My finals are overrrrrrrrr. Celebration time I say. Therefore, fic.
Fyliwion-sempai's demand was 'smex (though not smut) and plot'. Unfortunately it will have to be 'plot and smex', since my muses wouldn't have it any other way. However. More drabble-fic for ya. I dug up some prompts, mostly from books, since writerblock decided to make things cranky for a while.
Also, this takes place in Paris, and no, it is not an AU. Call it what you will—sudden patriotic fondness after jun-chan's and ly-chan's wonderful French Revolution ficcies, or my obligatory French fic, or whatever. I blame Maurice Leblanc and Arsene Lupin. *has had her Lupin anthology on her bedside table these last three weeks*
Disclaimer—Gosho-sensei lets me borrow the MK cast, yes? thankyou. I'll clean 'em up when I'm done.
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line (beginning)
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prompt:—
time past and time future
what might have been and what has been
point to one end, which is always present.
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(A story does not start.)
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Tick.
(Some would see it as clockwork.)
Tock.
(Some would see it as clockwork, the giant bronze hands slowly rotating on their hinges, tick- and tock-ing each second with grave resonance.)
Tick.
(Some would see it as clockwork, the town bustling with automatic activity—puffing cars filling in the street— hurried people running to and from work—buses following their tracks with metallic hisses—streetlamps blinking on and off as it grew dark and light—all with empty-eyed, mechanical regularity; that of a metronome.)
Tock.
(Some would see it as clockwork, the twisting of streets and avenues; boulevards ramming on it tall intersections; back alleys twining in the shadows of the greater buildings; interlacings all winding up to a close as one perfect pattern, not one straying lost within the city's doors.)
Tick.
(Some would see it as clockwork, the massive bells ringing copper and clear in the cold morning air, the clocks on walls and watches in pockets, speaking bronze hours, ticking each quicksilver second as minute heartbeats from dusk till dawn and back again.)
Tock.
Clocks here, dozens, watches and watches in backpockets and breastpockets, elaborately- or roughly-cuts ticking soft, minuscule peals as though one gigantic second within the tight confines of the soaring plane; unperturbed and unperturbing.
The creaking sound of trolleys; a rustle of blankets. Tick-tock, they say. Tick-tock.
Tick.
The woman who sleeps in one of the front seats is deeply asleep (overslept again, Ao—); her face is open and relaxed (tranquil); her lips grace up in some smiling dream. Sometimes, underneath the thick hem of the blue (heh) cover, her hands grapple a little; then cease.
Her face is bathed in the blue, ethereal halo of the plane's nightlights.
Tock.
Clocks, here, two only, one on the wall—finely cut and elegant, an expert work of poised mechanic, each peal rung sweet and unfurling in the apartment's silence—the other, a plain copper watch, carefully tucked away where it is safely found and easily picked.
The velvety sound of windy curtains; a horn down the street. Tick-tock, they say. Tick-tock.
Tick.
The man who sleeps at the desk is slumped, caught by sleep in the middle of work (you've always worked too hard, baka—); his eyelashes flutter at times (restless); the breaths the parted mouth takes are a little torn. Often he will look at though he is waking up.
He is not.
Tockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktock.
Tick—
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On September 19th, at 06:26:34, local hour, Nakamouri Aoko, twenty-four years old, exits the Tokyo-Paris plane onto French land.
On September 19th, at 06:30:00, local hour, Kuroba Kaito, twenty-four years old, awakes in his little apartment in high Montmartre.
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Tock.
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(A story does not start.
It is already started. It started many, many years ago, long before it was even known there was a story; and so it makes it difficult to say when, exactly, it did start.)
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Update basis is just as ever—every one or two days. On a side note, Katie-chan, I need to talk to you. Remind me if I forget (again), will ya?