（ a lonely, abandoned place gives way to green. he's seen lush worlds, perfect in perennial beauty. when you walk through a forest that has never known the bite of an axe, or the acrid breath of polluted air. in a way, those sorts of places are the closest he's ever felt to any sort of divinity, any amount of holiness. something pure and untrespassed, untold sanctuaries beneath every canopy.
he was a farmer, once. maybe that's why things that are green, that are growing, that are anchored deep into the earth always speaks to him.
so he can picture it too — a forest, a place that's hidden away behind the embrace of foliage. a people subsumed by anger and ascendancy.
he does not miss that was. when sasuke says it, his hands still just slightly against his back and then resume, stroking downward along the spine in one smooth, easy stroke. he'd assumed that by accident, aberration or design that sasuke was someone who had spent much of his life alone, or at least some amount of isolated. that statement, vague as it is, begins to add colour to the overlay of all the things he hasn't said. it's telling, too, that the simple insight is the longest the kid's ever said at once, much less about something as personal as home.
he's — what, twenty at the most? that's maybe twelve years in which some tectonic shift might have happened. in which have might have become had. it could be estrangement, he might've been disowned. the words and culture are japanese, even if it's not from earth — filial piety (or a lack thereof) might have been the deciding factor there. but the weight on my father praised me for it cleaves away from that possibility.
so many of his scars are old, except the arm. ）
It should feel good. This is my number one seduction technique, you know.
（ he leans over, and drops another kiss against the blade of the boy's shoulder. in an audible stage whisper: ）
no subject
he was a farmer, once. maybe that's why things that are green, that are growing, that are anchored deep into the earth always speaks to him.
so he can picture it too — a forest, a place that's hidden away behind the embrace of foliage. a people subsumed by anger and ascendancy.
he does not miss that was. when sasuke says it, his hands still just slightly against his back and then resume, stroking downward along the spine in one smooth, easy stroke. he'd assumed that by accident, aberration or design that sasuke was someone who had spent much of his life alone, or at least some amount of isolated. that statement, vague as it is, begins to add colour to the overlay of all the things he hasn't said. it's telling, too, that the simple insight is the longest the kid's ever said at once, much less about something as personal as home.
he's — what, twenty at the most? that's maybe twelve years in which some tectonic shift might have happened. in which have might have become had. it could be estrangement, he might've been disowned. the words and culture are japanese, even if it's not from earth — filial piety (or a lack thereof) might have been the deciding factor there. but the weight on my father praised me for it cleaves away from that possibility.
so many of his scars are old, except the arm. ）
It should feel good. This is my number one seduction technique, you know.
（ he leans over, and drops another kiss against the blade of the boy's shoulder. in an audible stage whisper: ）
Is it working?