★ pick someone you want to play with and put it in the subject. ★ feel free to request if you don't see 'em on the list. (muse strength may vary) ★ leave a pic/prompt/whatever ★ stuff ★ have fun!
[ some things he learned in the past two years: when you hang out in the darkness pretending to be someone you're not, fixing things that may not have been entirely your fault (but they are, he tells himself. all of it is), your senses start going one by one. everything smells like darkness, everything tastes like darkness, and before long, he figured he might as well wear a blindfold since all he could see was darkness anyway.
but those are things in the past. it's sunday morning and he's in the kitchen.
everyone's still asleep. the sun's just barely peeking into the kitchen window but he's wide awake and flipping pancakes over, a pile of toast on a plate next to him. he's thinking of what to say when they come in; maybe he'll make off with his plate of food before they all come down and it'll save him the explanation, but a part of him also doesn't really care. it's their day off before the whole master training begins and he thinks they might as well enjoy the peace and quiet before things get hectic again. ]
[ peace and quiet. two things that leon longs for, and two things he rarely allows himself to have.
what could have been a sleepy, serene sunday morning — punctuated by the occasional luxurious stretch or blissfully unbothered scratch — has instead been transformed into one of aches, sweat, and grime. he'd risen well before the sun and worked until his eyes watered, courtesy of the rays glinting off his gunblade. then came the frown, the idle wish for a cloud, and the not-entirely-satisfied retreat from his training.
in other words: leon turned a perfectly lovely morning into a perfectly routine one.
he's quiet when he slips back into the house. not by virtue of his stature: leon hasn't been built for stealth since he was a teenager. this is the quiet that comes with practice. this is quiet with a purpose. this ... is his attempt to avoid waking yuffie.
step there. step there. don't step there....
the dance to avoid creaking floorboards is a careful one. trial and error have taught him much, but it's never a guarantee. he holds his breath as he pivots, lips tightening at the slightest creaking of leather....
his concentration is that of a true swordsman. it's not until he's pirouetted his way into the kitchen — his usual next stop of the morning — that it wavers ... and he notices the smell.
[ maybe leon should invest in clothing that isn't entirely made from leather. or maybe he shouldn't, because it's not every day that riku gets treated to the sight of seeing leon two-stepping and pirouetting his way into the kitchen. there's something about it that makes it look extra ridiculous, maybe it's that serious look on his face while he's doing it -- the scar is the perfect touch. he has to bite his lip to prevent himself from laughing; if only sora was awake to see it, he might lay off on calling leon old.
in any case, after leon makes his way in, there's a moment of awkward silence as they stare each other down. eventually, riku slides a plate of toast, eggs and bacon across the counter towards him like some sort of peace offering. don't mention who cooked and i won't say a word about the dancing. ]
[ the silence is indeed an awkward one, but at least it's silence. leon can only imagine what it would be like had sora been the one to greet him....
he represses a shudder at the thought, and instead continues the little stare-down. blue on green. a perfect stalemate ... thankfully broken, when riku slides a plate across the counter.
leon nods; half in acknowledgment, half in agreement to the silent pact. if riku wants to keep his dawn activities quiet, leon certainly isn't going to argue.
he crosses into the kitchen proper — walking normally, now — and takes a seat across from riku. his mouth waters slightly as he breathes in the freshly cooked meal. normally, leon simply grabs a protein shake (mixed the previous night) and continues on his morning. a breakfast like this is definitely a treat.
not that leon actually says that. instead, he takes a bite, savors the delicious crumble of bacon, the perfect way it hits his tongue, and mutters: ]
... This is good.
[ the highest of praise, said in the flattest of tones. ]
[ while leon takes his first bite, riku digs into his own plate of pancakes as that familiar flicker-flash of insecurity creeps up his neck. it's an old feeling, one that he sometimes can't completely shake off despite the fact that he's mostly grown out of it, has done enough to prove that he's not the same dumbass he was at 15. but he's still 18 years too young and still trying to mold himself to fit his body that sometimes seems a little too big for him, caught in the awkward limbo of being an adult and being a kid. there's more responsibilities pressing on his shoulders now; he's only managed to finally accept himself recently, but he's got another set of expectations waiting for him to live up to.
(was he once so young? eight years old and ankle-deep in the sand, bright-eyed and dreaming of what lay beyond the horizon. those days seem so far away now, after everything that happened. years spent in the darkness are like dog years; they count for more because they demand more. more pain, more sorrow, more regret.)
leon's praise makes him look up though, and he holds back the initial instinct to shrug, nodding instead. ]
Thanks.
[ it's a little hard to mess up bacon and eggs, he thinks. he's no gourmet chef but he also had to feed himself during those days of playing double agent, so he supposes there's no room for him to talk. ]
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everyone :|
it's been eons since i used this journal i almost forgot the password
but those are things in the past. it's sunday morning and he's in the kitchen.
everyone's still asleep. the sun's just barely peeking into the kitchen window but he's wide awake and flipping pancakes over, a pile of toast on a plate next to him. he's thinking of what to say when they come in; maybe he'll make off with his plate of food before they all come down and it'll save him the explanation, but a part of him also doesn't really care. it's their day off before the whole master training begins and he thinks they might as well enjoy the peace and quiet before things get hectic again. ]
i'd be lost without lj juggler
what could have been a sleepy, serene sunday morning — punctuated by the occasional luxurious stretch or blissfully unbothered scratch — has instead been transformed into one of aches, sweat, and grime. he'd risen well before the sun and worked until his eyes watered, courtesy of the rays glinting off his gunblade. then came the frown, the idle wish for a cloud, and the not-entirely-satisfied retreat from his training.
in other words: leon turned a perfectly lovely morning into a perfectly routine one.
he's quiet when he slips back into the house. not by virtue of his stature: leon hasn't been built for stealth since he was a teenager. this is the quiet that comes with practice. this is quiet with a purpose. this ... is his attempt to avoid waking yuffie.
step there. step there. don't step there....
the dance to avoid creaking floorboards is a careful one. trial and error have taught him much, but it's never a guarantee. he holds his breath as he pivots, lips tightening at the slightest creaking of leather....
his concentration is that of a true swordsman. it's not until he's pirouetted his way into the kitchen — his usual next stop of the morning — that it wavers ... and he notices the smell.
which ... means he's not alone. ]
bless lj juggler
in any case, after leon makes his way in, there's a moment of awkward silence as they stare each other down. eventually, riku slides a plate of toast, eggs and bacon across the counter towards him like some sort of peace offering. don't mention who cooked and i won't say a word about the dancing. ]
no subject
he represses a shudder at the thought, and instead continues the little stare-down. blue on green. a perfect stalemate ... thankfully broken, when riku slides a plate across the counter.
leon nods; half in acknowledgment, half in agreement to the silent pact. if riku wants to keep his dawn activities quiet, leon certainly isn't going to argue.
he crosses into the kitchen proper — walking normally, now — and takes a seat across from riku. his mouth waters slightly as he breathes in the freshly cooked meal. normally, leon simply grabs a protein shake (mixed the previous night) and continues on his morning. a breakfast like this is definitely a treat.
not that leon actually says that. instead, he takes a bite, savors the delicious crumble of bacon, the perfect way it hits his tongue, and mutters: ]
... This is good.
[ the highest of praise, said in the flattest of tones. ]
no subject
(was he once so young? eight years old and ankle-deep in the sand, bright-eyed and dreaming of what lay beyond the horizon. those days seem so far away now, after everything that happened. years spent in the darkness are like dog years; they count for more because they demand more. more pain, more sorrow, more regret.)
leon's praise makes him look up though, and he holds back the initial instinct to shrug, nodding instead. ]
Thanks.
[ it's a little hard to mess up bacon and eggs, he thinks. he's no gourmet chef but he also had to feed himself during those days of playing double agent, so he supposes there's no room for him to talk. ]
There's more on the stove if you'd like seconds.