The Prose - Tumblr Posts
TRACES FOR YOUR HEART .
tokyo debunker ⎯ㅤ zenji kotodama .ᐟ
fluff but a little suggestive, based on zenji's birthday, subaru is just a baby, gender neutral, hotarubi spoilers
ZENJI held the brush reverently again.
he couldn't help it.
when that birthday present was more than pigments and bristles... when bright streaks of sunlight slipped through the windows of clementia's old dormitory, golden and slow, sinking into the ground the way he imagined in real forests. . . when the wet tip of ink waved, zenji studied every feature of your body, like a confectioner examines a cake before decorating it; patterned with dark colors and bright curves just the way you, his newest work of art, should be. . . then he hummed and glided, shodō over soft skin and crimson eyes glowing with the promise of art and affection.
you knew that, for zenji, this was the opportunity to express what his fingertips – and the rest of his body – couldn't capture. you thought, face in the pillow and cheeks burning pink, at his happy expression, the inspired man of the feather blowing out candles with the help of haku; and you eagerly slide a gift box in front of zenji, from which subaru gently removes the purple ribbon and lid, waving to his dear friend with an emotion of unspoken words, but the wish of “happy birthday,” loaded in your gaze violet. . . but it's then that zenji squints his eyes, bright spots, hot drops in the corners and it's then that he thinks about crying when he finds your face again. “th-they're anomalous brushes. haku and subaru came up with the idea.” you explain, expounding the credit as if you could take the attention away from that phantom ghoul; balanced by tears and the urge to hug your two old friends and especially you!
zenji recognizes when you try to make sure he doesn’t fall on top of the three of you. zenji recognizes crossing the atoms of his body. zenji recognizes his own knees giving way to the floor. empty. “forgive me, friends. sometimes, i forget that i can go much further.” and it was worth it in the end: “thank you, my dear.”
sweet words and unwavering smile, your heart – which you didn't imagine beating – warms, stumbling faster knowing you did something for your special day. it was a magical day, zenji thinks, a perfect day that he would remember later when he sang whatever came to mind and seemed appropriate for the moment as the biwa, suitable ballads, snippets of his own invention, came to an end. sometimes, right before he claimed you as his muse, music played in his sleepy ears, entire orchestras and choirs sternly but joyfully proclaiming something unremembered. he tried to remember these songs and sing them too; but seeing how giddy you looked, bright and flushed from receiving devoted attention, makes zenji want to write a new chapter in your body. lips instead of bristles. saliva instead of ink. he's almost jealous of how his beloved honor student sighs, the material slides down his collarbone, arms, thighs. . . “you're adorable. so adorable.” — i love you.
and then there is nothing more to say to you than lines engraved on your body.
but if there were another life after this, zenji kotodama would hope to write with his lips on his skin what those brushes were privileged to have.
