http://defiancebyfire.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
defiancebyfire.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
writetomyheart2019-09-13 06:04 pm
defiancebyfire.livejournal.com) wrote in writetomyheart2019-09-13 06:04 pm
Entry tags:
[team three] embers
late. but here.
Strange facts stay in your head if you live longer than expected. In Ariga’s case, much of the information is trivial, like this: hidden in one of the many abandoned corners of the Church sits a dusty and off-key piano.
He knows this from one of his many not-dates—sunrise breakfasts at random rooftops (always within city limits), afternoons spent people-watching while loitering the streets, or late evenings bingeing on greasy family restaurant food—when breathing had started getting easier, but only marginally.
“You twist it like this, see,” Itsuki had said once, while Ariga had watched in detached fascination at how his Messiah had expertly tuned the instrument.
The knowledge that Itsuki was tone-deaf with everything else except for this was—and continues to be—the source of some confusion for Ariga.
He doesn’t know why the memory comes up now, while he’s stuck at an abandoned pier, supposed to be gathering intel on a deal between some Japanese politician and the Alliance. He’s been shadowing the case for months, and things would have gone well if not for the shootout, the trigger of which he still needs to figure out, by the way.
Thankfully, he’s not bleeding, so whatever sliver of fondness from the memory is not caused by his fight-or-flight response. It’s the sirens wailing in the background, Ariga decides, and while the contrast is so striking, for some reason the sounds remind him of delicate notes, of keys being pressed softly by clumsy, bony, sticky-sweet fingers.
He had always wondered, back then, whenever he would lean against the wall and quietly watch Itsuki close his eyes and play—Beethoven or Debussy or Rachmaninoff or whoever, Ariga never really knew the difference, to be honest—if perhaps this was one of the rare gifts Kumoi Ren had bestowed upon his nephew.
The moment passes, and Ariga readies himself to leave; the ambulance seems to be moving farther. A good sign, since he’s not willing to do a stake-out especially if his target’s already gone somewhere else.
One day at a time, he and Itsuki had said to each other. So Ariga would not dwell so much on the past.
They had also promised honesty, in full form. Maybe next time, when they meet, he would simply ask.
*passes baton to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
faded_lace*
Strange facts stay in your head if you live longer than expected. In Ariga’s case, much of the information is trivial, like this: hidden in one of the many abandoned corners of the Church sits a dusty and off-key piano.
He knows this from one of his many not-dates—sunrise breakfasts at random rooftops (always within city limits), afternoons spent people-watching while loitering the streets, or late evenings bingeing on greasy family restaurant food—when breathing had started getting easier, but only marginally.
“You twist it like this, see,” Itsuki had said once, while Ariga had watched in detached fascination at how his Messiah had expertly tuned the instrument.
The knowledge that Itsuki was tone-deaf with everything else except for this was—and continues to be—the source of some confusion for Ariga.
He doesn’t know why the memory comes up now, while he’s stuck at an abandoned pier, supposed to be gathering intel on a deal between some Japanese politician and the Alliance. He’s been shadowing the case for months, and things would have gone well if not for the shootout, the trigger of which he still needs to figure out, by the way.
Thankfully, he’s not bleeding, so whatever sliver of fondness from the memory is not caused by his fight-or-flight response. It’s the sirens wailing in the background, Ariga decides, and while the contrast is so striking, for some reason the sounds remind him of delicate notes, of keys being pressed softly by clumsy, bony, sticky-sweet fingers.
He had always wondered, back then, whenever he would lean against the wall and quietly watch Itsuki close his eyes and play—Beethoven or Debussy or Rachmaninoff or whoever, Ariga never really knew the difference, to be honest—if perhaps this was one of the rare gifts Kumoi Ren had bestowed upon his nephew.
The moment passes, and Ariga readies himself to leave; the ambulance seems to be moving farther. A good sign, since he’s not willing to do a stake-out especially if his target’s already gone somewhere else.
One day at a time, he and Itsuki had said to each other. So Ariga would not dwell so much on the past.
They had also promised honesty, in full form. Maybe next time, when they meet, he would simply ask.
*passes baton to
faded_lace*