Osomatsu-san © Akatsuka Fujio and I do not gain any profit from writing this fanfiction.
tacenda (n.) things better left unsaid.
English is not my first language so if you found any error I would happily (also appreciatively) revise it. (´・ω・`)
You're a vampire and you hate yourself for being weak. You hate when you're thirsty and it's burning and you succumb. It hurts—so, excruciatingly, hurts—and you know it wounds him too, even though he always tells you to drink; all you like, all you want.
"It's alright," he says every time, "you can drink as much as you need, Osomatsu."
You love him, just as much as you love the taste of his blood in your mouth, his fragrance filling your nose when you embrace each other, his skin under the scrape of your teeth and oh how you adore the way his name rolls off your filthy tongue as you breathe to his neck, "Karamatsu."
It is always the same. You don't necessarily need human food anymore, but you require blood to survive. The thirst arises once or twice a month—or may even be thrice a week—you can't control it, you can't hold it, but it smolders your chest and sharpens your senses, then dulls your head and all you can think of is drink, drink, drink. It is a desire, it is a thirst, it is a need; you want him. It's not fair, you know, he doesn't owe you and you don't own him, but he always let you take from him. He gives himself to you while you can't resist.
Karamatsu tilts his head even more and presents his white neck to you; I'm all yours, his eyes say, take me. He moans when your fangs rip his skin.
His coat was darker than the night sky when you first met him. Black hair combed neatly, sunglasses rested on the collar of his shirt, a rose peeking from his breast pocket. With a cross hanging on his neck, a light sword in one hand and a gun in another, he exterminated all kinds of evil and purify every place he went. He first saw you with blood on the side of your mouth, a monster reflected in your vertical pupils and torn flesh in your claws. You could've killed him right there and then, but there was just something about him that stopped you. He could've killed you too—as you were so thirsty and hunger clouded your mind, someone smart enough might be able to win if they tried to outsmart you—but he didn't. He offered his hand and his neck instead, asking if he could be your friend. You took his; hand and words and blood. His face went pale, but he didn't shove you away. Karamatsu patted your back and slid red petals into your hand.
"Will you come with me?" he asked. "You can't rely on cattle forever, if you stay here, someday you might lose it and kill the townspeople." It's true; he knew that no matter how many animals you killed as substitutes for human blood, they would never be enough. It's true; you thought about the dead lambs scattered around your feet and you had already known how poor you were at holding yourself back. So he took you with him, and you swore to protect him as an exchange of his blood.
He doesn't mind you being clingy. He never asks why you are in constant need of his presence and his touch, no matter how late or early the time shown on the clock is, he'll always open his arms when you scoot closer. Karamatsu smells like roses and at times too sweet it's sickening, but you love it nonetheless and bury your nose into the crook of his neck, ghosting feathery kisses around the mark left by your fangs. He hums lightly, brushing hands to your sides, tugs your collar and presses his lips onto yours. You love his voice when he sings, and more when you kiss and he send melodies to your lips. Sometimes you bite, but he doesn't mind that too, he'll open his mouth and let you savor every drop.
Karamatsu always smiles. He smiles when he showers you with thousand flatteries and woos you with cheesy lines. He smiles when he slips arms to your waist, or when he drops his back onto the bed, pulling you with him and you fall on top of his chest. "Isn't it lovely," he says, "it's like you're falling for me."
"More like literally," you say, and let his fingers tangled themselves between your hair. But Karamatsu doesn't need to do anything, you think, because you've fallen for him anyway, the same way he's fallen for you.
You were human, he knows. Karamatsu understands that you never want to kill anyone and that's probably why he took you in the first place. You didn't plan to fall in love, and maybe neither did he, but you instantly forget everything when the two of you start unbuttoning each other's shirt. Unlike you, he's warm, comforting like the hearth you seek in winter at your old house, cuddled in blankets with your little brother who now thinks that you're already dead. Karamatsu is never in a rush, he'll remove his hand from your front just so he can caress your cheek or brush his thumb against your bottom lip, before picking up where he left off, ever so slowly. In return you'll wander your hands, feeling every inch of him, tracing cold fingers from his elbow down to his wrist, lacing his hand with yours.
Laying on him, you place your ear to his bare chest and listen to the beating of his heart. It reminds you of what it feels to have normal heartbeat. It's nice in a way it helps you to remember how it feels to be alive. The steady beat always calms you, forestalling you from forgetting that you were once also a human. Sometimes he'll rest his head onto your chest too, nuzzling and whispering, "I can hear it; the slow tap of the heart, the soft pulse pumping soul; it's your proof of life—you're still alive, Osomatsu, you're still alive and well."
Sometimes you cry. Tears trailing down your cheeks, knot forming tightly in your throat and stings of pain gradually pierce the back of your head. You know it's not fair, that he always returns your bites with kisses and your scratches with caresses. It's not fair how he always wipes your tears and apologizes even though he has no reason to. It's not fair how you always claim everything that is his, and he happily nods to your every wish.
Once, you asked why he kept moving from one place to another, traveling to the edge of the world and back; why he never stopped eradicating devils although no one paid him to or rewarded him for.
"It's because of love," he said, "the love for my twin brother."
"Why?" you reiterated.
"Because he died." Dolefully, Karamatsu answered. "Life got stolen away from him by the deed of evil. I'll erase evil little by little, so no one will lose their family and loved ones in the way I did. That's why."
"Then it's revenge." Not quite, because Karamatsu didn't know who killed his brother and who to get to pay for it, but you still considered it as revenge.
"If you say so, then I suppose," he mulled, hand absent-mindedly stroking your back, resting his chin on top your head as you pressed your face further to his chest. His voice was not filled with resentment, but you never knew. "Sometimes frightening, isn't it, this thing we call love?"
Love is indeed a scary thing. It moves people, it changes the others, and turns some into liars.
Ever since you've been turned into a vampire, you don't need much sleep. True, you still fancy taking naps in broad daylight and doing absolutely nothing, but when the night falls and the moon rises, often you'll find yourself wide awake. At this hour you first notice, that no matter what he does, Karamatsu always looks so beautiful—painfully beautiful at the most inappropriate times, even—but there nothing compares to his face when he sleeps. Perfectly carved nose and jaw in a handsome feature, slightly parted lips and flawless chin, outlined by the silver light that seeps from the window which curtain you let opened. You watch the rise and fall of his chest; listen to the low, almost inaudible, grunt he let out sometimes; wait for the smile he makes when seemingly having a good dream. Because if it was a nightmare, you want to make sure that you're always ready to hold and tell him that everything is okay.
"Forgive me," suddenly you found a hand on your cheek, wiping tears and that you didn't realize had fallen, "did I hurt you, my love? Please tell me where." He is awake now, traces of sleep evident in his eyes, but the look of worry on his face is genuine. Karamatsu is always honest and he never hides anything; unlike you.
"No," you cover his hand with yours, touching his knuckles, "I'm fine, Karamatsu." You glance at the small swelling on the base of his neck and remember the mark your nails left on his back. Compared to everything you did to him, what he did can never be considered as hurting you. "I'm the one who always hurt you. I'm sorry."
"Worry not, love," he pulls you closer and you drape an arm over his hip. "May I ask you something, Osomatsu?"
"Hmm?"
"If you're not hurt, then why must your eyes spill crystals?" He kisses the bridge of your nose. "Oh how sorrowful it is for a man such as myself to see the eyes of his lover shed droplets of sadness. Should you tell me what's wrong, my dear," at this point you swear his eyes are literally sparkling like stars and it's blinding, "I shall do with all might to ease your heart."
You're tempted to say that is his way of speaking that hurts you—and everybody, on that matter—but you hold your tongue and kiss the corner of his mouth instead, pouring all of your feelings into your words when you say, "Nothing. I'm just so happy we're together that sometimes tears start filling my eyes," chuckles escape you, "this is joy, you see, Karamatsu? Not sadness."
"I-is that true?"
"Of course it is." You smiled, rubbing a finger under your nose and laughing when you see his cheeks redden. He then laughs along, saying I love you too over and over and you love it best when he cares nothing about the world but you.
It is not a lie, after all. You do cry because you love him (and because you remember his brother).
You've seen Karamatsu's face even before you met him, mirrored on his twin brother who walked alone from work one night. You could never forget the fear in his eyes when you dragged him into the shadows in one of the alleys and drained the life out of him. It's imprinted in your mind, like an old haunting film—the way he fell to his knees as his insides went dry and his brain ran out of blood. You had no control over yourself that time—you could barely hold your thirst even years after—and when your rationality finally returned, he had become cold and empty.
Weeks later when you met Karamatsu, you thought if grim reapers appear with the face of those you have killed, but he gave you life instead.
You're a vampire and you hate every second of it. You hate that you're a damn coward that you never tell him who killed his brother. You hate that you're weak and dependent and deceitful. You hate the way he holds you, the way he let you take all, the way he presents himself to you. You took his brother and now you're taking his blood, his heart, his everything.
"Karamatsu?"
"Yes?"
"You're not going back to sleep?"
"After you, love."
"Then I'm going to," you turn to the other side, and instinctively he hugs you from behind, "good night."
"Good night," he replies, "sweet dreams."
Your chuckle comes like a snort. "Every night."
It's not fair and you know.
"Nothing haunts us like the things we don't say."
—Mitch Albom