Seishirou thought it was rather silly when Fuuma had asked him if when things “swayed”, he felt as though the entire world was pitching around him as a fixed point, or if he felt as though he was pitching around the world. He was damn good at picking out the symbolism and allegory in statements, and used such modes of communication both physically and verbally in profusion, but the first thing to come to mind was the physical drop-out in the center of his stomach, the pitching and diving, that came with aerial combat. He felt like a pilot guiding an airplane through a storm; he was in control of his body, his vessel, at all times, but he felt the drops and jerks just the same, felt the tension shove his back and chest and try to toss him about.
When he told Fuuma this, Fuuma laughed and said “I’ve heard people say that’s what it feels like to be in love.”
Seishirou glanced at Fuuma out of the corners of his eyes and snorted at the fundamentally logical flaw in his hackneyed, desperate statement—You’re so desperate to make some profound point about my ability to be effected by people, aren’t you?—but in the peripheral vision of his mind, he saw a white-coated figure flying about, trying to evade him, trying to bring him down. And somewhere in the back of his mind, vague and beneath layers of clear thought, he acknowledged that every time his stomach dropped, every time he reeled in drunk ecstasy and abandon, every time the world seemed to sway and pitch as he stepped off a steep curb, he saw the flutter of a white coat, like a half-realized butterfly of dreams.
Dr. Crane, pick
Crane had enough patients who tried to pick their neuroses in a pathetic attempt at crafting themselves into somebody interesting, somebody different, somebody eccentric and special, but the ruse was always transparent to him, even when it was good enough to fool many of his colleagues. The ugly, fetid flaws always shined through, though they chose not to acknowledge them and only play up the morbid way they saw the world. He was grounded enough to accept that when he went into psychiatry, work would not be exciting; he would not be dealing with the brilliant mad scientists and serial killers of fiction. Intellectually, he knew that he was no different. But subconsciously, in increments that he sometimes admitted to his conscious self in rare moments of clarity, he was trying to make himself into an eccentric god.
SxS, circle
Subaru had poured over all of the obvious circles multiple times. The cycle of Sakurazukamori inheritance. The cycle of Seishirou’s words “I love you” from everyday mention to painful retention and back to manifestation in the end. The sinusoid cycle of hope and despair that fluctuated with their various meetings. But he saw nothing cyclic about his nine-year plunge from naïve hope and near-altruism to crippling depression and single-minded selfishness. It was despairingly linear. He didn’t see the circle, even though Kamui kept saying that he really was a kind person after all. But, then again, aware though Subaru was of the chaotic, transcendental nature of the world, his gut always dragged his logic in perfect circles or straight lines, with no room for odd, chaotic shapes. It was one way or the other with him.
no subject
X!Seishirou, sway
Seishirou thought it was rather silly when Fuuma had asked him if when things “swayed”, he felt as though the entire world was pitching around him as a fixed point, or if he felt as though he was pitching around the world. He was damn good at picking out the symbolism and allegory in statements, and used such modes of communication both physically and verbally in profusion, but the first thing to come to mind was the physical drop-out in the center of his stomach, the pitching and diving, that came with aerial combat. He felt like a pilot guiding an airplane through a storm; he was in control of his body, his vessel, at all times, but he felt the drops and jerks just the same, felt the tension shove his back and chest and try to toss him about.
When he told Fuuma this, Fuuma laughed and said “I’ve heard people say that’s what it feels like to be in love.”
Seishirou glanced at Fuuma out of the corners of his eyes and snorted at the fundamentally logical flaw in his hackneyed, desperate statement—You’re so desperate to make some profound point about my ability to be effected by people, aren’t you?—but in the peripheral vision of his mind, he saw a white-coated figure flying about, trying to evade him, trying to bring him down. And somewhere in the back of his mind, vague and beneath layers of clear thought, he acknowledged that every time his stomach dropped, every time he reeled in drunk ecstasy and abandon, every time the world seemed to sway and pitch as he stepped off a steep curb, he saw the flutter of a white coat, like a half-realized butterfly of dreams.
Dr. Crane, pick
Crane had enough patients who tried to pick their neuroses in a pathetic attempt at crafting themselves into somebody interesting, somebody different, somebody eccentric and special, but the ruse was always transparent to him, even when it was good enough to fool many of his colleagues. The ugly, fetid flaws always shined through, though they chose not to acknowledge them and only play up the morbid way they saw the world. He was grounded enough to accept that when he went into psychiatry, work would not be exciting; he would not be dealing with the brilliant mad scientists and serial killers of fiction. Intellectually, he knew that he was no different. But subconsciously, in increments that he sometimes admitted to his conscious self in rare moments of clarity, he was trying to make himself into an eccentric god.
SxS, circle
Subaru had poured over all of the obvious circles multiple times. The cycle of Sakurazukamori inheritance. The cycle of Seishirou’s words “I love you” from everyday mention to painful retention and back to manifestation in the end. The sinusoid cycle of hope and despair that fluctuated with their various meetings. But he saw nothing cyclic about his nine-year plunge from naïve hope and near-altruism to crippling depression and single-minded selfishness. It was despairingly linear. He didn’t see the circle, even though Kamui kept saying that he really was a kind person after all. But, then again, aware though Subaru was of the chaotic, transcendental nature of the world, his gut always dragged his logic in perfect circles or straight lines, with no room for odd, chaotic shapes. It was one way or the other with him.