Disclaimer: I do not own Yami no Matsuei, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to Yoko Matsushita

Notes: not slash. Unfortunately.

Media: Both/either.

Spoilers: Um...none, I think.

Characters: Asato Tsuzuki and Kazutaka Muraki

Black. It is so misunderstood. People only see the darkness and the shadows and monsters, but it can be such a complimenting colour. On you it looks astounding, Tsuzuki-san. Your dark hair enveloping a pale face, and illuminating those disarming, gleaming amethyst eyes. A black suit pays an indefinable tribute to your figure, finely tailored and close fitting.

But it is not the colour of your raven hair or your suits that appeals to me Tsuzuki-san – it is not even your demon eyes that hold me captive. It is but the colour of your blood that interests me. Can you bleed, shinigami? I'm certain you can. But what colour pours from your veins? It can't be the mundane, monotone red that the rest of us carry. Liquid ruby is too plain, too boring for a man who is everything but.

Is it purple, Tsuzuki-san? Instead of liquid ruby, does liquid amethyst spill through a long dead heart and rage through twisting veins. Did beautiful violet petals bloom from those scars on your wrists, when you begged for your life to be taken and solace to be found in the blissful nothingness of death? Were you stained, besmirched in lavender?

I can't wait to discover the colour of your blood, shinigami. It is the most puzzling mystery about you. Being a doctor, I have seen so many tones of red, from a deep burgundy to a pale scarlet. But yours, I can tell yours will be the most intriguing, most beautiful shade I shall witness, and, Tsuzuki-san, not only shall I enjoy the shade, but the process of drawing it from you.

Goodnight and farewell, Tsuzuki-san, until the fated eve when your blood shall stain my hands, whatever colour it may be.

-

White. It is too misunderstood. Upon first sight it is so beautiful, pure and clean, but it can be such a cruel colour. On you it looks despicable, Muraki. Your silver hair framing a cruel ivory face, hiding those eyes of cold steel. A white suit looks so clean, so professional but it does no justice to the black soul lurking beneath.

But I am not interested in your surface colours, in the disarming whites and silvers of your appearance, of the contradiction you display so readily. It is but the colour of your blood I wish to know, the colour of your heart. Surely something so human, so ordinary as red cannot be the thing flowing life around your body, not you, a man who is anything but human and ordinary. The only thing that could come from you is not red, not even the brutal disguise of saintly white, but the dark, delirious hatred of black.

Black blood would be most suiting for you, Muraki. Black as night. Black as sin. Someone who has committed such atrocities as you can have nought but a black heart, parading as something as kindly as red. You have killed so many people, Muraki, witnessed so many shades of blood and yet no shred of remorse remains within you. You have lost touch with humanity, and a deep, endless black is all that can remain within your human shell.

I don't want to find out what shade of blood you possess, Sensei. I don't want to stain my hands with yet more colours of life, but when it comes to it, when you have threatened all that is dear to me, I have no choice but to do exactly that. I shan't enjoy watching you die, not really, I'll feel remorseful and regretful that there would be no other way. I will not enjoy killing you, but I will, when the time comes.

Goodnight and farewell, Muraki-sensei, until the fated eve when I am forced to stain my hands with your blood, whatever colour it may be.