Notes: For the Saiunkokufic secret santa exchange over on live journal. The challenge was to write Sakujun/anyone fan fiction that showcased Sakujun's very special qualities. I may have had a little more fun with the challenge than I should of!
Summary: Like all collectors, Sakujun is very particular about what he adds to his collection.
Fine China.
Sakujun has always collected pretty things; it is what pretty people do. He knows, like all collectors know, that great value lies in objects that are perfectly crafted and spun completely without error. However, it is only true collectors such as himself that know there is still one level beyond perfection that makes an item priceless: a tiny, unique production flaw.
And Sakujun has always loved flaws.
xXx
He goes to the palace because his older brother deems it necessary that he accompany him and Sakujun likes to pretend sometimes that he does things because Sojun wants to and not because he simply enjoys the way he can twist his brother's anger with a simple, vague smile. He cares little for the politics that his brother engages in – all straight lines and boring predictability, his brother lacks any of the creativity that could possibly breathe life into such conversations – and so he idly weaves through the pretty gardens of the palace instead. Sakujun likes pretty things, yet the fragile blooms that blossom in shades of pink and gold and yellow do little to hold his attention, their beauty is no different to that which he spies in his mirror each morning. With a lazy air, he stretches himself along a wooden bench that blends prettily (so prettily that it bores him immediately) into the spine of a leafy tree, his fingers curling idly in his hair.
He knows if he simply waits, something entertaining will find him.
He is, naturally, correct. Only a few minutes later a young, slightly chubby, certainly grubby boy comes peaking through the flowers, a head full of hair that shines more golden than the sun popping up or around bushes before dipping immediately away. Sakujun lazily waits, his bored gaze following the child as he bobs closer and closer before falling out of a lavender bush and landing on his hands and knees before Sakujun.
So, this is the Ryuuki boy. The grass stains that ruin his elaborate robes and the twigs that are twisted in his hair do little to spoil the empirical aura the boy so easily wears, and as Ryuuki scrambles to his feet Sakujun's gaze becomes more … appreciative. Ryuuki is a very pretty boy.
The bruises that blush his cheeks a deep purple, however, are what make him truly beautiful.
"I am Ryuuki!" The small boy says with a wonderful mix of bashful desperation, his wide eyes far to honest for a child that looks so stunning in bruises.
"My name is Sakujun Sa," Sakujun says smoothly in response, his simple answer causing the boy's smile to lose its last edges of hesitation.
"You have very pretty hair," Ryuuki says shyly, even though the manner in which he scrambles closer belies any sense of indecision.
"Thank you." Sakujun has never believed in being falsely modest. "You're hair is very pretty as well," Sakujun dips low so that he can twirl his fingers in the strands of Ryuuki's hair that fall into his eyes. "It's very soft." His fingers trail through the fine strands until they are brushing against Ryuuki's cheeks. "As are these." Ryuuki winces even though Sakujun's touch is feather light, and the sharp edge of pain that encroaches into Ryuuki's eyes brings a tiny smile to Sakujun's lips. "Who do they belong to?" Ryuuki is confused by that, being only a child he doesn't realise that bruises are owned by those who give them, not those who wear them. "One of your brothers, perhaps?" He offers helpfully, and Ryuuki's gaze turns instantly stormy.
"They're so mean; all I wanted to do was join in their game!" Those pretty eyes brim with tears before turning hopeful. "Would you like to play a game with me?"
It's too easy, far too easy, and it's why Sakujun's gaze turns suddenly cold.
"If your own brothers don't wish to play with you, what makes you think that I do?" The tears do come then, unbelieving tears that don't quite understand why things have changed so suddenly.
"But, not all of my brothers, I mean Sei-"
"Yes, yes," he cuts off. "Quite. Now go and run along, I'm sure your brothers are waiting with baited breath for your return." Ryuuki rushes off in a wash of hurt, and with an agitated sigh Sakujun relaxes back against the seat as he watches the very pretty boy scuttle away. So much potential. So, so much potential. However, there is very little enjoyment in fine china that offers to break itself.
Sakujun likes to create flaws, not have them preformed for him on demand.
xXx
Sakujun believes that sometimes the most unique pieces of china are meant to be discovered amongst filth. Valuable antiques have been found in the most derelict of junk shops, and Sakujun is not the first person to … persuade … those of lesser equity to part with delightful property that has been passed through generations of families to the point where it is surely worthless – or at least worthless to those who do not have Sakujun's exquisite taste.
It is why he occasionally finds himself in places such as this, dirty cramped side streets that only a true collector would consider passing through. There are those who infest the streets with their presence for reasons beyond their control of course, poverty drawing them into the dirt until they are nothing more than specks themselves, but unlike Sakujun who collects, these are people who sell. While Sakujun hasn't made any purchases from this area before, precious things have a habit of being drawn to previously empty voids, just as they have a habit of being drawn to Sakujun himself.
Some might argue that there is very little difference between the two. The thought makes him smile, as does the small street brat who is busy plotting the best way to part Sakujun from his very visible (and very heavy) money bag. Dressed in rags that are more befitting a stable floor than a young boy, the potential pick pocket seems to be drowning in the coarse fabric, making his skimmed arms and legs seem mere afterthoughts. It's a pity, Sakujun allows as his humour-laden gaze slips to the boy who fails once more to realise that he is being watched. Beneath the layers of filth there is a hint of a diamond in desperate need of a little … attention. While the child's hair is quite possibly supporting its own self sufficient habitat, even the dirt that crowds the short shock of colour cannot completely hide the wonderful shade of dusky blue-green beneath it that is so unusual for this part of the Kou province.
He steps down a side street that has more dirt but fewer people. The boy follows. How predictable. It will only be seconds now before a small hand reaches up to wrap around –
Sakujun is not expecting the pain that suddenly erupts across the back of his knees, felling him instantly. He hears more than he sees the piece of cane fall to the ground beside him as his money pouch is ripped from his waist. He watches with delight as the boy rushes off through the strands of perfectly curled hair that has fallen across his face, but he makes no rush to follow after him. Instead, he gingerly rises to his feet and attempts to brush down his polluted robes (they will have to be destroyed immediately), and then he waits.
He doesn't have to wait long.
The child is dragged back by one of Sakujun's men, kicking and growling as though he is some semi-feral animal. When he is thrown at Sakujun's feet the boy instantly rises, a dark glare directly firmly at him. The boy is at least, however, clever enough to remain silent.
"I believe you have something of mine," Sakujun says silkily. The boy throws the pouch on the ground, his anger hardening into defiance. "Thank you," he replies smoothly as he kneels to pick it up. Instead of rising with the pouch however, he instead grabs each of the child's shoulders in a vice like grip that the boy cannot shake off. It is not that Sakujun is particularly strong, but the child has quite possibly never heard of a proper meal outside of fairytales. That does not stop the boy from struggling all the same, but all it does is allow Sakujun to sink his fingernails deeper into the boy's pale skin, drawing thin crescents of blood to the surface. "Now, what in the world shall I do with you?"
The boy's gaze narrows. There are no empty threats, no demands to be let go or he'll scream, no further promises of violence. The child is waiting.
He is waiting for Sakujun to make a mistake.
The thought so delights Sakujun that he leans in and presses his lips breezily against the boy's so that the child can share in Sakujun's amused chuckle. The boy swiftly attempts to move his head out of the way, yet he is at least a decade too young to avoid the hand that snaps up and painfully holds him still.
"Thank you," Sakujun huskily says. "I cannot remember the last time someone provided me with such enjoyment." Sakujun releases the boy's jaw; and his perfectly manicured hand (tipped so beautifully in the boy's blood) languishly skims across his bony shoulder until it rests back on his upper arm. "But we still have a situation here my dear child. Should I perhaps take you to the closest police box? I am sure they will know how to appropriately deal with you." For the first time fear shines so brightly in the boys eyes that Sakujun cannot help but find him hypnotically enticing. So the child has had experience with the local authorities before, interesting. "Or, perhaps I shall whisk you away with me and punish you myself." If the hint of relief that slips into the child's gaze is any indication, the foolish boy might just believe that this is the less dangerous option. Sakujun dips his head thoughtfully as he carefully studies the boy. No, that's not it. The child wants to be owned, regardless of who is master is.
Sakujun wonders to what lengths the child would go to stay kept. It is certainly an alluring thought, especially as the streak of pride that the boy has threatens to prove an interesting obstacle. As he sooths one hand along the coarse material that covers the boy's rigid chest, he imagines the boy in silk purple robes, his hair tied back in a loose ponytail that reaches far down his back and which shines so perfectly in the candlelight. Or, perhaps he will keep the boy exactly as he is now, a rigid contrast to all the other impossibly beautiful things Sakujun surrounds himself with. He wonders how long the boy's precious pride would survive in such an environment. The thought brings yet another smile to his face.
And then, just as suddenly, the smile is gone. He drops his hands from the boy in disgust and quickly stands.
"Take him away," he briskly orders, and his bodyguard does not hesitate. This time the boy does cry out as he dragged away, sounding for the first time like the child he is. Far from being a fool, the boy knows exactly where he is going.
Sakujun smiles coldly when the brat is finally gone. Sometimes, he forgets that while some things may glitter brightly and seem s very prettily on the surface, they are ultimately worthless. The child may have been painted in such exquisite promises, but beneath that thin layer is only poorly baked clay.
Sakujun only ever seeks out the finest porcelain.
xXx
She is so heartbreakingly pretty that Sakujun thinks that perhaps he will sweep her from the streets right then and there and take her home with him. The small, teary-eyed girl is not the sort that Sakujun usually collects – she is far too young and far too female for his tastes - however she sobs with such prettiness that he is driven momentarily to distraction. She can be nurtured until she is old enough to be serviceable he thinks as he watches her from his carriage. Oh, she is surely carrying far too much weight as all young children do, but there are easy ways to remedy that. Her chubbiness is the most obvious indication that she does not belong to these streets so much as she has waddled here by mistake, her pretty robes and wonderfully coifed hair only serve as further proof that she is simply misplaced.
Sakujun is very good at finding those who have been misplaced. He is drawn to them in a way that he is drawn to no others, seeking them out as his own. He does not bother with the technicalities that dictate that they might belong to someone else, as Sakujun has never been a firm believer in 'theirs', and only ever in 'his'.
And, she is very pretty, her small chest heaving as she attempts to choke back sobs that are slowly morphing into one long, drawn out wail. Still, there is too much about here that is not quite right. Too young, too innocent, too simple. She lacks the sort of complication that normally attracts Sakujun, although for some reason there is still something about her that makes him linger...
A woman rushes into the street then and wraps the child up in her arms. The crying stops instantly as the small girl wraps her chubby arms around her mother's neck. There is a man who stands behind them both, looking lost and guilty as he flays his fan open and shut repeatedly.
Sakujun watches them leave.
Pity.
But perhaps when she is older, she will find him again.
Her value is sure to only increase over time.
xXx
The Satsujinzoku end up absorbing some of his boredom, if only because he finds their strings so entertaining to pull. They're like tiny tin soldiers that he can idly flick at imaginary enemies or each other, so ready to shed blood are they on his command that he would be doing them a disservice if he refused. Still, the entertainment value of the Satsujinzoku does have its limits, and as he finds himself traveling through the snow drenched roads that lead out of the citadel he wonders when he traded quality for quantity.
The snow here is certainly prettier than back home he thinks as he keeps his horse at a slow canter. No need to rush when the message he is delivering will create far more excitement if it arrives late. Here the snow falls in soft flakes that slowly blanket the landscape in a pure, pretty white, and long icicles drip from branches with such exquisiteness that Sakujun isn't entirely convinced that they have not been crafted by someone skilled in ice sculpture. Back home, they don't so much get snow as they get sleet, and any snowflakes that do manage to make it to the ground still fully formed quickly turn to a greyish, watery slush. Snow in the Sa province is inconvenient and unpleasant.
Here, snow serves as the perfect backdrop for wonderfully complex plot and ideas.
Sakujun shouldn't have been surprised then when suddenly the picture perfect white of the snow becomes stained with streaks of blood and the bodies of partly dismembered swordsmen. They remind Sakujun of scattered petals that have been dipped first in red wine, and as he drops down from his horse he openly admires the handiwork of the man who could present death in such a beautiful manner. Death, Sakujun believes, should be as pretty as everything else, however crafting such deaths requires the most skilled of hands as well as the most interesting of minds.
Sakujun weaves idly through the petals, his appreciative gaze soaking in the deep sword wounds that were meant to (and had) inflicted the most painful of deaths. This one's throat had been cut just deep enough to steal his breath away slowly, painfully. This one here had lost each of his limbs first before being left to whither in agony, his screams surely curling the air around him and terrifying any of the others who had lived long enough to hear his drawn out pleas for death. They are the kind of men who surely would have pleaded for death, Sakujun believes. While Sakujun is rather … fond … of those who beg him for anything (especially if they're prepared to offer him something delightful in return), there is something about these soldiers pleas that strangely fails to hold his interest.
He soon discovers why.
If the soldiers are the petals of a discarded blossom then the boy who lays forgotten in the centre of the carnage is surely the small, bruised bud that remains even after each petal has been torn away. He is so beautifully set against the purity of the snow and the deep crimson of the blood that seeps through his robes that Sakujun simply stands there for a moment and soaks it all in. Such things should be remembered in their entirety, and Sakujun only wishes that he had thought to bring an easel with him on this trip. No matter, he is sure that he will be able to paint the scene perfectly from memory once he returns home.
Although, he allows as he bends elegantly down until he can smooth his hands across the boy's crimson drenched hair, he doesn't think he has the right shade of red to properly represent the boy's pretty, pretty blood.
It appears he will have to use the original instead.
Sakujun presses his fingers against his mouth before gently dragging them across his lips. The copper tang of the blood is divine, and he feels almost as though his senses are being assaulted as he revels in the touch, taste and scent of the boy.
Oh, yes. He will definitely do. Sakujun's gaze sweeps back across the perfectly displayed form before him. Even moments from death, anger and defiance seem entrenched into the young boy's pretty, pretty features. They are emotions that are just waiting to be nurtured, twisted.
Used.
Sakujun knows who the boy is of course, just as it is obvious exactly what sort of fate the young prince is supposed to meet this cold, chilly evening. He is truly only moments away for playing out his life exactly how fate intended him to, but Sakujun has always rather liked the idea that he personally controls fate just a tad, as well.
Besides, while the boy's death here amongst the snow would surely be beautiful, Sakujun can think of other ways in which the boy could prove to be just as lovely, especially as the prince has already proven to contrast so perfectly against white and Sakujun has the most stunning ivory sheets …
He chuckles lightly to himself as curves his fingers around the boy's pale cheeks. How fortunate he is to discover such a one-of-a-kind piece while simply riding through the woods.