автобус делает знакомый поворот.
я по инерции, не думая об этом,
встаю и выхожу у кованных ворот.
иду по рельсам следом.

я поднимаю взгляд у перехода
и, опоздав, приходит осознание,
что я, запутавшись, походу,
родных домов увидев очертания,
приехала туда, где раньше был мой дом.

и, почему-то, за родным окном,
я нахожу молчание.

Перчатки надевая на ладони, притрагиваешься до пламени костра и, странно так, не ожидаешь боли даже тогда, когда рука в перчатке плавится насквозь.

И, зажмурившись, чтоб точно все сбылось, ты задуваешь свечи.

Мое отражение мне говорит
не бежать вперед.
Я смеюсь, а он, надувшись, молчит,
я убегаю и он зовет.

Бегу от грозы и не слышу зов
отражения за спиной.
Я не помню сколько бегу я часов,
а его уже нет за мной.

Я не знаю когда отраженья лицо
превратилось в простое стекло.
Так забавно, в конце то концов,
он — не я. Я — не он.
Я — из дома, он — в дом.

И лицо, так похожее на мое, на меня глядит.
У него давно уже все свое,
это он впереди бежит.

Я хватаю рукой мнимый след
и бегу. Может, мне повезет
и, выбегая на свет,
я увижу,
что он остановился
и ждет.

he sits on the floor, spine against bed, and keeps staring at nothing. blank paper of his messy notebook looks at him back.

outside lurks into the booked room with fast food smell and (probably drunk) laughter. it's a festival in this side of a country, a celebration of love and youth. and... jiraya sits on the floor, alone, pencil in hand.

writing romance for a well-known romance author should not be that hard. especially when everyone and everything around is drowning in affection and, well, romance.

suddenly it simply is.

he feels tiredness on the back of his eyelids, weight in his hips and age in the ways his memory keeps showing him so many faces that it's ridiculously hard to understand what exactly he is thinking of.

he sighs and starts writing.

kyrie is tired.

she knows well not to guilt herself for that, as tiredness is simply a part of life. but that knowledge doesn't help when she has no home, no distinct future, no brother at her side and those neighbors she spoke to so often are collectively trying to talk her out of being with the only man she finds stable ground with.

it would be fine if she could cover her ears and find herself in warm strong hug, forgetting about everything (even if only for a couple of minutes) but nero is often away these days.

they live in some apartment that stayed intact by nothing less than a miracle after all demon-invasion situation. and its okay, really. kyrie does her best to find comfort in new place and multiply it by ten, but she is tired.

yesterday she was invited to come to a new church of sparda. the old building was obviously off limits for regular people, but that didn't stop believers from creating annual gatherings and singing prayers. the thought should be warming and inspiring. kyrie can't find it in herself to participate.

nero tries to quietly slip into the bedroom at night. the important word here is "tries". he does not succeed in his goal. he smells like blood, gore, sweat and mud. kyrie rises in bed, looking at his dark silhouette in front of corridor lighting and hears how her boyfriend sighs in relief.

she goes back to her pillow and hears running water in the pipes. she is still tired, but nero is warm, his hair's damp, his heart's still beating, his lips touch every inch of her face and, smiling in a haze, she brings her arms round him.

she is tired but she knows it will go away eventually. praise sparda.

trish doesn't know if she should laugh or cry.

the boy looks like a carbon copy. if not for her confidence in dantes lack of acting skills, she would accuse him of messing with her intel gathering. lady is missing so much by refusing to participate in this clown trip.

trish kinda likes the boy. he's clumsy a bit, loud, rude and determined. she can't wait to see dantes face when they meet. but again, would the man even notice anything? maybe he stinks too much of pizza and blood to smell something under his nose.

honestly, how does that even happen? has the boys mother simply decided to never seek dante? hm, that was an assumption she ever knew who the childs father was. maybe she never survived long enough, maybe she was too soft. the boy was too human for her to have any demonic heritage of her own.

it is not her deal, after all. she's here to do her stuff, not to dwell on some long-lost probably-spardas-nestling. but oh he looks exactly like dante. lady is missing so much.

somehow somewhere in this trash of a building there is a clock. vergil knows that because it won't stop ticking. to his misery.
it's not loud or anything, but demon has demonic senses and vergil has a very on-guard state of self. so the ticking is making him even more restless. he tries to read, but the rhythm of the poetry is clashing horrendously with the rhythm of the clock.
having a type of clock that ticks mechanically in the age when digital ones exist (and vergil was in a mountain of learning new ways humans expanded digitally himself) seems unnecessary and also very on brand with dante. the man had a jukebox standing in the agency. some clients, and this was coming from dante himself, didn't even know those things were still used.
and all these thoughts keep littering vergils brain because of that awful ticking.
he should find it and put it down out of its misery with his own hands. but that would mean that it is genuinely bothering enough to move him from his place on a couch. and he won't loose to a fucking clock.
next time he will ask to join the crew on their mission. not because of the clock, obviously. that thing is nothing compared to what he has lived through. but maybe getting out of "devil may cry" agency once in a while will make him look less like he's on house arrest. which he is on, fairly.
the clock keeps existing and something tiny in vergil slips a thought into his brain that the hell was better than this. genuinely better.

by the time dante, trish and lady step into the building, vergil is rearranging furniture for the third time.
by the time a new client walks in with a job, a week later, vergil finds the damn piece of a time measurement and feels so fulfilled after smashing it on the ground that trish starts laughing out loud just by looking at him without even a hint of shame in her posture.
by the time thay decide who's going to be on the team for the job, vergil is the first one to volunteer.
by the time dante is smiling and making it a sibling duet, lady is smirking and collecting her fair profit from trish. they all should know better than to betting against her. the money she gathers is more than the poor clock costed her anyway.

Твой Бог не способен тебе помочь, ведь он не спасает меньших. Твой Бог одинок по своей вине, ведь кто считает павших в выигрышной войне, кто пересчитывать будет дошедших?

Твой Бог, мой отец, глядит сверху вниз с высоты своего постамента и мраморные глаза не смотрят вперед. Нету у скульптора инструмента чтобы вдохнуть в него жизнь, но Бог твой уже не ждет.

Это была ты, мне стоило ожидать.
Беру в руку твою темную прядь,
Прохожусь ладонью по открытой спине
И чувствую, как кругами широкими по воде
Расходится старая сеть событий.

Новое утро приветствует новой зарёй.
Всё отгниет и станет потом землей.
Помнит ли дерево, выросшее на ее месте,
Что было раньше? Пики, черви или же крести?
Это не важно теперь.

Горячий чай налью в холодную кружку,
Поцелую родную вороную макушку
И устроюсь удобно в кресле у солнечного окна.
Пусть даже ты и беда,
Не нахожу в себе сопротивления.

"То, что лежит на траве должно остаться в земле!

За яркой короной
на черном, проклятом троне
сидит и король, и труп.
Тулуп его красным мехом
покрыт и раскатистым эхом
расходится глас.

Приказ — не мольба и не обращенье!
Наказ — не вода и не предложенье!
За лестью, на молчаливое горе,
напуганный люд, рожденный в неволе,
скрывает животный страх.

Вставай!
Поднимай
горящие правдой глаза!
Ведь с нами и жизнь, и свет, и небеса!
Сразимся с уродом клыкастым на честном бою!"

Король, поправляя свою корону,
Сидит на холодном и неудобном троне.
И нос щекотал бы ему дорогой тулуп,
Если б король давным давно не был бы труп.

Слева церковница и жена давится смехом
И в тишине тронной залы он отражается эхом
От каменных темных стен замка на раз.
У бедного горе-поэта трясется глаз.

У горстки и бравых, и смелых, и светлых
Не набирается действий ответных.
Понурившись, проморгавшись и стиснув зубы,
Светочи уходят из замка, в своих словах глупы и грубы.

Слезами свое запивая привычное горе,
Они всех страшат своею непобедимою волей.

the bouquet is bigger than any bouquet should be, frankly. not that she was complaining! she would never! it's just... well... a bit awkward. her fingers curl at the heavy feeling in her throat.
it's a nice bouquet too. pretty, vibrant colors, several ribbons, nasty to untrained eyes tissue paper. everything in this shouts "ibuki mioda".
especially ibuki mioda herself, behind the flowers, drowned in her gift to mikan and unstoppable in her desire to show off to her girlfriend.
she succeeds in that. as usual.
mikan isn't really sure what she should do with the gift, but the gesture is sugary sweet. but she doesn't own a vase big enough. and if she would find one, the wrapping and ribbons and such should be off anyways. and it's such a pity, mikan could never do it! but the flowers should get water so they would stay pretty and cherished! but oh, what of she doesn't find any vases at all?!
ibuki, dumfounded, lowers the bouquet and looks at crying mikan. next stop: minor crisis. ibuki got this. ibuki has no idea as to what is actually happening, but that never stopped her before and it won't be stopping her now.

their first anniversary date does not go as planned. mikan cries over the flowers. ibuki only makes it worse by suggesting tossing it somewhere and letting it wither away. mikan, all red faced, in tears and snot, snatches her gift and does not let ibuki take it away, even if only so she could help mikan hold it.
instead of a planned day on the different island parts, they sit at the place that years ago was a gorgeous maintained park and hold flowers together.
and in the end?
ibuki finds the vase. mikan wraps the paper around it. they put ribbons in their hair.
and are, essentially, happy.

Ты не можешь услышать, сколько бы не пыталась
Уши настроить на правильную волну.
Ты, неудачливая, осталась
Одна и в плену.

С неба капает воск и размазывается под ногами
У каждого, кто с ним хотя бы знаком.
Люди, полного воска зубами
Едят картон.

Не отводишь глаз от невидимого небосвода,
Будто там есть так нужный тебе ответ.
Будто там есть наша свобода.
Но ее — нет.

Воска падает тень, булькая словно от счастья,
Так готовая все на пути своем съесть.
Громким криком хватаю запястья...
Глухая весть.

Я спасаю на вечности венчанную глухую душу
От небесных ожогов на памяти и глазах.
И когда-нибудь я принесу на сушу
Твой прах.

Сколько можно — столько болит лицо.
Дни сливаются в месяцы, те — в кольцо
Из отлаженной жизнью ужасной рутины.
Ты не можешь быть ветром, так будь плотиной.

Плитка красива, но горько тает на языке.
Ты не рыба, но воздух ловишь ртом на песке
И свободой и взглядом ты хочешь в море.
И ногами и сердцем ты ищешь горе.

Сколько можно столько болеть лицу?
Ноги в холоде, так не под стать творцу,
Под ногтями вязкая грязь и сладость.
Господи, милый, даруй мне слабость.

Соня течет из кружки на блюдце.
Солнце с Луной над Соней смеются.
Соня хватает чайную ложку,
Трясет ей в их сторону понарошку.

Соня зевает сладко и трет глаза.
Ее манят маковые голоса.
Соня ворочается в чайной чашке,
Сонливо и холодно этой бедняжке.

Соня падает под обеденный стол,
С ней, не краснея, флиртует пол.
Соня укладывается на полу
И готовится к новому сладкому сну.