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pretend this is a pastebin, deleted within 30 minutes
--
There’s a party—there’s always a party at home, the same empty ritual to smile through. Nanami haranguing the cooks and complaining about the champagne flutes; their parents, seen but not heard in some painfully stiff exercise in formality. It’s easy enough to sneak away now, find a girl and an alcove and kill a little time making each other ordinary again. Strip the designer dresses and spoil the fantasy. It’s a waste, but it will do until summer vacation ends. It always has before.
The Chairman’s called a week before, reassuring. This is the year. This is the year he’ll be president of the student council. Touga savors the thought in little, pleased moments, until he remembers Ruka, there in the hospital bed. Ruka with the Bride in the arena, collapsing in her arms, as if anything had ever held him up but dreams.
But Ruka never recognized the real game. His mistake, his folly, but still something coils itself inside Touga’s throat, no matter how casually he tries to dismiss it, something as cold and hard as the signet ring around his finger.
He’s heard of her, but what he’s heard can’t be right. The heir to the Hanabusa Financial Clique is a quadriplegic—but Sumireko’s dancing.
Sumireko’s dancing.
--
He takes her to bed.
"Those in power stay there forever, if they only have the will to. The phoenix never burns up at all. Old money..." she says, trailing a finger down his chest, "that's the only thing they can't touch."
"You think that's it?"
"What else is there?”
“Upside-down castles in the sky, maybe.”
Sumireko laughs quietly. Her hand slips down to trace the jut of his hip—they’re not cold, her hands, but they’re hard and heavy. The prosthetics offer her plenty of dexterity where it counts, but her hands can’t pull a bow along a violin’s strings, can’t press the keys of a piano. Sometimes even now she can’t tell exactly when she’s placed too much pressure on an object, not until it’s crushed between her fingers. He’s seen the look flash briefly across her face before.
She never tells him that, but he’s deciphered it from all that she doesn’t do. Sumireko attends events; Sumireko dances, swims, bakes. But Sumireko avoids anything that requires an absolutely delicate touch.
--
"I thought you might like to transfer here."
"Ohtori's no place for me, Touga."
"But--"
"The only destinies are the ones we create for ourselves."
There’s a party—there’s always a party at home, the same empty ritual to smile through. Nanami haranguing the cooks and complaining about the champagne flutes; their parents, seen but not heard in some painfully stiff exercise in formality. It’s easy enough to sneak away now, find a girl and an alcove and kill a little time making each other ordinary again. Strip the designer dresses and spoil the fantasy. It’s a waste, but it will do until summer vacation ends. It always has before.
The Chairman’s called a week before, reassuring. This is the year. This is the year he’ll be president of the student council. Touga savors the thought in little, pleased moments, until he remembers Ruka, there in the hospital bed. Ruka with the Bride in the arena, collapsing in her arms, as if anything had ever held him up but dreams.
But Ruka never recognized the real game. His mistake, his folly, but still something coils itself inside Touga’s throat, no matter how casually he tries to dismiss it, something as cold and hard as the signet ring around his finger.
He’s heard of her, but what he’s heard can’t be right. The heir to the Hanabusa Financial Clique is a quadriplegic—but Sumireko’s dancing.
Sumireko’s dancing.
--
He takes her to bed.
"Those in power stay there forever, if they only have the will to. The phoenix never burns up at all. Old money..." she says, trailing a finger down his chest, "that's the only thing they can't touch."
"You think that's it?"
"What else is there?”
“Upside-down castles in the sky, maybe.”
Sumireko laughs quietly. Her hand slips down to trace the jut of his hip—they’re not cold, her hands, but they’re hard and heavy. The prosthetics offer her plenty of dexterity where it counts, but her hands can’t pull a bow along a violin’s strings, can’t press the keys of a piano. Sometimes even now she can’t tell exactly when she’s placed too much pressure on an object, not until it’s crushed between her fingers. He’s seen the look flash briefly across her face before.
She never tells him that, but he’s deciphered it from all that she doesn’t do. Sumireko attends events; Sumireko dances, swims, bakes. But Sumireko avoids anything that requires an absolutely delicate touch.
--
"I thought you might like to transfer here."
"Ohtori's no place for me, Touga."
"But--"
"The only destinies are the ones we create for ourselves."