Hearts Like Alabaster...
Aug. 4th, 2004 12:40 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
huabot.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
onepieceyaoi100Title: Hearts Like Alabaster...
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Kohza/m
Wordcount: 271
Notes: This was good topic; I wish I'd had better chance to work on other drabbles, or even this one. Meh.
In the abandoned house the sound of the sandstorm is the flat of a knife against his ear, pressing just hard enough to let him feel the edge is threat.
This is the way they live: Better off than many, but sleeping only when there is nothing else to do, taking comfort where they can or - more often, having no comfort at all. It might be considered a comfort that tonight his layers of cloth are pressed up, lumped and folded under curving arms, and a tongue traces a line over his skin. But the moisture dries too quickly and he shivers, sweat rolling down his spine and vanishing just as fast. Unnatural, the greed of this desert. It hasn't always been this way. It can't be this way forever.
But, oh, over the bodies of his comrades, in the flickering light, he sees the sand come in. They have covered the wounds of the door and windows with lint - blankets and cloaks, stuffed the chinks with smaller rags as best they can, but sand has an insidious way. It's swallowing them, and still there may be more volunteers at the village tomorrow - if the storm has even stopped by then, if it's not morning already. He scrapes his fists against the rough ground and grits his teeth until there is dry press of lips over his heart and a whisper that should be unintelligible over the scream of the storm, but that he hears. Leader.
Kohza draws a breath and slips his fingers reassuringly through his man's dusty hair, cradling his skull and thinking helplessly of blue, blue water.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Kohza/m
Wordcount: 271
Notes: This was good topic; I wish I'd had better chance to work on other drabbles, or even this one. Meh.
In the abandoned house the sound of the sandstorm is the flat of a knife against his ear, pressing just hard enough to let him feel the edge is threat.
This is the way they live: Better off than many, but sleeping only when there is nothing else to do, taking comfort where they can or - more often, having no comfort at all. It might be considered a comfort that tonight his layers of cloth are pressed up, lumped and folded under curving arms, and a tongue traces a line over his skin. But the moisture dries too quickly and he shivers, sweat rolling down his spine and vanishing just as fast. Unnatural, the greed of this desert. It hasn't always been this way. It can't be this way forever.
But, oh, over the bodies of his comrades, in the flickering light, he sees the sand come in. They have covered the wounds of the door and windows with lint - blankets and cloaks, stuffed the chinks with smaller rags as best they can, but sand has an insidious way. It's swallowing them, and still there may be more volunteers at the village tomorrow - if the storm has even stopped by then, if it's not morning already. He scrapes his fists against the rough ground and grits his teeth until there is dry press of lips over his heart and a whisper that should be unintelligible over the scream of the storm, but that he hears. Leader.
Kohza draws a breath and slips his fingers reassuringly through his man's dusty hair, cradling his skull and thinking helplessly of blue, blue water.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 06:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 06:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-04 10:15 pm (UTC)Lovely. Beautifully written. I am the happy. ::mmmsigh::