flawlessly yours

(silver_phoenix@usa.net)

My humble contribution to the (presently) sadly small number of Muraki-centric fics out there. I hope I didn't screw him or Oriya up *too* badly. O_ This is set when both of them are around their early twenties. Faintly dark and weird in spots - no fluff here, at any rate. :p

Flawlessly Yours
-------------------------------
a yami no matsuei fanfiction

/ Ours is just a little sorrowed talk-
Blown away. /

--Duran Duran, "Ordinary World"

---------------------------------

// "I like your hair." She ran a slim hand through it as he looked at her oddly.
"Why?"
"It doesn't always look the same. Sometimes it's silver, sometimes white or grey. Like the moon."
"The moon?"
"The moon. It's silver tonightlike it's reflecting you." //

----

The child had screamed.

She had whimpered and wailed and wept only moments before, as the life bled out of her. As the heady rush of energy transferred itself to him. Vermilion liquid pooled around the now-silent corpse that lay beneath the sakura tree with its fair limbs bent and twisted at crazy angles. The eyes were open, blank orbs of frozen black staring into space.

How strange, that they had shone with pained terror such a short while ago.

It was the young people who could supply the most power. The children, overflowing with sunlight and health. He would not have refuted a charge of sadism - he did not *need* their energy, not now. He killed for the vibrant gush of life he experienced when the thread binding his victims to the mortal plain snapped. At least, he mused, he did not deny it. The cherry blossom tree beside him swayed in a gust of wind tainted with the heavy scent of warm blood, slender branches and leaves rustling in soft whispers. You seem hungry, he told it. And smiled to see the ground absorbing the dark redness, letting it seep into where the roots of the tree grew.

Perhaps it had been boredom. Perhaps it had been the devil. For no reason he could name, it suddenly struck him: what would the child's life taste like?

I'm not a vampire, he thought with some derision. But he was unable to shake off the notion; it hovered about his curiosity like an inquisitive butterfly. And at last he decided, what could it possibly matter?

Almost tenderly he lifted up a plump little arm that still retained some warmth, and put his lips to the clotting blood that still flowed sluggishly out of a deep gash in the smooth skin. It hit his tongue with a tang that was sharply metallic, but he probed further, away from the mere physical flavour and into the core of its essence. Yes, it was sweet, as he had expected. Crimson honey-sweet, cloyed with innocence and fragile wonder for the world the child had only just begun to comprehend. Ambrosia-like, if one cared to wax poetic, with a tenderness that reminded him of budding trees.

But it was too rich. Too much of a good thing. Already the heavy sweetness was raising a vague sensation of nausea at the edges of his consciousness. He drew back and wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve, taking in a breath.

And knew this would be the first and last time he partook of a victim's blood.

Cold moonlight touched the sakura petals that shone soft silver-pink in the night. A few delicate blossoms detached themselves from their branches, dancing down to earth in the breeze as he walked away.

----

Muraki let himself into the brothel by the back entrance, knowing that Oriya would question his late return. He knew his friend was attending to some business in the lounge, so he avoided using the main staircase, choosing a side one instead. Entered his room without bothering to lock the door - he was aware Oriya would be paying him a visit later. Neither did he turn on the light.

His room was one he used every time he stayed with Oriya, on the occasions he visited Kyoto. In an old brothel like Kokakurou it was a curiosity, with wooden flooring and furniture of western make instead of following the traditional washitsu style of the establishment. Though Oriya had never said it had been built for his express use, that intention had been clear enough.

Taking off his stained overcoat, he walked into the adjoining bathroom and calmly washed his hands and face, watching the clear liquid in the sink turn a cloudy reddish-brown. Did not bother to rinse out his mouth. On returning to the room he removed a bottle of Chianti along with a frosted wineglass from the cupboard; pulled up a chair to the small table in front of the window. Muraki uncorked the slim bottle and tipped some of its contents into the glass, but he didn't drink from it. Not yet.

Against his will, the scene of his recent kill kept replaying in his mind. It was slightly disturbing, but it *had* been the first time he'd drunk blood, after all.

You were alive, he silently addressed the dead child's spirit. I do not ask for forgiveness for taking your life or for tasting it. He was aware, so much more aware of his surroundings than before. Of the furnishings highlighted in stark relief against the wall by the moonlight, the warm scent of polish that rose from the floor, of a hundred and one tiny little things he would not have bothered noticing under ordinary circumstances.

I am alive, he whispered to himself. And on a physical plane the lingering traces of nectar in his mouth throbbed with bittersweet, metallic intensity.

There was a knock on the door. It swung open to reveal Oriya; a weak beam of light from the hallway penetrated the shadows of the room. His old friend shut the door, throwing the room into moonlit dimness again. Padded across the floor on silent feet and stood beside his chair. The silky mane of dark hair was neatly braided - he had taken unusual care with his dressing tonight, Muraki observed, eyeing the elegant figure clad in a deep green yukata below his customary over-robe. But he had been entertaining some important customers just now, so that was only to be expected.

"Where were you just now?"

Muraki smiled up at him. It was a twisted smile. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Graceful brows twitched faintly. "The gods forbid that I should pry, but you owe me an explanation for never turning up to meet my guests at dinner. Especially when you promised beforehand. Harano-san was very disappointed he couldn't thank you in person for attending to him when he fainted here the other day."

"My sincerest apologies to you both," he said carelessly. "I really wasn't in the mood for it, Oriya. But did you know there's a small plot of sakura trees in that park a few streets away? They've got some of the loveliest blossoms I've ever seen - although most sakura I encounter are in the full pink of health, if I do say so myself."

"Muraki," and the deep voice held a note of warning. "Don't play games with me."

Not for the first time, he thought that the way Oriya understood him was delightful.

"I assure you, that was never my intention. Do you doubt me?" He picked up the glass by its beautifully fragile stem and sipped the burgundy liquid, closing his eyes as the flavour washed over his senses in a burst of richness. The frail crystal was cool on his skin. For a moment the rusty tang of metal vanished from his tongue, but it reappeared in a heartbeat after he swallowed.

The glass was abruptly plucked out of his fingers. Opening his eyes, he met the expression of thunderous calm on Oriya's face. It was a look his friend wore only on the occasions when he was extremely furious, extremely frustrated, or both. Poor Oriya. Inside he permitted himself a sardonic smile - poor Oriya indeed. Though their relationship was a treasure, he reminded himself that he had not been the initiator. Had never asked for his company, had not required him to be anything beyond an acquaintance from the day of their meeting. Irrelevant, perhaps - selfish, yes, but that was the only way he avoided becoming completely vulnerable to this person with the deep-brown eyes that saw through him at the worst of times. Like now.

Yes, and fish still bit the bait even though they could see it was on a hook, did they not?

Still their gazes locked, and it was Muraki who turned away first.

"Well, then. What if I told you I was a murderer?"

He heard a light crash and the tinkling of glass. Startled, he realised Oriya had dashed the wineglass onto the floor, transforming it into a pile of translucent shards that twinkled as they caught the moonlight. They lay in a pool of brownish-red liquid that was slowly spreading its dark hue over the wooden tiles.

Seeming to move in slow motion, Oriya extended a long hand and caught hold of his collar, hauling him out of the chair into a standing position.

"I told you, no games," the longhaired man murmured quietly. "Out with it."

A pause; he moved to gently extract his shirt collar from the hard grasp of sword-callused fingers. Oriya's gaze never wavered. Hazel eyes were watchful and guarded, as if he was expected to attack or escape. Well, he wasn't going to do either of those things, but it was a guarantee that Oriya would find his next move somewhatunexpected.

Taking a step forward, he reached up and moulded his lips to his friend's. Heard the muffled gasp - or was it a curse? - the other made. No matter. Oriya's mouth was dry and warm and he teased it until the firm lips became pliant under his own, allowing his tongue entry into a moist recess of warm darkness. It was delicious; Oriya was delicious, the lingering scents of branded tobacco and first grade sencha mingled with the pickles he'd eaten for dinner. He had no real idea why he was doing this - a small part of him was laughingly commenting that it would be a pity not to share the sweetness of the child with another, wouldn't it? and he was replying yes, yes it would.

A strangled sound rose from the throat of the other man. In the face of appalled dark-hazel eyes, Muraki was pushed roughly away.

----

"What have you done?" Oriya whispered hoarsely.

"Done? Why, kissed you, of course. Didn't you like it?"

"*Damn you*." Strong hands caught his shoulders in a grip of steel. He could feel the tremors that passed through them. Oriya shoved him against the wall, eyes glinting dangerously. "You know that isn't what I meant," he half-snarled through gritted teeth. "Tell me exactly why there was another person's blood in your mouth. Don't play stupid - you didn't even wash it out. I don't poke into your private life any more than I need to, but this is taking it a little too far."

Muraki smiled, and it was nothing more than a smile, void of emotion.

"Didn't I ask you just now, Oriya?" he said softly. "What if I was a murderer? And what if," he continued before his friend could speak, "what if I told you the answer was yes'? Or have you forgotten why sakura are pink? The trees are hungry, too. They need nourishment to be beautiful. So red flows into their white, and they feed on it."

The hands on his shoulders tightened their grip. "You aren't serious, are you?"

"Ah, and what if I was?" Muraki asked, still smiling that empty smile. "You tell me now, Oriya. You wanted to know, and I told you. And I will also tell you that this is not my first killing, although it was the first and last time I drank my victim's blood."

The dark head was bowed.

"For their energy," the other man said at last. "You killed to increase your power, didn't you?"

One silver brow arched in mild surprise. "Why, yes. You really are an intelligent man."

Oriya looked up. The shocked light of disbelief in his eyes had been replaced by a resigned weariness, so painfully familiar. "Muraki, she"

"Ask me questions," he cut in swiftly, the plaster smile still curving his lips, "but never ask me what Ukyou would think, because I will not answer that."

"*Muraki.*"

"You only have yourself to blame for wanting to know me," he said, silver-ice eyes flat and hard. "Don't forget that."

"Maybe. Probably. Even so - damn you." The strain in his voice was all too audible. Silky dark bangs slipped forward to shadow his face, tension radiating from the yukata-clad figure.

Oh, but Oriya was lovely, wasn't he, with that subtly muscled frame and sensually cut features. Almost against his will, Muraki was aware of the heat that pulsed within him in response.

"Poor Oriya," he murmured, sliding an arm around the other's waist and tangling the other hand in his braid. "Poor, foolish Oriya. Hate me, then, if it makes you feel better." He tilted his head and nuzzled the side of his neck, biting softly so he elicited a low moan from his friend.

"I'm notthe only foolaround here"

"Perhaps not," Muraki agreed, kissing his collarbone. "The question is, which of us is the bigger fool?"

No more words were said after that.

----

// "Do you like the moon?"
He thought about it. "Well enough, I suppose."
"It's one of my favourite things," she said softly. "Because it reminds me of you. It *is* you, I sometimes think."
"But you're the one who shines," he told her. And she smiled. //

Muraki leaned back against the headboard, luxuriating in the coolness of the crisp air against his bare skin.

// "Do you like the moon?" //

"I don't know," he whispered, gazing out the window.

And the moon was a pearl that shone silver against the night.

-- owari --

Apologies for:

a) the odd title, and b) taking liberties with Ukyou's character and Muraki's living conditions in Kokakurou.

C&C, feedback, bombs - *please*! ;_;