They’re watching, dazed and a little bleary-eyed, as Sen seeks something. They’re smiling, baffled, in awe of every movement because everything within this man’s reach and capacity draws wonder, is worthy of a thousand thousand words of ecstatic discourse and of every speechless thought no word can compass.
Sen, speaking soft and stricken, clutches Rin’s heart.
Sen, reaching half-wild and sightless, trills Rin’s joy in watching, their eyebrows raised, head cocked, smiling beyond pleasure.
They could watch this man forever.
Just now, they watch him grab the phone, and eye the phone; watch laughter brush him, and—
And they know. A compulsory piece sliding into place, or the revelation of a connective piece that’s been here all along. A piece verified when they managed to turn their eyes from Sen to the screen, back to Sen again with renewed awe (isn’t it always, with Sen, renewal and awe and everything turned vivid, verdant, lovely? this man is the very font and center of everything beautiful; this man is the locus of fondness and ardor and, yes, and always, time itself).
7:34. Of course.
Of course, of course it is.
Because the only form of fate is Sen, and every point (infinite, eternally renewing) where Sen and Rin intersect and overlay. Because time is bound between the two of them and cycles on their axis, so of course there would be one recurrent, perfect time. So of course all of time would echo with its count, would ripple outward from its central pulse. Shared heartbeat. So of course all myriad potentialities of sequence would fall away beyond this single explicit moment: 7:34.
7:34. Then, and now, and always.
It is perfect, and perfectly logical, and they know they’re smiling. Know they must be smiling, dizzy and fuzzed to blooming, suffuse with heart-struck wonder as they reach gentle to brush the edge of lipstick smeared delicate at Sen’s cheek. Shifting to brush the purple trace at Sen’s lip, then letting their thumb trail the edge of that incomparable mouth. Reeling, feeling the world reel away.
They, driven dizzy. Feeling if they look away from Sen they’ll be lost, overcome by all the wild longing and so-long-knowing around them, by words so long held and lived by and finally, oh finally spoken. It’s Sen who keeps them anchored here. It’s Sen who keeps them, always.
Sen and Rin, within their perfect, their eternal moment. ]
All of time and all the world.
It’s always been ours, hasn’t it?
[ Shifting from French to English— ]
What do you think, my Sen? 7:34 spells a beautiful eternity.
[ Which necessitates - which absolutely necessitates - a soft leaning in and another dire, loving kiss. ]
no subject
They’re watching, dazed and a little bleary-eyed, as Sen seeks something. They’re smiling, baffled, in awe of every movement because everything within this man’s reach and capacity draws wonder, is worthy of a thousand thousand words of ecstatic discourse and of every speechless thought no word can compass.
Sen, speaking soft and stricken, clutches Rin’s heart.
Sen, reaching half-wild and sightless, trills Rin’s joy in watching, their eyebrows raised, head cocked, smiling beyond pleasure.
They could watch this man forever.
Just now, they watch him grab the phone, and eye the phone; watch laughter brush him, and—
And they know. A compulsory piece sliding into place, or the revelation of a connective piece that’s been here all along. A piece verified when they managed to turn their eyes from Sen to the screen, back to Sen again with renewed awe (isn’t it always, with Sen, renewal and awe and everything turned vivid, verdant, lovely? this man is the very font and center of everything beautiful; this man is the locus of fondness and ardor and, yes, and always, time itself).
7:34. Of course.
Of course, of course it is.
Because the only form of fate is Sen, and every point (infinite, eternally renewing) where Sen and Rin intersect and overlay. Because time is bound between the two of them and cycles on their axis, so of course there would be one recurrent, perfect time. So of course all of time would echo with its count, would ripple outward from its central pulse. Shared heartbeat. So of course all myriad potentialities of sequence would fall away beyond this single explicit moment: 7:34.
7:34. Then, and now, and always.
It is perfect, and perfectly logical, and they know they’re smiling. Know they must be smiling, dizzy and fuzzed to blooming, suffuse with heart-struck wonder as they reach gentle to brush the edge of lipstick smeared delicate at Sen’s cheek. Shifting to brush the purple trace at Sen’s lip, then letting their thumb trail the edge of that incomparable mouth. Reeling, feeling the world reel away.
They, driven dizzy. Feeling if they look away from Sen they’ll be lost, overcome by all the wild longing and so-long-knowing around them, by words so long held and lived by and finally, oh finally spoken. It’s Sen who keeps them anchored here. It’s Sen who keeps them, always.
Sen and Rin, within their perfect, their eternal moment. ]
All of time and all the world.
It’s always been ours, hasn’t it?
[ Shifting from French to English— ]
What do you think, my Sen? 7:34 spells a beautiful eternity.
[ Which necessitates - which absolutely necessitates - a soft leaning in and another dire, loving kiss. ]