Sake and Sakura
"More sake, Detective?"
Leon thought the Count's voice was slightly flirtatious, but he must be mistaken 'cause they were both guys.
"Yeah, don't mind if I do."
And he didn't, not at all - the sake was subtly sweet and dry and tasted like pears – deliciously cool and potent on this hot summer night. It was Saturday, and he was off tomorrow anyway. Didn't matter if he got a little soused on imported alcohol, and hell, it might take the edge off 'flower-viewing' or whatever the hell pansy-shit the Count had planned for him.
The Count leaned forward to top up Leon's glass and, if he'd had actual cleavage, Leon would've been in for a real treat. As it was, the expanse of skin he got an eyeful of was real nice, though: satin smooth and very pale, like cream skimmed off the top of new milk. Leon deliberately turned his head back to look at the kimono the Count had hung up, not quite liking the twitch between his thighs all that skin inspired. How many buttons had the Count undone on his dress-thing, anyway? He was almost half-naked, for chrissake!
They were sitting on this bed-like piece of furniture on a raised platform, the kimono displayed on a huge cherrywood rack a little distance away. There was a light shining on it, and Leon was not quite sure where that came from – the room itself was kind of dimly lit. When the Count had first flung open the door (after a really long hallway – how big was this Shop anyway?), Leon had been a little taken back by the décor. All he saw first was the bed-thing and his mind had done an intriguing two-step, coming up with really weird visions of the Count and him—
Well, that sure hadn't happened. He didn't know why he'd ever thought it would. The Count wasn't interested in him, anyway, except as a reoccurring annoyance or threat… or maybe just as Chris's big brother, if he ever even thought about Leon at all. Leon never knew where he stood with the stuck-up Chinese asshole – whether he was liked or disliked – but it didn't matter, really. He was still gonna come here and keep up surveillance. The guy was still real suspicious and Leon had to keep a weather eye out for…well, for whatever the Count really had going on.
That's funny, Leon thought, in the corner of his mind, determinedly ignoring the enticing scent that enveloped him when the Count leaned over to top up his drink yet again. Was it the Shop's incense he was huffing – or something subtler, like the paper-thin odor of crushed petals, crumpled and fragrant in a porcelain potpourri jar?
"Hey, Count, did you add something to that kimono? It looks different than it did the last time I saw it."
Leon sipped his sake and felt the heat from the liquor sweep down to his toes.
"Like there's more flowers or something…"
Damn it, why did he have to sit so close? It was disturbing, like the maybe-not changes in the kimono, and the whisper of wind he felt stirring, here in a closed room where no wind should be.
"Quiet, Leon. Just watch."
The Count answered him swiftly but softly and Leon flushed, since D had finally used his first name, which could've been a big deal but of course it was not, and dutifully stared at the kimono again as ordered, 'cause there was no way in hell's green acres he was going to look at him, not now. Not when he wasn't sure what his eyes might accidently reveal, even in this low light.
The soft wind stirred again and blew the silk forward, till it billowed and Leon could've sworn he saw a few fluttering petals peel right off. They floated toward him and his mouth opened in a silent shout.
What the hell? Where the hell was he standing, in a field? Where was D?
A faint music welled up and then grew stronger, coming from behind him, and Leon jerked his head around, startled. There were musicians there; five or six, maybe more, seated formally and dressed in the full regalia of an ancient Asian Court, with various weird instruments he vaguely recognized as being very old. The detective stumbled forward, feeling mildly frantic.
When the hell did I step into a Zeppelin album?
"The best time to watch cherry blossoms, Detective…is when they are falling."
The Count was right behind him in the starlit meadow and they stood suddenly somehow together before a tree, its gnarled roots sunk deep in a darkened stream, its crooked, ancient branches quivering the warm, light wind. Leon stared some more, utterly baffled, at the storms of petals that flew from it, borne skyward by the gentle breeze, floating and spiraling every which way in miniature whirlwinds, till a scattering landed in the water at his feet.
Huh, he thought vaguely, the water's red. His eyes widened with suspicion and he stared harder at the oily gleam that lapped his sneakers. Wait…is it water or--? Horrified, he stared transfixed at the glistening pool, visions of millions of dried up rustling insects skittering through his alcohol-fumed head.
"Yes, Detective, red is the color of blood."
How did D know what he was thinking? How did he do that, every time?
"But it's also the color of cherries."
Cherries, right, the fruit, George Washington and all that, chopping down the cherry tree. The thought calmed him, kind of, till he came to the 'chopping' part and then his pulse speeded right back up again.
"It's fitting that the cherries are the same color as human blood."
Fitting? Because we eat them? Leon shook his head in a vague motion. The sake was damned strong – he must be dreaming, only dreaming, that was all.
"After all, the cherry blossoms are so enchanting, it's said they can drive one mad."
"Mad." Drive one mad.
Leon fell backwards, the whispered word curling across his tongue, and found himself spread-eagled on the platform bed-thing, the Count hovering over him like a rapacious bird-of-prey, scarlet nails clutching at his shoulders, easily pinning him down. Leon put a hand up, curious, fearless, and touched that smooth cheek and then— wonderingly, slowly— he dragged his calloused fingertips over lips just the very same tint as crushed sakura petals. Warmth ran up Leon's arm like wildfire, spreading like hot honey into the cavity of his chest and he drew in his breath sharply at the feel of it, and urgently wanted more. The Count watched him carefully, smiling, pleased with him, moist lips just parted now under Leon's trembling fingertips, and then advanced all that much closer, climbing atop Leon on the cushioned dais with a grace that was nigh on feline.
The Count's slight weight was warm and welcome against him and Leon immediately raised his other hand, wrapping it 'round the nape of D's thin elegant neck with an easy motion and drawing that mouth nearer and nearer till at last he could reach, and press his own starving lips to that beckoning red flower.
D – Leon thought of him sometimes as 'D' - D tasted almost sweet, like the pear-flavoured sake, or maybe like Bing cherries, full and sinfully juicy after ripening in the summer sun. Leon slipped in his tongue, questing for the liquid essence of the cherry blossom that opened against his mouth, drinking down the taste of the Count as though it were mead in the desert and he a weary wanderer in the wastes. The Count wriggled and settled closer in reaction, till their chests and thighs pressed comfortably together, and wrapped slim hands 'round Leon's rumpled hair and the base of his flushed neck.
This was not strange, or startling, or even the slightest bit alarming, not to Leon—not right now. It was a dream, only, and anything goes, right? The mouth that met his, the teasing lips that drew him closer, the tongue that flirted with his own; it was not the same one that laughed joylessly and said spiteful things and brushed him off altogether, as though he wasn't worth even the effort to explain. This one here was the one Leon Orcot wanted, the one he dreamed of and never admitted to, not even at four in the morning, when he'd wake panting and furiously angry that that damned face was in his head again.
It went on forever, their kiss, and neither felt the slightest urge to break apart and breathe. They sipped and licked and tasted, swallowing each other's saliva, and Leon noticed with fond interest that D's tongue was very long and strongly muscled, curling daintily around his own. His teeth were even and ivory smooth, perfectly set in his angled jaw, and the hollows of his cheeks were smooth as well and a delight to probe and gently tease. He could feel the tiny smile that came and went under his lips, and the cool trickle of air in the back of the Count's mouth when he inhaled. And the taste—oh, the taste was unworldly, unheard of—he could live on that faint hint of sweet-salt liquor forever if he had to and never be hungry again. But all of it pleased Leon, every dip of jaw and slip of skin, every drop that trickled down his chin and the sensation swirling through his vacant mind warmly, like the breeze that had blown the sakura and ultimately brought him to this place.
Leon wasn't even the tiniest bit startled when long, cool fingers curled firmly around his manhood. He'd been half-hoping, half-expecting them anyway. He wanted them there and he returned the favor with alacrity, fumbling urgently at the Count's drawstring slacks and hauling them down D's silky smooth rump with an impatient twist. He kissed the Count all the harder 'cause those scarlet-tipped fingers were stroking too lightly, teasing him unmercifully, and he wanted more now.
Again, there was a fluttering smile blooming against his starving mouth and, encouraged, Leon grasped the Count's cock with trembling, calloused fingers and drew it up firmly, so that D rolled his hips forward with the motion and ground them against Leon's with a last-second heart-stopping swivel. He almost lost his grip at that and had to hold on more firmly, his palm wide and hot and all-engulfing, gathering the Count's elegant length fully into his grasp, milking it. He slid one soothing hand down the Count's back a moment later, wordlessly reassuring, and broke the centuries-long kiss, finally, only to immediately nip lovingly at the Count's pointy chin and then move to press nibbling butterfly bites along the line of his jaw.
The Count arched his back as Leon stroked him, his own hand still working smoothly, the other plucking at Leon's shoulder blade fretfully. Leon trailed his parted lips down the long white throat and across the hairless chest, till he stumbled at last over a nipple that begged to be licked firmly and suckled into a hard nub. The Count purred in response, or maybe growled, when Leon opened his jaw wide enough to cover the whole of the slight swell of manly tissue, eager tongue laving the nipple into nearly painful pebble-like hardness, and at that the Count clenched his vicious nails into Leon's shoulder, all ten biting down like tiny daggers, and his other hand tightened just as sharply around Leon's cock. Leon's eyes flew open at the shock of pressure, but the Count eased off almost immediately and went back to stoking him with a mind-blowing and now decidedly sultry rhythm, so that Leon's lids fell to half-mast again, lulled, the brief pulse of pain only a counterpoint to the pleasure that enthralled him.
It was perfect, the moment they came together, and shuddered and gasped as one. Leon snapped his head back into the soft fabric beneath him, for it was lightning coursing through his veins and gusting wetly through every nerve-ending in his trembling body. The Count made a sound—Leon heard it only peripherally, but it burned into his synapses forever, and he knew if ever he was fortunate enough to hear it again he would salivate and swell and thirst to draw it into his mouth and swallow it down deep within him.
They gushed hot seed into each other's hands till it ran liquid through trembling knuckles and dribbled down to gather on Leon's heaving belly, sticky and pearlescent. At long last, the Count curled down out of his arch of completion and their mouths met again; naturally, it seemed to the dazed and happy detective. This was the way it should be, he thought. The way it should always be. Lazily, they kissed once more, tongues twisting and mating in a slow waltz of mutual satiation, lips never once parting from spit-wet chins and swollen fellows. Leon tucked away in his memory the glimpses he'd had of a Count taut with pleasure, burnished to a satin cream-and-peony luster with cum and saliva and perspiration. Those glorious eyes, hedged dark and mysterious with sooty lashes, wide or tight-shut as Leon played him; that so-elegant body pliant as he willed it, meeting his at every turn.
The Count seemed heavier now, sprawled in sinuous repose atop Leon, and Leon pulled that suddenly familiar and comforting weight closer with feeble sticky fingers and reveled in the warmth it lent him. He, too, was relaxed and happy, so happy, his aching body fully satisfied after one hell of a long dry spell, and with almost exactly the surcease he'd dreamed of – all those terrifyingly tempting four a.m. wet dreams come lustily to life, embodied in the Count's wicked fingertips and cherry-stained lips, all wide open for the taking.
It was almost criminal, how goddamned good that felt, Leon decided. He sorta wished it wasn't just a dream. He could get used to this so damn fast his fucking head would spin as it settled.
But still, it had been one helluva of good dream, even if that's all it was, Leon mused, mind floating free finally of its moorings; he'd have to buy a bottle of that sake so that he could dream it again sometime soon. Soon.
"—ctive?"
Hmm.
"Mr. Detective!"
Leon blinked open his bleary, clouded eyes.
"Uhh."
He was lying down, prone, possibly drooling; lying down on something soft and yet firm, wasted and weary and cotton-mouthed, like he'd been drained dry of every liquid in his fatigued body.
"Huh! Shit!"
He reeled up abruptly, realizing he'd been spread akimbo all over the platform bed-thing like friggin' ragdoll, and wrenched his wobbly head around to stare blankly at the Count— as if he had three heads and not just Leon.
"Are you still asleep?"
Was that asshole laughing at him? No…no, he didn't think so. The Count's oddly colored eyes weren't particularly scornful, although that stupid little smile that drove Leon nuts curved a mouth the color of ripe—ripe summer fruit.
Leon sat up, cross-legged, and stared all around the room in vague unease, or anywhere that wasn't D's mouth, and tried to get a fix, or a line on something solid—
"What happened to the musicians?" He demanded, head turning wildly, which made it throb and pound so hard that he had to stop.
"What are you talking about? You're my only guest." The Count's reply was smooth, untroubled, and he was already gliding away with the tray of empty sake cups and bottle in his hands.
"No! There were these weird flute guys!" Leon protested, the last wisps of memory slipping out of his futile grasp.
"You drank too much, Leon."
There it was again, his name. The detective clutched his head, 'cause it was pounding, 'cause that made him so happy for no good goddamned reason, and willed his blush away fiercely. Now was not the time—
"Hey, what happened to the kimono?"
Leon's still somewhat foggy eyes rested on it finally, and saw it white and pure as a field of unmarred snow.
"Who knows?"
The Count's soft answer was off-hand, entirely too casual, and not an answer at all, but Leon didn't notice as he stumbled toward the gaping doorway and back through the Shop. He had the mother of all hangovers and it was time to find his way home, bumble through the confusing streets of Chinatown and find his wheels, till he navigate safely to a real frame of reference; could collapse in his own apartment, gobble aspirin till it slammed the splitting headache back down to the mat, and finally get some fucking rack time.
He needed sleep. He needed something—
Wallowing in his unkempt bed, almost unconscious, the part of Leon's brain that wasn't being pierced with random hot lead arrow points remembered that he should buy some of that sake for himself. He'd ask the Count, next time he saw him, 'cause that was some fine fucking liquor, even if it did kick like a mule with a giant hard-on, and maybe then he'd be able feel that good again—
Back in the Shop, the Count smiled and fondly patted the now-empty bottle Grandfather had so thoughtfully tucked into the packing box beneath his beautiful new kimono. It was a potent brew, powerful enough to knock a grown man off his feet in next to no time. He smiled even more widely at the pleasant memories of this particular sake's power and instantly resolved to purchase another at that Japanese import shop down the block, as soon as he had the chance. He enjoyed the effect it had – at least on Leon – and it was a lovely taste, even if he himself needed to imbibe a great deal more than one small bottle to feel inebriated.