Open The Opposite of a Recovery

[Akamine Sota]

Another busy, bustling street. On one side of the road you can find red curls, falling over one another and shielding a part of Sota's face from the public. He's got his chin facing the ground, his head facing the clouds.

Budding within is the mixture of tar and spite. A growing void of black, harboring colors that he refuses to paint on the outside, hidden from the eye of the public — whether it be his family or the persons he surrounds himself with. Well. Maybe there was one, single man that was allowed to peek into the underbelly of his mind. A man that was the root of it all, and perhaps the someone who would know what to do — what to say. But even to the sennin Sota know not what display to give.

So he's left with the pointy corners of his own thoughts, poking into him, interrupting every train of thought that tries for a distraction. A spider's thread extends down, touches the top of his crown.

What the fuck bothers him so badly?

A sudden symphony. Gentle, familiar. Distant, like a river hidden behind a forest. Again: the sound of a soft stream. Waters dancing through flesh.

Sota knows what this is. Has gotten used to its calls over the past couple of days. Knows that somebody's nearby, and fails to calm his nerves before they push him up. From the wall he'd been leaning against and into the busy crowd. Ought to give him deja vu with how much he approaches strangers on the streets and barks at them demands. This one goes:

"you. I need to try something," followed by a hand moving to grab them.

Whether they'd offer their consent or not, his eyes would zip to their injury, and he'd force a tight grip over it. As if wanting to collect every drop of blood that leaks through the slit.



—
wc 315
IMPORTANT: it's assumed that ur character is injured as sota just approached some1 with a cut. could be anything from a paper cut on their thumb to an open gash in their eye, idc. but ya.

 

[Shinrya Sachiko]

Tk - tk - tk.
The sound was repeated through clenched teeth in what felt like perpetuity. She had been pacing back and forth along the edge of the street - a state she found both reflexive and somewhat wearing - and stalling on occasion to think over her options. A stop to her motion, however, was an opening for wicked pain to flash white under her arm and the cut that delicately spiraled across its fore. This, in turn, called motion back to action, and thus was the cycle perpetuated. A furrowed brow split an otherwise soft, almost doey, expression, her lips downturned between a pout and a grimace. Tk - tk - tk came her short exhalations again, an uncharacteristic but quickly tedious noise.

She had hurt herself before, of course. She had had trouble with roughhousing when she was little - the start to a long spiral of repression - and as something of a daredevil in her later years. Read, current. Both trends came with them small wounds, scrapes and bruises. This was the worst of them yet. It wasn't mortal, and surely looked worse than its damage, but that spared no feelings. The problem was that it wasn't her feelings that concerned her: if she showed up to her hosts with a bleeding arm, the fretting would sting worse than any injury. They were kind, older people. It was gracious of them to look after her as she attended the Academy nearby, away from home in her cloister as she was. They were, however, kind, older people -- she had come to find that anyone in those categories had a penchant of being overgentle with her. She couldn't stand it. She held no malice, but she couldn't freakin' take one more second of guardian-assigned fragility. Ahhh, Miyako would be so mad, too ...

She stalled once more, feet alternating in a rhythmic tap on the ground as if to add to her concerto of tk - tk - tk, and she was brought suddenly out of her thoughts with a hand on her.

Instinct. Ferality. Invaders must die. --

It was a young boy, likely no older than her, with troubled features and a shock of red to draw the eyes. His tone of voice garnered more attention - deft crimson fell on his lips as he spoke, Utsumi's better nature keeping her pulse slow and even in repose. She blinked slowly, once, twice. She surveyed his face and let his words sink in, and her conclusion came quickly. Oh! He wanted to help her!

A wounded animal slunk back from her eyes and warmth replaced it, a nervous smile as she gently - but quite firmly - released her hand from his grip (or as much as she could manage without hurting him). Every second fingers remained around her skin terror burned just beneath the surface. Her other hand, uninjured, dove in a pack to take out a pre-written note she held in front of him, but she tried to mouth an 'I'm okay, thank you!' in hopes that it'd assuage his interest in her wound.

 

[Akamine Sota]

Sota sees the objective first; a subject second. Meets dual-rubies a moment too late to catch onto the shift. Glares when her soundless words sink to the ground before they can reach his eye. In more dire circumstances, the ideal shinobi is ready to read lips, whether it be his allies' or his opponents'. The ideal shinobi also refrains when he's faced with the urge to yank at a random bypasser. But alas.

Thrust in his face is a small note. Sota staggers back a step. Makes a show of blinking, squinting, and — if the confusion isn't clear on his face — barking "what??" Half considers slapping the note from her hand, but then — by some ungodly miracle — stops himself when he manages to catch perhaps the only relevant word: mute.

Here, his face contorts again. Raises one brow, furrows the other. Then, lowers both. Curls one corner of his lips, and —

"shit, sorry," is only half a snicker before his palm comes up to shield it.

Doesn't mean to hinder her ability to understand him; hardly realizes if he does. Ruled by ignorance and a-many other things that suggest the boy to believe the world revolves around him, Sota finds himself at a crossroads. Voices from previous days ring in one ear, his ego in the other. A good four or five seconds is all it takes for him to decide.

"Listen," he starts. Removes his hand, and uses both to gesture "I — " to himself — "neeeed yooouuuuur — " then towards her — "heeeelp. Not the other way around. Got that?" A question poised for the air to swallow because Sota doesn't need for her to get anything. His hands are quick to fly back out. Wrap a much crueler grip around her injured arm should she choose to not react.



—
wc 304

 

[Shinrya Sachiko]

Utsumi, in her graces and naivety, considered people to be inherently good. Pragmatism would tell you that people do tend towards behaving well, but that it's by burden of society rather than an inherent goodness. The proving statement is thus: children are often very mean. Children, being less concerned with social currency, could say and be whatever they wanted on a knee-jerked whim. It was something Utsumi was used to, and a problem she centralized to herself. She couldn't let herself be a burden - she couldn't believe she was one, at least - but she knew her difficulties made it more difficult for other people to interface with her, and she wore that cross. It only hurt her feelings a little bit. This, with all things, was taken in a long, quiet stride.

She smiled back at him, confused and -- deflated, in her heart of hearts, but remained amicable. It wasn't his fault - and he said he was sorry! She was quite done with concern about her well-being, but it always came from such a genuine place --

She was coiled the moment he tried to grab her again, her shoulders stooping with the way her body flattened to the ground and then lunged backwards in a sharp relocation. The only sound was the tap of her feet again on placement, fists curled defensively and extended out her front with her one palm forward. Her eyes had lost all light in that moment of terror; and, when she looked up, began to sparkle once more as if stars were then being born in a brand new galaxy. She jolted upright, her reflex immediately forgotten in lieu of clasping her hands together and tapping her feet - alternating - on the gravel. She thought to mouth something again, but that seemed as unlikely to reach him as signing. Fingers deftly and with excitement pulled out a notepad and dislodged a pen from her ear, scribbling at a hurried pace.

You need my help! Okay! What's wrong? What can I help with? : D I can hear, by the way!! Mute just means I can't speak, silly!! XP You're funny. Are you okay? Are you lost? I know the way anywhere! She was careful not to get any blood on the page, fervor devouring pain as an adrenaline of passion thrummed through eager hands. Presented, and with a cheery smile!

 

[Akamine Sota]

Deny him once, deny him twice. Here's what catches Sota by surprise: the way she all but flicks herself away from him, and has his own shoulders yanking in the air, only to — get this — warm up a new smile for him. As though her eyes hadn't just accused him of murder. Trust Sota to find the fucked ones.

Another note. His shoulders fall, and he resigns a long, irritated breath. Decides to do more than just skim but, of course, this turns out to be a mistake. Doesn't realize it just yet. Not until —

....

You're funny.

.............

"What?" is fucking croaked. Forces a step back, like he'd burnt himself on fire. Uncontrollable blinks of green, arms that suddenly didn't know where to rest. Sota doesn't fumble. He never, ever fumbles, and yet — "fuck, you should've told me you were mute!" and slowly, something begins to settle over his face. Something alien. (What a shit attempt for an excuse!) "Forget it, I was — " his head snaps over his shoulder, then back — "your injury. I was gonna... uhm. I was..................."

Wait. What was he trying to do, again?



—
wc 190

 

[Shinrya Sachiko]

He seemed deeply confused. This touched Utsumi, though she worried this fragility could be scared away with too bold a move. You handled young boys like you handled the malnourished hounds around the village, she had learned.

Utsumi's smile gave way to a concerned frown, her lips falling with the lilt of her head. Raven hair obscured peering red only for the moment it took to leave the brush - a hand tucking it behind her ear with a pen to hold it steady. She looked him over - curious, but not invasive - and a hand tentatively lifted to offer a little wave. She was addressing with her body language: a 'Friend, is everything okay?' within quizzical glances and gentle motions.

His words, however coarse and scattered, drew little in the way of ire from Utsumi - instead, her shoulders began shaking and parted lips exhaled in a new, quiet rhythm. She was laughing. It wasn't directed at him, and hands raised before her to wave off the idea that could ever be the case, because the beaming of her smile and the warmth in eyes that opened anew on him shared the humor. She motioned to ask him for his patience - just one more second, her eyes pleaded within mirth - and she passed off another slip.

It's okay! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. As if that's what had happened between them. It was easy to blame herself; it was easy to not want him to. I really should have done something about this cut, haha. I just didn't want to scare my hosts. Did you need to talk? We can sit down. I know I'm a little slow to respond, but I'm a really good listener. Hehe. : P

 

[Akamine Sota]

Sota invents a number of reasons as to why he does what he does next: a) he'd been busy putting out a fire, b) he forgot what he'd meant to do, and c) she's a damned witch, is what. Reasons it's the very last option because why would it ever be him?

See, here's what goes down:

kid falls into another, uncharacteristic quiet, and — for the first time — sees her. Watches budding corners falter, sees gems of red glimmer through a curtain of black. Sees small fingers draw shapes in the air. Sees her shoulders laugh and twist as she prepares another note to pass him. Eyes run over this one without so much as a peep, and what comes out of him next promises to humiliate tomorrow's Sota. Doesn't realize he'd had it in him; words much gentler than he means for them to sound.

"You......... didn't." Averts his glare lest she reads him as a witch does. Locks his jaw, tries again, "just get that shit covered. You looking to infect people, or something?"

Here, Sota peeks at her from the corner of his eyes. Boom! His stomach makes a flip. Why? 'Cause she's a fucking witch, is why. Alright, he decides he remembers what he came to do. "Good listener? Then listen to me and hand over your arm. Here — " thankfully, his demands echo with a snap. His hand thrusts out — not to grab, not to yank — though it certainly seems like it will, at first — but to hold. Quickly, before he provokes another one of her episodes, he runs his eyes over the bloodied slit.

Needs to do nothing but trace it with his mind, then, enter the stage of coagulation. If she'd not pulled back by here, her wound would be woven to a still. A clotted wall. And, if she doesn't pull back by here, then Sota does. A bit frantic, when he does.



—
wc 322

 

[Shinrya Sachiko]

Her shoulders slumped briefly in the tremble of a sigh, nodding along his response in resignation; between a cheeky sort of embarrassment & gratitude. She had little in the ways of medical skill - and even less in the ways of 'asking for help' - but it was both irresponsible and asking for attention to linger outside with an open wound. She looked down at it, wrinkled her nose. Blood didn't really bother her, but the unsightliness of it gave her pause. She realized it still hurt. Geez, it really hurt. How had she forgotten it hurt? Uwaa.

She goes to makeshift something as a last resort out of the corner of her camisole with a pensive frown, moving to tear it away through bare fingers, but is stopped by his follow-up. Digits thumb the edges of soft cloth before clenching as if by brace. She freezes in that moment. The seconds freeze along with her. A framing of her thoughts and the scattered way they hunt for answer. Her pulse quickens. It wasn't his fault - it was never anyone's fault, but unbridled terror pricked pins across her skin. An animal - the heart of instinct, with its head buried in the thrumming rush of her blood - started to kick as if spurred and startled. It shouldn't be so hard, it shouldn't be so scary: but the idea of suppression of form for a creature of little recourse was terrifying even in the shape of gentle fingers.

When you couldn't call for help you had to not need it. You had to be able to fight. You had to be able to run.

She was too slow to respond this time - trapped in her own anxieties as fear so often caged - and shook under his hand with a flinch when it landed, her lips parted in an unsteady gasp (quiet, so quiet). She fought every urge to yank away. It was so silly, she thought. It was so silly to be this close to tears, but phobia weren't often grounded in rational, were they? There were so many things in the dark. She just wanted to be able to ask what they wanted, first. A hand with its slightest tremble laid on the outside of his while he worked - a modicum of control regained for herself in the action - and she'd thumb along his skin, breathing out like a child at the doctor's. She wasn't afraid of needles. She wasn't afraid of needles. She wasn't afraid of needles.

And just like that, it was over before she fully opened her eyes again. And just like that, it no longer hurt. A blink of surprise. The clarity and confusion after fear fades away. A moment of peace and soft hands on soft hands, fingers flexed against his arm -- and then he was gone, recoiled, and it was an instinct she knew all too well.

And there was that door again, into this heart of hearts. And there was the sound of footfall. Someone else in her world.

She relaxed to the point of a curious dog, looking her arm over from all perspectives while she would twist it in the air and rotate herself in place. Shock took her expression before joy insurrected, wide mouth and awed eyes. She was giddy by the end of her inspection, hopping up and down and turning back to Sota with an excitable rush of applause. Her hands made such a shy drum in the night air, but the amazement she met his gaze with seemed somehow louder. Her fingers twitched as they formed a heart - a 'thank you, thank you!' joined with a beaming smile - and then rushed to scribble something else out.

You're amazing!! You're -- can I ask your name? I want to thank my knight in shining armor, haha! Where'd you learn to do that? It doesn't hurt at all anymore! Oh my gosh! Thank you! You're so cool! : D

 

[Akamine Sota]

A canvas so familiar, and yet not. He's witnessed wide, doe-eyed fear. Seen tremor in a dozen. Caused the better half of it. But her hand slides over his own, and he looks up, and he realizes:

for the first time, it isn't he who brings the horror to others.

Nothing he lets himself dwell over. In fact, dwell is what he'd done up til this point. The objective ticks with green. He should just leave. And yet, when she offers him a velvety round of applause, a gesture and another, his feet decide to do anything but. Another note: his eyes zip to it like metal to a magnet.

.................................

.....................

Witch....

.....

..

"It's... — " wait, no. She's a problem! Was he just about to give her his — "Sota." His jaw tightens, and he feels a line settle between his brows. New habit: snapping his face to the side, then back towards her before barking (with the utmost care) his next demands: "gimmie that first note you made. Didn't... read the whole thing." Adopting a gentler tone wasn't pathetic enough. Sota needed to see something he'd so easily glossed over moments prior.

"Oh. And this." Swipes the current one in her hand.



—
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[Shinrya Sachiko]

There's something about him: something that kept Utsumi's eyes on him while he spoke, following his little movements with utmost curiosity. She watched him with stars in her eyes, refracting and sharing the lightness he seemed to shed for her. The way he spoke, and moved, and the presentation he held -- his declarations, so blunt yet forced at the same time. Utsumi realized then what it reminded her of. A prince! Not from a fairy tail, no - those were always too charming and graceful. He was ... spoiled wasn't the right word for it, but ... like there was this expectation he placed on himself? Somehow like ... he had this weight he had to carry - something he had to fulfill - and he wasn't happy about it, but he held onto it so tightly. That tugged deeper at Utsumi's heart, her little mouth open in consideration.

Sota-kun, Sota-kun. She wanted to say. Sota-kun, you're too pretty to look so worried.

Instead, her head tilted in that slow, canid way it did when she was trying to process a request or particularly difficult thought, the moment a lightbub lit mirrored by a shine across her expression. Every new exploration was an 'Eureka!' It was very exciting to be in her head. Her brow briefly furrowed, not in agitation but a simple 'you want this? sure, okay,' as if she couldn't understand why he would want either note (she hadn't even drawn on them!) but simply unwilling to deny the request. She fished out her first greeting page, passing it over but waving him for another to follow it.

Thank you, Sota-kun!! You're really nice! Do you go to the Academy too? Is that why you wanted to see it again? It's true! I'm a leaf Shinobi! You look like you could be a ninja, too, Sota-kun. She paused, tapping her pen and glancing over at him as she wrote this. You look like you're probably pretty strong. Oh, but, if you liked those pages, give me just one second, okay? She held it out to him and tapped her little feet, excited to get to her next project. She was concerned and it wasn't lost on her features - people would usually get bored of waiting for her responses at this point, and she more-than-half expected him to say he was done now. Ah, please, just one more. I just want to see you smile.

Nothing in the universe was happier than the smile she gave him with this.

 

[Akamine Sota]

Never before has he felt so immensely.. little. With his head tucked between his shoulders, and a forced glare seeking her from under his brows. With hands shoved down the comfort of their pockets — not because of reasons he knew, but because of ones he'd never known. And that seemed to be the theme of today; of what this witch was capable of. Embarking him on a million new things with just a gesture. This one's a craned crown.

Answers to her questions should be yes, then no, but Sota offers a dismissive "yeah, yeah. Something like that." Doesn't need to tell her what she doesn't need to know.

What his eyes really pause at is the ˗ˏˋ Utsumi ´ˎ˗ in the middle. Pockets it within the bank of his memory before shoving paper back to her — to... Utsumi. Well. Waits for her to finish doodling first 'cause he's always been generous like that. Right? His request is in vain 'cause Utsumi is written on her next note. One he retrieves warily, in between one or two glances up at her.

Finally, looks down. Sees first the large text, and — here's how it goes down;

A brow twitches at the o in Sota. The exclamation mark makes him shift his weight to his other foot, her name makes him shift it back to the first. Then, a girl and a boy, and some unhelpful descriptions scattered here and there. An injured arm, a random ♥, a crown doodled over what Sota decides is the worst drawing of his person yet. And, by this point he's adjusted not just weight but position — circled around, unknowingly turned himself away from her while the note — held by hands of two — inched closer to his face. Closer for him to see, for him to...

He blinks.

(If a shining expression signaled Utsumi's lightbulb, then a blink translated to realization; Sota's yank back down to reality.)

What whips around to face her isn't a smile. Sota doesn't know what. Just feels fevers and the prickling of skin. Feels muscles stiffen, from shoulders and up. A dry throat, a quiet "you're......... wel...." faltering behind constricting walls. A hot flash over what he really, really hopes is a glare. Just how the fuck does she do this????????

One hand curls angrily over the note — now his note, as it goes to his pocket. "Whatever," he decides instead. "Just don't be stupid, again, alright?" He can't ask how she'd gotten injured in the first place. That required him to stay. "You better not let me catch you with another... mark." And he can't spell out injury because that would suggest a deeper level of care.

Without awaiting a reaction or a goodbye, shoves 2nd hand in his pocket and yanks himself in the opposite direction. Storms away. Knows he'll need to turn two corners back for his house.



—
wc 479
[exits topic]

 

[Shinrya Sachiko]

E☆heh☆heh. The grin she gave him - responding to his insistence she not be 'stupid again' - was cheeky and overwhelming for the rest of her soft features, shoving cheeks aside to run more than creep in a full crescent. She looked on the verge of laughter -- she had never really beamed so brightly with such smug intensity, while also seeming blissfully aware of her own smugness. She was never stupid, silly. Her body just couldn't keep up with the excitement of her mind sometimes! Doing something dumb just meant doing something someone else wouldn't: and she's not going to worry about whatever other people do or don't. It was always right to do for yourself. It was always right to chase happiness - no matter how high up a tree it was.

: )

Oh, but --

With the last vestiges of concern he seemed to muster he had turned away. Had the picture upset him? He looked so troubled. Ah, uhm, but he kept it, right? So, Sota-kun --
A hand lifted out, wavering in the air, but no sound came to call for his attention. A rush of air left her mouth - a 'wait, how can I see you again?' - but she stood silent on the sidewalk and standing she remained. His feet shifted to turn the corner and she realized then he was gone. A dreary lilt took her arm, faltering closer to her chest with the hand turned in a wave to the shadows at the end of the street. She remained there for too many minutes, waiting only to see if he'd pop his head back around and tell her goodnight. The dim afternoon sun was bleeding; and every moment, weak, it fell closer to the horizon. Mm, probably not. Still, that - still, he - still, that had been nice. He had been nice.

So she closed her eyes and recalled the feeling of his hand on her arm: and the memory of fear pricked along the inside of her skin, feet curving into the ground as if she needed to jump or run away - but she lingered, just that moment longer, and clung to its softness. The peace that followed the terror. The gentleness of her fingers on the back of his hand, and the kindness of his stitching that heralded no pain. No fear. She breathed out. She breathed in.

Then she went home.

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