a/n: uhmmmmmmmmmmm
I wanted to try writing a mature fic so this happened
it's unbeta'd bc everyone is busy and i suck
this is like a three or four shot idk yet
anyways, this is rated M for a reason, so I'm assuming you guys are either 18+ or just rebellious and browsing the M-section anyways. idunno, I do not condone underage sex so all the characters are of age, but I do not shame either so, no judgment. wow this is awkward.
I should be more embarrassed but im not… mostly because this entire chapter is stupid background and I actually haven't written any rin x len yet hahaha. hah. ha. nervous laughs.
WARNING: CONTAINS LARGE AMOUNTS OF BULL SHIT. GORE, MAYBE. ANGST. TRASHY, BADLY WRITTEN SEX LATER ON. AND MORE BULLSHIT. THE ENTIRE THING IS JUST BULLSHIT ACTUALLY. ENJOY. OR NOT. DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT.
You have been warned.
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because life is a symphony,
it must have its c minor.
days when we hear only a discord of sharps and flats,
and we wonder whether [life's] harmony will ever be restored.
W. Waldemar W. Argow
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It is Autumn, and dusk is approaching like a stranger in the night, ready to enshroud the city in a blanket of inconspicuous shadows. She is dressed like she always is, in high heels and a long, flowing white dress that accentuates her curves. In her purse she has rose-colored lipstick, mascara, and her cell phone, but she distantly turns it off without much deliberation.
No one is going to call her at 3 a.m., anyways.
His house is on a hill, surrounded by forest and woodland and encapsulated in a timeless gloom that seems even more ancient than the mansion itself. The large mansion is a spectacle to behold—white stone columns in the front and a fortress of trees in the back, with nothing but cold tiled floors in-between.
Her taxi driver is a quiet man with an impressive mustache, pointed at the ends like he has gone through great pains to style it each morning. He is broody and has a habit of muttering to himself, his eyes set in a dream-like state as he drives them past the tall, twinkling skyscrapers. There's a modest ring on his index finger that doesn't quite catch the light, and he gives it an absentminded glance, averting his attention away from the road for a fraction of a second. So he's married.
"—with fucking Kazuki," he mutters. "Out of all the people to screw around with behind my back, it's my fucking brother. People—no, women—are shameless."
She notices how he unknowingly excuses his brother, like his part in the affair is just a minor complication.
"It takes two to tango," she says, not caring what he thought of her opinion.
The taxi driver throws a glance at the rearview mirror, his aged shoulders sagging a little in shame.
"I'm sorry, Miss. I mean no offense, really. It's been a rough week, is all."
"I'm sorry," she offers, although she isn't at all sorry. Sympathy is not her expertise.
"It's okay," he says, his voice a feeble sound.
"Love is just a fantasy anyways."
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She hates the way he destroys things so easily, like breaking a thin twig with his fingertips. She hates his soft, yellow-gold hair and those luminescent blue eyes, inquisitive and unfeeling. Like pools of dark, murky ocean hidden beneath layers of blue.
She hates him.
"Stay away from that boy," her mother says to her. "He's a bastard child, the son of a murderess who killed the lover she was having an affair with."
"Why?"
The question is a soft, fearful sound in the otherwise stiflingly quiet room.
"Because love can make people do crazy things, sweetheart," her mother says. Lily is direct and sensible, only seeing things in shades of black and white. "Love and wealth, of course."
Rin imagines the crime scene, pools of blood on the floor and a keen sense of malice in the air—shiny floors glistening with moonlight blanketing over two figures on the ground. One is breathing in ragged, shallow breaths, and one has stopped breathing completely, liquid red pouring out of the fresh wound in his chest. In her mind she imagines the loud blare of police sirens and a horrified Kyo Kagamine, shaking and white-faced with terror and—for just a moment—anger.
"Why?" He must ask himself. "Why? When I loved you."
Her mother's words resonate within her.
Love can make people do crazy things.
"I want nothing to do with it," Rin says suddenly, the words a binding promise to herself.
Nothing to do with love.
She's not very good with promises, truth be told.
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"Your clothes are in the way."
His voice is dark and smooth—like a thick poison coursing through her veins, making her feel slightly intoxicated. She could get drunk off his voice, probably.
She wants to memorize the fine lines of his face and that coy smile of his, like a cat has that just found its prey.
It was a mistake, though. Rin was no one's prey.
Least of all his.
"That's always the case, isn't it?" She muses. "My clothes being in the way. They prefer your floor, anyways."
Instead of elaborating further, she glides over towards the windowsill and opens the blinds. Streaks of moonlight begin to pour into the room, the light catching her golden locks and embracing her milky skin, shining like pale starlight on snow.
He closes the gap between them, his face dangerously close to her own. His smells like incense and something smoky, like wood burning in a furnace. His eyes are dark.
When he leans in to graze her neck, goosebumps shoot through her skin, frigid and alive.
"I could almost love you, if you'd let me," he murmurs against her hair.
Almost.
She laughs and it's a beautiful sound, but beautiful things are sometimes the most deceiving.
"Don't be silly, Len."
Her voice is a thin blade of ice in the dark room, cutting and sharp as she echoes the taxi driver's words:
"Love is just a fantasy, anyways."
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:✿:
countdown – four months prior.
Len's p.o.v
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The room he meets her in is small–maybe desolate at best. There is a light bulb hanging overheard, and thin grey walls that give him the impression of an interrogation room. It probably is, for all he knows.
"She's coming soon," the officer standing across from him purrs. "Such a shame, though. I rather like being alone with you." She's voluptuous with an ample bosom and walks with a commanding confidence, her clothes clinging to her like a second skin.
The woman moves towards him and reaches out with her cold, bony fingers. She lightly strokes his arms in slow and fluid motions, and says "Its okay." He doesn't pull away, a numbing sense of acceptance settling over him instead. Let her do what she wants. Don't cause trouble. Let it go.
She's a young thing, with caramel-brown hair and flecks of gold in her eyes. She's pretty, he observes, but her attitude is inappropriate. A prison room is not the time and place for flirting. Not at all. He simply nods in her direction, wishing he were someplace else other than the bare, dimly lit room. Somewhere far away from incompetent police officers and curious, pitying eyes.
A click from the latch sounds at the door, and the handle begins to turn. He knows what is coming, yet he still manages to be surprised. The female officer clicks her tongue in annoyance, but nevertheless puts some distance between them.
Strands of bedraggled blonde hair surrounding a pale, ashen face enters the room, followed closely by an impassive guard. The deathly pallor to her skin is frightening, like soured milk that has been left outside for too long, and he sees new wrinkle lines that have formed on her face. They are a testament to her days spent alone in an empty, locked cell. Even with nothing but prison walls for company, she radiates the same beauty and charm—just a more broken version. Her handcuffs are tightly secured around her wrists; the skin is a red, swollen color, and he bites down on his tongue, fearful that he's going to say something rash.
Are you eating well? Are they kind to you? The devoted, filial part of him wonders how she is doing—whether she is lonely in her prison cell. The human part of him screams.
You're a murderer, a killer, a fucking psychopath—
"Is that you Len?"
Her words are a bullet to his chest.
Mother.
"It's been a while," he says, trying hard to remain expressionless. "You've definitely seen better days."
"I don't really see days." She smiles, and the act contorts her face into something gruesome. "Just white walls and a timeless existence."
"That tends to happen when you stab your lover to death."
She chuckles, and it sounds like glass breaking. He wonders if he ever knew her at all.
"I see you've learned to be cruel."
Her poker face is flawless as his dark eyes rest on her taunting visage, trying to search for the woman he'd loved like a man searching for made-up fish in the ocean.
"I only learn from the best."
The guard and the officer shift uncomfortably at the door, unsettled by the conversation transpiring between the woman and her son. But oh, if they only knew. If they only knew what it felt like to be betrayed and tossed away, left to rot with a man who didn't even share his blood, alone in a cold house with marble floors and colder people.
A nagging question dares to be asked, and he gives in, his anger transcending into something like weak acceptance.
"Why did you do it?"
The question is bitter on his tongue, like acid, and he finds himself struggling to swallow.
Why did you kill him?
Why did you leave me?
Tell me—
Why do I love you?
"Did you know," his mother suddenly says, her voice breaking the grudging silence, "That the density of blood is greater than that of water? We're mostly water, you and I. But I sat there, holding his lifeless form, blood seeping out through his wounds, I felt like I was drowning in it. Like I was drowning in his blood."
Her eyes are unreadable pools of darkness as he stares into them, not sure what he's looking for. He finds nothing but an eerie, bleak vacancy, like whatever compels her to kill also consumes the humanity inside her. Len looks away with a hollow ache in his chest, disappointment washing over him like unrestrained tidal waves. Compassion has never been her friend, so why should now be any different?
The security guard coughs, the noise a deep rumbling sound in the confined space, and he stares at Len.
"I think that's enough," he says, and his voice low and gravelly, but not unkind. It is laced with a thick Russian accent, his 't's more of a 'th' sound. The female officer nods in agreement despite the curious expression on her face, and they slowly escort his mother out of the room, away from him.
"Bye," he says to her retreating back.
She leaves him with silence.
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:✿:
countdown – four months prior.
Rin's p.o.v
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Her mother tells her to despise him, but that's easy enough without instruction. It's not hard, when your father is fucking around with his mother behind your mother's back. That's why, when her mother tells her about the murder scandal, a sense of vindication ripples through her. The woman who destroys relationships, who taints the image of her father and wreaks havoc on her life, is rotting away behind steel bars.
She's a forgiving person, usually. Unforeseen events happen. Mistakes happens. Things like hurricanes and tornadoes and first love will happen, but a tongue shoving its way into the mouth of someone else's husband does not just happen.
It's springtime when she sees them, locked in an embrace, the woman sprawled across her father's office table and her long, inviting legs spread out. The woman has a slender frame and bright blonde hair that mirrors the sun's rays, while her father is muscular and dark-haired in comparison. Their clothes are strewn about, some on the floor and some on the table, both of them naked and shaking. A sheen layer of sweat coats their skin, and they move with a rhythmic, frenzied passion. Her father whispers vulgar words to her, and she replies with ragged gasps and strained words. He's standing up and pushing himself into her, while she sits on the very edge of the low table and lets him, moans of pleasure escaping her mouth.
Rin hides behind the safety of the door, terrified and ashamed. No one hears her.
Yes, mistakes happen.
It's mother's mistake for trusting you,
Father.
And now, two years later, his lover is locked up away in prison and probably rotting away alone—a victim of her own greed and self-control.
Rin smiles to herself, the expression cold and unkind.
Karma feels like retribution.
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countdown – three months prior.
Rin's p.o.v
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It's barely been a month since she's been in jail, that woman. It hasn't been long, but her husband is already desperate to reclaim his family's reputation, clinging onto the image of a respectable family like a insane man clinging to reality. So it's unsurprising when their household receives a small stamped envelope with a crimson-waxed seal, inviting them—along with a slew of other people—to dinner on the twentieth.
Her mother makes a small tut-tut noise, and shakes her head while waggling her fingers.
"It's too early. He needs more time to grieve."
"It's hard to grieve for a murderess," Rin says, her tone dispassionate.
With quick movements, her mother plops herself onto the chesterfield couch next to her, her hair a flurry of brown and yellow locks.
"I feel for them, truthfully. Kyo Kagamine is a benevolent but unfortunate man. He cares for that woman's son, despite not owing their family a shred of kindness."
"Is that so," Rin murmurs, not the least bit interested in the complexities of their family life.
"Rin."
"What?"
Her next words are ominous.
"We're going to that dinner party."
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The mansion has a large, foreboding gate that is open in the entryway, surrounded by impenetrable bushes and a great stone wall. As they drive closer to the house, Rin sees lush green grass and vibrant flowers sprouting from patches on the ground.
She wears a light sun-colored chiffon dress, and two dainty diamond earrings hang on her ears, an heirloom from her great-grandmother. Her father knocks on the door—two loud, successive taps—his fingers trembling slightly.
How does it feel, coming into your ex-lover's home?
How does it feel, sleeping in your wife's bed, eating your wife's food—once you've had a taste of sin?
Father—
She closes her eyes.
I hope the guilt drowns you.
The sound of a latch unlocking is heard, and muted voices bicker from the inside. A thin man answers the door, his features handsome and refined despite the dark circles under his eyes.
"Hello Kyo," her mother chirps cheerfully. A little too cheerfully, actually.
"Come inside," he says brusquely, and they enter the house with apprehensive feelings, his hands guiding the way.
She moves stealthily like a cat, quiet and unassuming, and breathes in the stale, suffocating air. The grand building doesn't feel like anyone's home—it feels like an ornamented shell, pretty on the outside but all hollow on the inside.
"Welcome to our home," Kyo says to them, but his words are dull and empty, and she wonders why a man who has everything looks like he's made of nothing, all thin and stick-like. Wealth must be exhausting.
"We're so happy to have you, truly."
"Uh-huh," her parents say in unison, a little awed by the grandiose interior. Her father is quiet as his eyes soak in the sights with a pained recognition.
"Kyo, this house is amazing," her mother breathes, and her eyes flit from object to object, taking in the gold-detailing and intricate designs of the inside décor. Kyo Kagamine gives a small shake of his head, acknowledging the compliment but choosing not to respond. Previous guests have probably told him similar things, unused to the blatant display of wealth.
"The dining room is this way—come, everyone is already seated."
He rushes them like time is of the essence, but really it's a countdown—a countdown till his downfall.
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Her mother leans in close, her mouth brushing against the edges of her ears. "Stay away from that boy," she hisses, the reminder an echo of Rin's own thoughts.
"Remember who he is."
Rin nods in compliance, but the action is weak and unconvincing.
"I will."
And she plans to—but plans have an odd habit of going astray.
The moment she sees him, she knows that something's wrong with her. Because his eyes are a frigid, unearthly blue, and for a moment she thinks that they're beautiful, but that can't be right. It can't be right, because he looks exactly like his mother, and finding any beauty in that terrifies her. His skin is a fair color with earthy undertones, much like the soft light that bathes a forest, and there's a concealed intelligence behind those eyes.
She can't help but stare, like a deer caught in the headlights, and it takes some persistent nudging from her mother before she moves on to find a seat.
Her seat is all the way at the end of the table, and he sits on the other end, directly across from her. For a moment, his head lifts up and he catches her staring.
His glare is earth-shattering.
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and you already know this
but there's somebody i love
you only call me when
you're not the one i'm thinking of
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