A/N: Lots of metaphors ahead. Enjoy the obscurity and see if you can't figure out who's who. ^_^ Oh, c'mon, it's me- you know what couple I write. For a full-blown analysis, see the next installment. You may need it.

Kai's POV.



"Soul Stitching"



I pull my soul out of my pocket and take a good look at it. It's a relatively healthy one- not stained or scorched, though a little tattered in some places, and maybe with a bit of dirt on it, especially around the hands. Nothing irreparable, but hey, I'm still young. I can damn myself anytime I like.

First though, I'd better wash it. My soap is almost untouched; I use it very rarely. I always thought I could keep my soul clean without any help, but that soap and four turns in the washer do wonders. The dryer's harder to deal with- sometimes I worry it'll rip apart in there.

I whip out my needle and thread and do my best to darn up the bigger holes, though I'm clumsy at it and prick myself often. I'm not used to repairing such things. Still, I plow on, because there's no point in giving up a thing once you've started in on it, and after a long time, it's more or less back to its original condition, though some of my thread is the wrong color and has left scars. Maybe I'll dye it later, but I don't think so. Scars show you've lived, and it's an empty person who has none.

A last inspection, and I take my scissors to the chest. The soul's thickest there, but my scissors are very sharp, and I manage to hack my way through without too much difficulty. The next layer is weak, soft cotton, and I easily push it aside.

It's the third layer that presents the real problem.

Hard, cold ice greets me, its dull gleam hiding the one and only thing that I seek. I have neither matches nor a lighter, nor anything at all which I might melt it with, but I scratch at the surface for a moment or two anyway, feeling rather helpless. Touching it makes me cold, though, so I have to pull away and wrap my hands in my scarf.

I glare at the ice for a long moment, then decide that this is really quite enough fooling around and bring my lips to it. After all, I have things to do. A single kiss, and it melts even as my lips freeze. I shiver but wait patiently for the frost to all fall away.

The next layer is weakest of all- just a few scraps of fragile tissue paper soaked through by the melting ice; there more for the semblance of resistance than anything, and in my eagerness I tear it away as quickly as I can with my still-numb fingers.

And when I finally get to the heart, I find you there, smiling at me with your cat-slit eyes, and your kiss is enough to warm up anything- even me.



* ende *



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