ride of the capital, which at that point was still based in Wirant, not in Wistal. That only happened once the Wisteria family inherited the throne from a series of strategic marriages over the previous three generations—”

“And in any case, not mine.” He clears his throat, shoulders pulling straight beneath the heavy wool over his tunic, looking more lordly per inch than he ever has at the university. “At least, not in name.”

For as long as Suzu’s known him, Shidan’s never been a confrontational kind of guy; Lata might duck and dodge and, if cornered, bite and rend any interference from the university’s board, but Shidan chooses the path of least resistance. Or more accurately, the path of least surveillance— he might sit and stay and sign the papers the higher up sent his way, but as soon as they had their back turned cajoling some of the more recalcitrant academics in their department, he’d slip right off the leash, doing what needed doing before the deans were any the wiser. That’s how they’d gotten into this whole orimmallys project anyhow, and that all worked out in the end. Mostly.

So when Shidan hums, all considering— the way he does when he’s about to quibble over wording on a paper, but so nicely Suzu won’t even know he’s gotten the run-around until he’s halfway to the dorms— it’s a sign. A portent, even.

“Your father gave you lease over the entire place, didn’t he?” He’s got his gloves caught in his hand, running fingers along some fancy wainscoting. There’s some gold leaf on it, gilding a few fussy fleur-de-lis, and his fingers run slow enough that there’s got to be some grit. Dust, even. “That’s what Garrack said, at least.”

Lata’s brow sours like samples left too long on the bench. “And of course, Head Pharmacist Gazelt would be the expert on my family’s internal affairs.”

“No,” Ryuu murmurs ponderously, so soft they all hush up to hear him. “But she’d be less invested in avoiding them.”

Big blue eyes blink up at his lordship, and if they were any less guileless— or maybe, if Ryuu was any less fifteen— there’d be some sort of dust up. Some flavor of raised voices and shaking fists, and maybe someone would end up with a cold ass on the big field of snow Lata calls the front lawn. But instead he just sucks in a breath, whistling like a hole in a window when the wind’s got its back up, and says, “I thought I was being quite generous offering you all a place to ready yourselves before the gala, but now I’m quite wondering just why I extended the invitation.”

“Because you’d rather be annoyed with us than risk being left alone with one of those lords?” Suzu barely realizes he’s spoken until five sets of eyes swing his way, goggling like he’s hauled off and said something out of band. Again. “Or ladies?”

A laugh’s dour cousin scrapes out from Lata’s chest as they climb what Suzu assumes is the grand stair, if only because it’s larger than the last three. “Yes,” he agrees, more weary than waggish. “Something like that.”

“Hey.” Obi hangs back, lingering on the landing with one thumb hooked over his shoulder. “Is that you?”

There’s a portrait beside him, larger than he is— or Suzu, or Shidan, or any man he’s seen living; so big that it must have taken a whole crew of footmen to install, if only to keep one of them from being crushed under a lordly boot. He’s got to squint to see above the knee, daubs of oils glistening in the gaslight, making it hard to pick out more than the curve of thick, dark hair, or the stern, squarish set the to jaw, or—

“I gotta say,” Obi hums, arms folding over his coat. “Quail hunter isn’t what comes to mind when I look at you.”

“I’m not.” Lata paces a step back toward them, then two, glowering up at the most detailed bird carcass Suzu’s ever seen outside the ruts of a country road. “That would be my father, in his youth. He had a great love of…working his will on the world, one way or another.”

“Ah…” Kazaha sighs, searching for something properly ingratiating to say. “There’s a certain, hm, strong family resemblance.”

Suzu seizes the opportunity to inform the professor, “He means that you both look grumpy.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Right,” he agrees blithely. “It’s what you meant. Like I said.”

Lata snorts, starting back down the hall. “If you think I am ill-tempered, wait until you meet my sire. Why, I’m practically a ray of sunshine next to that old—”

“Oh, are we gonna?” Obi whips around, determined to be underfoot as he asks, “Will I finally get to meet my Knight Grandpa? Sir Grandpa—?”

“I would thank you not to call him that. And no.” Lata’s mouth thins to a line as tight as his shoulders. “Besides, if we are to take Knight Grandpa at its most literal, it would not be my father, but instead the man who was my master as a squire.”

“Is he gonna be here? Can I meet him?” It’s not physically possible for Obi to wend himself around Lata’s legs, but by the way he bats his eyes up at him, he’s spiritually there. “I promise I’ll be a good little knight. I’ll even bow and scrape and write poetry about women lying in ponds—”

“No.” After a begrudging pause, Lata adds, “He’s dead, actually.”

Obi pops up, shoulders suddenly soldier-straight beside him. “Oh, well. That’s a pretty good excuse. Did he die from some battle wound or…?”

“The drink,” Lata confirms. “He wasn’t, honestly, a very good master. But he was a friend of my father’s. That seemed to matter more back then.”

A laugh saws out of Obi, rough enough Suzu’s surprised it doesn’t take a bit of throat with it. “Seems to matter just as much now.”

The professor doesn’t do anything so obvious as look at Obi, oh no— he just simply clasps his hands behind his back, favoring the hall in front of him with an approving nod. “Doesn’t it just.”

“You frown the same way.” Both men peer over their shoulders, but Obi makes confusion seem casual, whereas Lata just scowls. Ryuu, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice. “You and your father, I mean.”

“Yes.” Lata surveys the hallway over his shoulder before turning back around. “It runs in the family.”

A beat passes before Suzu dares to venture, “Hey, weren’t the girls supposed to get ready here too?”

“Yes.” The professor isn’t known to smile, and he certainly doesn’t now, giving them all a disapproving glare. “They arrived on time.”

“What if” —Shidan’s clever little botanist practically froths over the vanity like a flask left too long on the hob, spilling linen and lace where she leans— “I told him I had something in my eye.”

This is hardly the first volley of hypotheticals Garrack’s fielded from that quarter; oh no, the girls had all been down to chemises when the preliminary speculation began— what if…I said I needed some air?— and now what had already been a serviceable set of natural curves has become a feat of human engineering, bolstered by a bulwark of baleen and batiste. There’d been endless layers added on; bust improvers and corsets and girdles, all requiring additional helpful hands, and it lends a weary edge to Izuru’s, “Oh, it’s a him, now is it?”

Shidan’s long-time assistant hasn’t bothered to batten down her hatches— at least, not as much as the botanist girl’s— with only enough corsetry to turn her posture from academic to appropriate. Another assurance that she’s coming along nicely, just the way Garrack always thought she would so long as Shidan’s quiet perfectionism didn’t infest her work ethic the way his little pet project did the university’s water supply.

“What next?” It has to have been ages since there was a woman in this place— heavens know Lata isn’t bringing any inamorata around here to parade around in front of his mother’s mirror— but the painted wood Izuru slumps over is pristine. Or, well, as much as whale bone lets a body slouch. “Identifying details? A name?”

“He’s hypothetical,” the botanist snaps, which almost guarantees that he isn’t. Too bad she hasn’t caked on the powder yet; even with the lights dimmed as they are, it’s impossible to miss the flush that creeps up her shoulders, pouring onto that pretty face. “He doesn’t exist. Yet.”

There’s quite a bit Izuru seems to have to say about that; her shoulder straighten, her mouth cants, and—

“Is that supposed to be romantic?” Shirayuki frowns into the mirror, hands swallowed up by the untameable beast that is Izuru’s hair. “Having something in your eye?”

“Well, not usually,” the botanist admits, undaunted by the sharp elbow of reality bursting her dreamy little bubble. “But an eyelash…that’s all right. Delicate even! Demure. And when he bends down, BAM.”

Shirayuki blinks. “You hit him?”

“Kiss him!” The girl slumps into a chair— despite all her scaffolding, she makes a better show of it than Izuru— heaving the most world-weary sigh. “I would kiss him, Shirayuki.”

It’s years since she’s been that diligent apprentice, quietly working under Ryuu’s precise direction, but Shirayuki still flushes as red as her hair at the barest mention of grown adults touching in any way but a professional handshake. Garrack would have thought Zen would handle that— three years is a quite a lot of time, and considering what some of her cohort got up to on these cold Lilias nights, she’d have expected the bar for blushing to be a few sexual acts higher. Under the clothes, at least.

“W-wouldn’t that be an awkward angle?” Shirayuki busies herself with Izuru’s hair, letting it twist around her hands as she pins it in place. “You m-might crash heads! And noses.”

“Fine.” The botanist flops on her chair, thoroughly put upon. “What about dropping my handkerchief? I let it flutter, just like this”— there’s no fabric in her hands, but she sticks out an elegant arm, turning away as her fingers go limp— “and when he bends to retrieve it, I—”

Garrack snorts. Not a soft one either; for as unintended as it is, it draws quite the audience. The pretty botanist included, one of her well-shaped eyebrows raised.

It’s a struggle to keep the laugh in her chest from bubbling out, making this whole situation worse. Or injure this girl’s more tender emotions, at least.“Listen, you really think a lord would stoop? For a botanist?”

“He will if he wants to be kissed!” she huffs, arms crossed. Quite a bit of lace froths out over them, like a puffed-out pigeon’s chest. “Which he will, since I’m going to be the best looking girl at this gala!”

There’s one of these girls in every cohort— a little too pretty for their own good, always thinking about which assistants they might be able to catch alone in the fourth floor stock room. Clever, of course— you don’t end up in Lilias if you’re a slouch in that department— but just a bit silly. Whimsical. Destined to be disappointed when they find out royals don’t marry researchers.

At least most royals with most researchers. It probably doesn’t help that the statistical outlier is in the room right now, sending her a long suffering look. “Yuzuri…”

“That’s no slight on the rest of you, Shirayuki,” the botanist— this Yuzuri— assures her, “I’ve just been planning for this my whole life. Or at least since I found out Wirant throws one of the Solstice things.”

“We’re supposed to be here for professional purposes,” Izuru reminds her, having worked for Shidan too long to believe in mixing work with pleasure.

“Oh, boo, Izuru!” Yuzuri straightens, bustling over to the mirror to fuss with the glossy fall of her hair, pinning up parts of it with her fingers and frowning at the results. “Don’t be dull.”

“It’s not dull,” Shirayuki protests, placing the last pin in hopes that this time, Izuru’s hair might not simply bend the mess of them to breaking. “It’s what Shidan’s asking us to do. I’m not saying you can’t dance too, but if you’re going to be mingling with the nobles, maybe you should try to talk to some of them about what we’re doing with the Phostyrias. Just a couple of them giving permission for us to plant the bulbs would really be—”

“Oh, fine, fine.” She waves one hand— painstakingly manicured, done up in a pearly sort of polish that wouldn’t last five minutes once she was back in the greenhouse— but undeterred. “I can chat them up a little bit too. For the project.”

Tonight might be the darkest night of the year, celebrated in the coldest, most ass-end part of the whole country, but when Shirayuki smiles, Garrack might well be back in her office at Wistal, enjoying the mild summer breeze winding through her window. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

“You better,” Yuzuri huffs, twisting her hair in her hands. “Don’t think I don’t notice that it’s the girl with a guy who’s down to kiss her anytime, any place that’s asking the rest of us to consider this a work party.”

“I…” Shirayuki sputters, and hoh, there’s that blush again, with a vengeance. “Obi wouldn’t…I mean…that’s not…”

Well, well. Looks like she’s been a little behind on current events of the frigid north. And maybe not so wrong about royals and researchers after all.

“What if I asked him off into a side corridor? Or an alcove? Maybe a balcony,” Shidan’s botanist continues, saving Shirayuki a few more stumbles. “Those always have the right ambiance. And then I ask him to check the clasp on my necklace, and—”

“At that point you might as well ask him to kiss you,” Izuru is quick to point out, stepping up to help her hold a swag of hair in place. “You’re not really being subtle.”

Yuzuri groans, pins clattering against painted wood. “But where’s the romance in that? There’s got to be some uncertainty, some risk—”

“You do know,” Garrack hums, crossing her ankles on the convenient hassock in front of her. “Shidan and I are here specifically to help keep down the kissing, don’t you?”

The girl sighs, eyes rolling in her reflection. “But you’re not really going to do anything, are you, Master Gazelt? You know how silly this whole rule is. Aren’t you just going to look the other way?”

Her mouth twitches. It would be funny to see that old goat get twisted up over some twenty-year-olds playing mother-may-I with their tonsils. “Maybe,” she allows, “if I thought it was funny enough.”

It hardly seems fair to say Suzu is disheveled when he hardly ever seems, well, sheveled, for lack of a better word. But with his shirt still merely half-buttoned and flyaway wisps of blond escaping their tie with every scrape of his hands over his scalp, Shidan has little else to call him.

“Is the mazurka step-step-clap-turn, or is that the redowa?” His half-coat flaps out around him as he marks out the movements— poorly, but at least recognizable, even if Shidan would be at pains to reproduce them. “Or maybe it’s the waltz? Help me, Obi,” — he seizes the knight as he slips through the door, rumpling the black wool of his coat— “I can’t remember!”

“I’ll run you through the steps before we get out there,” he promises, detaching Suzu from his lapel with more gentleness than Shidan would, under the circumstances. Suzu is a valuable member of his team, a long-time collaborator who will perform any number of demeaning tasks to see a project through, so long as he can avoid a single shred of responsibility and complain about his sorry lot the whole time, but well— even Shidan has his limits. “It’ll all come back to you once you got the band to back you up. These things always make more sense with the music.”

Suzu stares at him, utterly blank, and Obi huffs out a laugh. “Theoretical versus practical knowledge, right?”

“Oh.” Suzu endeavors to smooth back his strays, but they only pop back up in his palm’s wake. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Easy, then.”

“Right.” Obi pats his shoulder with a purposeful sort of confidence, as if he could pass it through flesh and fabric with the ease that footrot does through hoofs. “Easy.”

That is until Ryuu glances up from his book, brow furrowed in the faintest vee, and says, “If that’s the case, then how are you and Shirayuki so bad at it?”

Obi whips around, wide-eyed with betrayal. “H-hey!” he squawks. “We’ve gotten better!”

Ryuu doesn’t reply— not verbally, at least— but the look he turns to Obi is eloquent enough to speak for itself. And what it says is: not appreciably.

“Why are you even concerned about all that?” Kazaha’s costume is so crisp carpenters could use it to cut corners, cape and coat and pants and stymieing haircut all in perfect place. “It’s not as if anyone is going to ask you to dance.”

“Why not? I’m dressed all nice.” Suzu blinks down at himself, taking in the uncuffed sleeves and half-buttoned shirt and the coat canted askew on his shoulders, and adds, “Well, I will be.”

Kazaha may cluck his tongue, may shake his head hopelessly, but even still, he reaches out, straightening Suzu’s cuffs before buttoning them tight. “Because you’re a man, idiot. Girls might inquire if you’d like to take a stroll down Pavilion Street when we’re at the university, but in a ballroom, men do the asking.”

Shidan can’t say Suzu’s ever been popular with the female population, especially among the more established academics who are already well aware of his reputation as a rather acerbic eccentric, more apt to be cozened under tables or smudged with sweat and grit from Lata’s forge than doing the more respectable pastime of benchwork. But there’s always a flush of fluttering young freshmen flouncing outside the lab each year, eager to catch a glimpse of— or even speak a word or two with— the herbology department’s most striking scholar. That is, of course, until they actually talk to him.

“Really?” Spoken like a man who has had invitations hurled at his retreating back for five years running. By Kazaha’s strangled sigh, it’s clear he’s thinking the same. “I’m very pretty, though.”

“That may help with young ladies wanting to dance with you,” Kazaha informs him, pulling his lapel into a shape somewhat approaching acceptable. “But it will be expected that you approach them.”

“Oh.” It’s startling to see that sharp face turn thoughtful. “So I don’t have to do this dancing thing at all.”

“You do.” Shidan’s order scrapes out at the same time Kazaha’s does, creating an odd sort of echo before he presses on, “We’re the guests of honor at this gala. The department is expecting us to socialize with potential donors.”

“Well sure, but that doesn’t mean I gotta—”

“You will,” Shidan promises him wearily. “And you’ll have to at least pretend to like it, if you want to continue our work in the lab.”

“And not in some tiny closet,” Obi adds, brightly. “Where you’ll have to knock elbows with Kazaha just to get a beaker on the burner.”

“Well, yeah.” Suzu slumps, waving off Kazaha’s continued ministrations. It’s too late, however— he already looks respectable. Not enough to pass for a peer, but someone well on his way to professor. “But what if I just hung out along the wall instead. Then I could talk to people, and—”

“It’s rude for young men to be idling when there are eligible young ladies waiting for a partner.” Obi’s words nearly sparkle for all their polish, but he ruins the effect with one of his slant-wise grins. “Don’t worry, I told you I’d show you how to cut a rug. It’s better than getting stuck in a conversation with one of those stuffy old—”

There is a gravitas to the way the doors open in this place, a stately creak that does not imply age so much at maturity; this manor was built long before the sovereigns of Wisteria sunk their roots into Clarines’ throne, and it would last long after they were nothing more than musty portraits in halls long forgot. For as much as Lata might chafe under the weight of that history, might complain about the burden of expectation placed upon a son— the son— of Forzeno, he looks every inch the part as he steps over the threshold, trousers tailored and coast pressed within an inch of their lives, more institution than man.

“The guests are arriving,” he intones with all the cheer of a funeral bell. “Are you through with your preparations?”

“Almost!” Obi sing-songs, helping Kazaha tug the sleeves of Suzu’s jacket straight. “There, done.”

Lata surveys them with the same sharpness as he does his specimens, assessing them as if their flaws were as easily apparent as a gem’s through a loupe. With a long-suffering sigh, one pristine glove pinches at his nose, as if it might be any help at all stemming the incoming headache.

“Passable,” he grates out, stepping aside. “Now if you would follow me, I will ensure that you all make it to the hall.”

Obi’s mouth twitches, threatening a smirk. “Can’t trust us to get there on our own, eh, sir?”

“I have been an academic for nearly as long as you have been alive.” The fit of his coat already has Lata at his full height, but he lifts his chin for good measure, just to give his glare a few more momentum before it meets Obi’s grin. “And there is not a single scholar alive that can travel from one point to another in a straight line.”

Both brows raise now, scrunching the scar right to his hairline. “Not even you?”

Lata clears his throat. “If you would all come this way please. In an orderly fashion,” he adds, when Suzu traipses after him, elbows nearly colliding with Ryuu’s nose as he comes up behind. “I would prefer to avoid any accidents before we even arrive.”

Obi slinks closer, like a cat approaching a precariously placed cup. “But not after?”

A heavy sigh flares out of Lata’s nostrils. “I would prefer you not. But ‘after’ is not part of my purview.”

For all that Obi enjoys dogging the professor’s irritable heels, he makes no move to follow him. Instead, he lingers just inside the door, watching as first Suzu, then Ryuu, then Kazaha pass. Being polite, Shidan assumes at first, but then the moment for him to fall in line comes…and passes, utterly unmarked, save for the amused glance Obi turns his way, gold flaring in the lamplight.

He’s a different man than the one that appeared with the snow, all those years ago. Even more so from the boy that simply manifested in the university’s library, slotting himself between the two royal pharmacists with an ease that had Shidan squinting even then, trying to figure out how such incongruous pieces could fit. Lilias drew all types, it’s true, but even so— he’d never seen one quite like this: a knight with a thug’s scar cut into his brow, swaggering through the stacks like they were old enemies.

Don’t be fooled, Garrack had written him once, loops spiking tight with barely restrained humor. He might look a little rough-and-tumble, but that kid cleans up well.

He sees it now— the strong line of his shoulder accentuated by the cut of his coat, the belt at his waist complementing the taper of his torsi, the loose trousers that only barely obscure the acrobat’s body beneath. There’s no way to cover the scar, not even with a judicious application of pomade, but there’s no need— not when it only makes him look roguish, like a man who might sweep a girl into an alcove and teach her the sort of things proper young ladies only learned from novels. Still dangerous, but not deadly.

Worrying, really, considering. Shidan doesn’t make a habit of listening to scuttlebutt, but, well, he does have eyes of his own. And red is hard to miss. More so than the black he always finds bent beside it. “Obi, if I might have a word?”

That brow of his pitches up, amusement apparent in every angle. “You academics really will do anything to keep from having to go where you’re told.”

Shidan blinks, confused, before shaking his head. “I only thought I might remind you, that er…” There’s no delicate way to put it, not when he’s already wearing a smirk that would set every fine young lady’s fan fluttering. “That this year there is to be no Solstice kissing. By Lata’s request.”

“So I’ve heard.” Obi’s head cocks, curious, though when he takes in the emptiness of the room, the pointedness of the request…the slant his brow takes is clearly…confused. “Is there any reason you’re telling me, specifically?”

It’s a romantic sort of night, he might say, and it’s easy to forget yourself in the moment. Or maybe, you already stand so close I couldn’t fit a paper between the two of you, all it would take to close it is a well-timed trip. Or perhaps more accurately, you’ve been together so long all you need is an excuse. Trust me when I say you should take it.

But Shidan knows better than to speak, not when silence is all the more eloquent. The mind, he finds, often finds the most pressing reasons all on its own. Especially when one's thoughts never strayed too far from them anyway...

“Hey!” Obi presses a hand to the placard of his coat. “I haven’t caused trouble for years.”

It’s a feat worthy of song that Shidan keeps from reminding him of the last time him and Shirayuki rode through these gates. And yet, there’s no graceful way to admit that he hadn’t been talking about that sort of trouble anyway.

“Months, at least,” he relents, grudgingly. With a few moments of thought, he adds, “I’ve been really good this week.”

Shidan, with the patience of a saint, restricts his reply to simply, “If you’re sure.”

Obi does him the courtesy of hesitating. “Well, none of that’s been of the kissing variety, anyway. Not like any of the ladies here are going to be looking to make time with a guy like me tonight.”

He gives him another one of those charming grins, and Shidan sighs, resigning himself to an evening of being pointedly unobservant. “So you say.”

#obiyukiweek24 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #ans #finally i have gotten to revisit this fic I worked on last year with annie #the draft has been sitting in my WIP folder forever #and finally i've gotten to take out a chunk of it #i think there should be...one more full chapter and an epilogue #hilarious that i thought this whole project would be 9K #looks like it might well be between 15-18K overall #but maybe i'll get to sneak out another bit of it before the new year #love to get something wrapped up for once 😅

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