Behind the latticed cages, where scarred birds with painted feathers cooed, desperate, was one little bird. While the others cooed with cracks in their twitter, her beak neither opened to sing nor kiss. Neither living nor loving, death preened her feathers. Her feathers were pure black, her hair pure red, her eyes pure blue.
No one could, would, order her and she sat, staring from her pretty little cage, beady eyes watching each passerby for the Guilt. Oh how she loved it, the turn of the head, the aversion of the eye, the fidget of the hand. Oh yes, she wanted to make them suffer just a little bit, each one, to make up for the hell she lived in only a few feet away. The hell that they reveled in when they could be numb subhumans, the hell they made themselves, the hell she wanted to drag them into and make them see what it's like to have your soul ripped away.
Night was the only time in Yoshiwara. In the eternal night, where the night went on forever and ever, where the moans echoed forever and ever, where the pain was inflicted over and over, the only change was the actors. But there would always be replacements, just around the corner, and so the night bloated itself with indulgence. The moon, chained to the sky, never could rest and only mold grew in the feeble light.
On one such night, or rather, moment, the little bird was watching the people stride by. Tittering, a smile graced her face when even the drunk men shut up in their staggering and looked away. And even some police officers, oh how ironic if they turned aw-
Her eyes twitched. And then narrowed. A man with a blood red hakama stood tall and met her eyes steadily, maybe even sparkling a bit cruelly. The bird's lips curled into a snarky smile and he returned it. The man called over his police friends, and they entered the store.
They were met with huge revelry, all the wing-clipped birds flocking about them, cawing and squawking and pleading for the men to take them, to buy them, to choose them. But the sandy-haired one only pointed to her, sitting in the empty, dusty, cobwebbed corner. The fat little store owner desperately tried to sway him, suggesting this thing here or maybe even that one there, but the little bird stood. The store hushed, not even a feather fluttered. She glided before the man. But she did not bow. The stupid store owner even had the nerve to try and push her down but she did not budge a step. Head high, neck straight, she coyly smiled, eyes only for the acknowledged.
He returned the icy smile with a smug smirk and together they swept into a room together, leaving behind the open-mouthed crowd.
When the slide closed, when the candles dimmed, when there was no more civility, all that was left in the room were two animals. The bird reverted to her true vixen form, slyness gleaming in her eyes, dangerous and cunning. The man reverted to his true wolf form, hunger glowing in his eyes, powerful and savage. Prowling around each other, they drew nearer and nearer, seduction, attraction, obsession the names of the whirlpool.
When they met, only base lust was in them. Passion blazed down with each touch, gasps at the nails scoring skin, delicate pain lacing and addicting. Trembles and moans grew more and more fervent with each passing second, pleasure sluicing through their blood like liquid gold. They held onto each other, pants becoming more and more ragged as their ears roared, the screaming dam coming down faster and faster until at last, it was smashed apart.
Gradually, they came back into conscious as their pulse slowed down. With pale, clenched hands still wrapped around each other, with legs still entwined tightly, with chests still pressed against one another, they looked into each others' eyes.
It was just a mirror. There was nothing but themselves reflected in the others' eyes. The fox held a delicate hand hesitantly to the wolf's rugged face, unhappy at what she saw returned to her. The lies flayed back and the weakness lying in plain sight, the bitterness worn away to reveal just a sad piece of nothing. Just another torn bird, no more desperate than all the others, no more loud than all the others, no more longing than all the others.
The wolf held her, gently, unhappy at what he saw in her eyes. He was already nothing but a one night lover, for the fox already held a long standing affair with Death and he with Pain. The resignation and love with hate of himself, the torture nothing but another smudge for every happy moment. The blood stains the immortal tattoo that he could never burn away. His crimson eyes fluttered shut and he let himself drift to sleep with her in his arms.
They clutched to each other until the rooster crowed, but the night continued its feast.
a/n: Hello, LavenderIceCream here! There is a reference here that is based on an ancient Japanese saying that foxes can transform into anything, as they are thought of as clever and sneaky. Thank you for reading this story!