![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
The Dreaming Little Bird, (xxxHOLiC, Clow/Yuuko)
Title: The Dreaming Little Bird
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nekokoban
Rating: PG-
Prompt: xxxholic, Clow/Yuuko: secrets - there's a bird that nests inside you / sleeping underneath your skin
Word count: 618
Summary: The future is coming fast.
+++++
He dreams that she is in a birdcage, three times the height of a human, with finger-wide bronze bars that all curve together to a gentle dome at the top. The bottom of the cage is lined with black satin pillows and she reclines among them, long patches of white skin exposed along her legs, her arms, her slim neck. The furisode she wears is dark blue for the most part, embroidered with a subtle overlapping pattern, but across the front, the color shifts from dark blue to ruby red and tawny gold, flaring from collarbone to knees in the shape of a heart. She lies in artful disarray with all her dark hair braided through with a multitude of white ribbons, the long fingers of one hand curled around a single bar of her cage. Her eyes are open as he approaches and kneels before her.
"This is all very pretty, my dearest," he says. "But isn't it a little fancy?"
She laughs, tilting her head back, so that more of her white neck is unveiled; the vee of her clothes dips down low, to the beginning swell of her breasts. "It's your dream, you great idiot," she says. "If it's fancy, it's your fault."
He reaches to touch her fingers, which are all cold as ice. They do not warm to him, even as he traces their delicate lines, from the knuckles to the white points of her nails. "I suppose I can be a little fancy," he allows. "But if I am, it's because of the company I'm keeping." There is enough of a gap between the bars that he can tug her hand free, and so he does, pressing his lips briefly to her wrist. "Shall I rescue you?"
"Do you think you could?" Her fingers are limp in his; her eyes are half-slitted shut, slashes of blood-red in her pale face. "Is that something the greatest magician in the world can accomplish?"
"With some effort, I'd say so." He laces their fingers together, and then the bars of the cage are dissolving into golden motes of light that flared and faded away. The rest of the structure remains in place, but now there is room for him to sit beside her, on the endless expanse of featureless floor. Slowly she twists until she's rolled to face him, and there is a lock of her dark hair that slides down across her throat and looks like a scar of shadows. She closes her eyes.
"Darling," he says. His voice is quiet and without echoes. "It's too early to sleep."
She remains silent. He reaches down with his other hand to touch her face, smooth as silk, cold as ice. His thumb brushes against the curve of her lower lip. Under his touch, fine black cracks begin to spiderweb outwards across her skin; a little more pressure and she simply cracks, like an egg's shell. Though he holds as still as possible, pieces of her begin to break off and fade away. Within moments he sits alone, amidst a sea of pillows and surrounded by a flurry of white petals. They catch in his sleeves, in his hair, and there's one upon his lip that tastes like salt and regret.
Clow Reed opens his eyes to his own bedroom ceiling. When he puts his hand to his face he finds it stiff and sore from dried tears. Other visions linger even as the immediacy of the dream begins to fade (red upon her breast, blue upon her lips, black within her eyes) and leaves behind nothing but knowledge.
"My dear, that's unfair," he murmurs. "You know I will always choose to try."
Author/Artist:
nekokobanRating: PG-
Prompt: xxxholic, Clow/Yuuko: secrets - there's a bird that nests inside you / sleeping underneath your skin
Word count: 618
Summary: The future is coming fast.
+++++
He dreams that she is in a birdcage, three times the height of a human, with finger-wide bronze bars that all curve together to a gentle dome at the top. The bottom of the cage is lined with black satin pillows and she reclines among them, long patches of white skin exposed along her legs, her arms, her slim neck. The furisode she wears is dark blue for the most part, embroidered with a subtle overlapping pattern, but across the front, the color shifts from dark blue to ruby red and tawny gold, flaring from collarbone to knees in the shape of a heart. She lies in artful disarray with all her dark hair braided through with a multitude of white ribbons, the long fingers of one hand curled around a single bar of her cage. Her eyes are open as he approaches and kneels before her.
"This is all very pretty, my dearest," he says. "But isn't it a little fancy?"
She laughs, tilting her head back, so that more of her white neck is unveiled; the vee of her clothes dips down low, to the beginning swell of her breasts. "It's your dream, you great idiot," she says. "If it's fancy, it's your fault."
He reaches to touch her fingers, which are all cold as ice. They do not warm to him, even as he traces their delicate lines, from the knuckles to the white points of her nails. "I suppose I can be a little fancy," he allows. "But if I am, it's because of the company I'm keeping." There is enough of a gap between the bars that he can tug her hand free, and so he does, pressing his lips briefly to her wrist. "Shall I rescue you?"
"Do you think you could?" Her fingers are limp in his; her eyes are half-slitted shut, slashes of blood-red in her pale face. "Is that something the greatest magician in the world can accomplish?"
"With some effort, I'd say so." He laces their fingers together, and then the bars of the cage are dissolving into golden motes of light that flared and faded away. The rest of the structure remains in place, but now there is room for him to sit beside her, on the endless expanse of featureless floor. Slowly she twists until she's rolled to face him, and there is a lock of her dark hair that slides down across her throat and looks like a scar of shadows. She closes her eyes.
"Darling," he says. His voice is quiet and without echoes. "It's too early to sleep."
She remains silent. He reaches down with his other hand to touch her face, smooth as silk, cold as ice. His thumb brushes against the curve of her lower lip. Under his touch, fine black cracks begin to spiderweb outwards across her skin; a little more pressure and she simply cracks, like an egg's shell. Though he holds as still as possible, pieces of her begin to break off and fade away. Within moments he sits alone, amidst a sea of pillows and surrounded by a flurry of white petals. They catch in his sleeves, in his hair, and there's one upon his lip that tastes like salt and regret.
Clow Reed opens his eyes to his own bedroom ceiling. When he puts his hand to his face he finds it stiff and sore from dried tears. Other visions linger even as the immediacy of the dream begins to fade (red upon her breast, blue upon her lips, black within her eyes) and leaves behind nothing but knowledge.
"My dear, that's unfair," he murmurs. "You know I will always choose to try."