A/N: Written as a Trick or Treat 2017 exchange gift for MarsDragon.
It all started with a simple cut on the arm.
For as long as Fuuma remembered, he had always been intrigued with Kamui's blood. He had never been able to properly exercise that admiration until the year of destiny. But destiny always had moments leading up to it, and Fuuma's life was no exception.
The trio would go outside and play all the time. Kotori would drag Kamui and Fuuma by the shirt collars outside and scold them. Obviously, boys didn't sit on their lazy butts inside all day long. Kamui never protested or defied her amusement at his grumpy huff. He did not care what they did as long as they were all together, and Fuuma did not particularly care either way, so he simply let it go.
Besides, he like honing his basketball skills. It was one of the activities he genuinely enjoyed. Slowly, he was working on it and improving. He would hopefully be a star on the school club team when he was older and his parents praised as much too. But Kamui unfortunately—well, it was quite fortunate for Fuuma—wasn't so agile. He would flail around the court. His tosses were not as accurate and his zigzags had him practically bumping into Fuuma's side every minute. Kamui complained that he just liked to watch Fuuma play by himself or with the neighborhood kids, but Fuuma managed to get him up and running the court every once and while.
So, when Kamui brushed past him, he didn't think much of it. He turned and shot the ball into the hoop. Kamui groaning alerted him to it. When he turned on his heel Fuuma was both mildly jealous and pleased at the sight before him. Kamui was on the ground holding up his arm. He must have fallen, because a small pool of blood trickled down his pale skin.
Again, he was thinking of such things. He swallowed.
Fuuma knelt down next him and composed himself. He was fascinated, truthfully, at the glisten of blood under the sunlight. The blood wasn't that old and dark; Kamui's blood was brilliant crimson. Rarely did he get a good glimpse of blood this… up close. Sometimes he would watch Kamui drink water and watch the veins under his skin pop. It wasn't the same, but Fuuma had to make due, because he would never let Kamui know what he was longing for under the surface. That would jeopardize everything.
For the years he had known Kamui, similar thoughts had crossed his mind. The times he saw Kamui with a bandage on his finger after a paper cut. Not to mention when he had fallen off his bike and scraped his knee on the pavement. But he couldn't ignore him and let himself daydream about the possibilities. Kamui would think something was wrong with him.
"Let me look at it," Fuuma had offered. He brushed cupped Kamui's elbow in his palm and held it up.
He leaned in closer to the wound. The keen, faint scent of metal and salt filled his nose. He didn't care about anyone else's blood. Kamui's was the most delightful and potent. Kamui wasn't paying much attention. He sniffled and shook his head. Fuuma's lips were close, eyes dark, knowing he had to do something but not wanting to rock the boat.
Perhaps if he was quick no one would notice…
Twigs snapped and grass rustled as dainty footsteps raced towards them. Vaguely, Kotori popped into Fuuma's view and he lowered Kamui's arm.
"Oh, Kamui! You're hurt!" Kotori had lightly chastised. There was no heat in her words, only a flicker of concern. She took Kamui's elbow from Fuuma's safe hold on him and moved in between them to observe his forearm. Fuuma was forced to release him and scoot over. "We have to get a bandage for it."
"It's not a big deal. I—I'm not good at this kind of thing," Kamui had tried to protest to no one listening to him make excuses for himself. Kotori glowered at him and he blushed. He averted his gaze and glared at the ground. "I jumped and lost my balance!"
Fuuma had kept a stoic, serene face. He had done it long enough that nothing broke through his mask. His concern was relieved, and he smiled and ran over to his bag, having prepared for accidents. But the frustration bottled up and exploded within him.
Just like that, Kamui's blood had been snatched.
Kotori would always get in his way. She would prance around like a free spirit and then swoop in and steal Fuuma's thunder. She only thought about what was good for Kamui. Never Fuuma's desire or need to get a little taste of Kamui's warm blood.
It wasn't personal. Kotori was not a bad person and that was what made her a bad person. So at the end of the day for Fuuma, it was deeply personal.
And that was the moment, the clear defining second in their innocent childhood, Fuuma had realized he loathed Kotori with all his heart. He seethed at the opportunity that, one day, he would kill her.
Granted, Kotori was too pure. She had no reason to understand his deep-seated anger at her, or his queasy gut feeling to just make her happy for today, she wants to be happy so make her happy, feeling vibrating deep within his soul, his very earth made body. Denying her was something he honestly did not want to do. He supposed that was what made him in tune with reality and the world around him—he could grasp emotions beyond his years. Fuuma had realized his obsession over Kamui was not what society deemed "normal." What did normal mean?
"Fuuma," Kotori had called to him.
"I have them," Fuuma said. He returned to Kamui's side and wiped the blood and grime on the circular wound off. It took all his willpower not to turn the handkerchief and press it to his nose at that second, but he did a valiant job keeping it straight and aligned above the wound, providing pressure. Then, he applied the bandage stripe on his torn skin.
Close… yet so far. Not a droplet. He didn't even need a taste, he wanted to roll that beautiful bead between his fingers, make the world see his claim on it. But he could not pull anything funny in front of Kotori or Kamui when they were both completely aware of the fact. He had to behave himself.
It true. If you didn't grab your opportunity when the moment was ripe, it slipped between your fingers.
At least he could hold solace that he alone had the handkerchief to himself. Kotori told Kamui a joke to ease his remaining grumpiness and distracted him. Meanwhile, finally taking a chance this time, Fuuma pocketed the handkerchief, an off-the-radar action that would be all but ignored now that the impending crisis—not the wound, Fuuma—had been averted.
Later could not come soon enough. He relished in the scent that he always seemed to be dying for.
And it was always like that until Kamui left Tokyo. He would sneak little things past Kamui and Kotori they would never know the difference about, but he had to grit his teeth and close eyes and promise himself it would work out eventually. In the year of destiny, his suffering had been worth something. In 1999, he had the chance to see Kamui's blood spilt whenever he so wished for it. Best of all, no Kotori in sight.