InsaneJournal

P3 AU Christmas Special, Part 4
Two pairs of drabbles, for Ivoryandhorn and for Regicidaldwarf. Happy Christmas, you guys. <3


They’re stopped before they even get to Muladhara’s elevator, by a mousy little thing whose partner takes off running as soon as they’re spotted. They could take her, easy, could fight their way in to where the tribe’s Leader is. Castor wants him to. But the set of Aki’s shoulders is loose and Kirijo’s bayonet is pointed towards the dust, so he just pulls the unmarked hood a little lower over his forehead and scowls.

“We want to speak to your Leader,” Kirijo commands, chin in the air like she does when she’s nervous. “We intend to join this tribe.”


Serph watches the newcomers quietly, the way they brush shoulders, and talk in half-thoughts, and keep their backs to one another without realizing. He watches Argilla’s eyes follow the woman with the rifle with a faint blush. He watches Heat growl at the tall one, and sees the way everyone is trying not to notice how like him the one with the clawed gloves looks. “Fuck this, who needs a tribe anyway? We’ve been fine so far.” The white-haired man lays a hand on his friend’s shoulder and Serph smiles to see himself watched in return.

“Welcome to the Embryon.”




“But—“

“Just stay here, then!” The command shivered down Mildmay’s spine until his knees locked in place. “I won’t have you shadowing me all night like some crow—look, the Midwinter party is the biggest all year. I’m not missing it just to indulge in some lower-city gift thing with you!” And he just stood, unable to move, as Felix flounced that not-quite-pink, not-quite-purple greatcoat of his and stalked off. Mildmay bit his lip, still holding the damned box it would have taken Felix five minutes to open, and waited until the bond decided that he could move again.


He’s curled up, watching the lights burning in the lower city, when he notices it. A fist-sized box, tucked away on Felix’s dressing table and gaily wrapped. It hurts a little to see Felix accept it and ignore his own, and he wonders briefly who in the Mirador would have given it--the flashies don’t generally, far as Mildmay can tell. The name on the box though, when he goes to look at it, is his own. He pulls the paper open, and the cloth that spills out is silk so fine it’s like water, slick and sensuous and coal-black.


Puel? I'm really sorry I'm so late with your Roland. I am working on him! Just. Well. You know. England hijacked my brain. >.> I should have him finished for you very soon though.