Chip: Aha, so this here is the product of my wild imagination. You see, in my drabbles over yonder (entitled: "Drabbles By Moonlight"), I'm trying to keep 'em short (drabble-like) and well-balanced, as far as the character appearances go. Unfortunately, I see to me collected (or obssessing) over Aido x Yuuki recently. That's how this happened. "Apologetic" and its soon-to-be-posted-here twin "Unremorseful" were meant to be parts of the drabble series, but they're just too damned long and tend to screw with the whole sense of carefree, un-relatedness of the other drabbles. So, I didn't to post them as a separate story.
I hope you enjoy "Interludes". This is only Part One. Part Two will be up, eventually, some time soon.
Recommended Listening: "My Medea" by: Vienna Teng; "Come On Closer" by: Jem; "Last Song" by: Gackt; "Hoshi no Suna" (the Piano Version) by: Gackt.
[Apologetic]
It always happens when Kaname is away--only when he's away. There is no other opportunity, otherwise, for Kaname's eye is ever watchful and his possession of his mate unsurpassed by his attention to any other matter.
But when he is away, that's when it happens.
She's in the library, reading, when she feels the presence behind her. She doesn't turn her head, because she knows there can only be one person in this estate with her--only one, who would approach her without fear.
The hands descend from behind her, coming down over the back of her chair to land gently on her shoulders, bare except for the silken straps of her dress. Cool fingers brush the straps away so that they lay over her arms like pale, crooked rainbows; nails dig ever so lightly into her skin, marking her with tiny half-moons.
It is the only mark Hanabusa can ever leave on her skin.
She cocks her head to the side, the action providing him with a clearer view of her slender, pale throat and there, the network of bluish veins visible only to a vampire in hunger. His breath hitches and she keeps back a smile, though the smallest breath of amusement slips between her lips.
He abandons his attentions to her shoulders and moves around the chair. Her feet are bare and tucked into the seat, crossed at her side. The flimsy, silken material of her informal dress lays pooled in her lap, sliding clear of her thighs and the curve of her knees. Her legs are a temptation--a trail to follow upward, to more.
He cannot give in.
But in a way, he is doing just that. She closes her old, worn novel over one finger and tucks it down gently into the seat; her attention is for him, now. He sinks immediately to one knee before her, his arm crossed over his chest and his head bowed in the deepest respect. She is a woman; a beautiful, ravishing, kind woman with no equal in his eyes--but also his Queen and the distinction is never to be forgotten.
Her hand comes down on his head, gentle; her fingers play through his hair for a moment, twisting his half-curls around and around. She is always so fascinated with his hair and the way it seems to capture the Sun in every strand.
He's shaking, just the slightest, with exertion. He came seeking a respite from the burn, the ache--but he's ever the gentlemen with her. He is never rough and he never rushes her; he basks in the sweet, torturous delight of her favor.
Though it may one day destroy him.
Her hand moves lower, to cup his cheek; she lifts gently with her fingers, inviting him to raise his head. He does so, only because he cannot help himself. Her eyes are honey and amber; blood and liquid garnet. It's a color he has never been able to name, though he likes to think of it as simply hers.
Her hair is falling down around her shoulders and lower; the front of dress she wears is useless, the material so soft, it slides against the smooth skin without catching. Her breasts are not large, but they are perfect in their size and not at all left to the imagination. She has never been fond of underclothing; the small, rounded peaks in the material remind him of it.
He wonders, absently, if it is the temperature of the room or his presence which causes her body to react. From the corner of his eye, the flames of the fireplace dance idly.
Her palm is still pressed to his cheek, the warmth of her fingers curved around it to slip into his hair, around his ear. It's a very intimate touch.
Were Kaname to see it one day, he had no doubts that he would find himself very quickly disposed of.
But it would be a death worth dying, he supposes.
For the pleasure of her touch, he'd die a thousand times over.
And she knows it as well.
The desire is worsening; the craving called out for her. He shakes a little harder with it, his eyes fluttering shut to hide the half-pain from her.
But she sees it, as she always does.
She pulls her hand away from his cheek, turning it so that he might see the tracing of veins in her wrist and the fluttering, butterfly wings of her heartbeat, pulsing.
He exhales from between clenched teeth, the desire swelling up sharply inside of him. His fangs press down into his bottom lip, making indents there when he wanted nothing more than to bury them down inside her.
She watches him calmly, sees how his eyes turn from cool ice to the bright, flaring red--nature's warning color. It said 'danger', 'stay away'.
She beckoned him forward with a slight crooking of her fingers.
He comes with hunger, his hands rising to trap hers. Her wraps long, cool fingers around her forearm, to hold it down at an angle; the fingers of his other hand capture hers, bending them back and away, gently, to give him better access to the pale expanse of her wrist.
Everything about this is both gentle and ravenous. She gives and he takes, because he cannot help himself.
He hisses out another breath, his lips parting. His mind is everywhere and nowhere at all, focusing on her and then slipping away to hunger. He whispers her name, reverently--a word of thanks, of apology, of pleading.
The only warning he can give her.
His bite is deep, his fangs piercing sharply. He groans as her blood--rich, powerful, sweet--floods over his tongue and he swallows, taking her into him in the most primal of ways. His body rages--with heat--and he aches to have more of her. He wants to bury his fingers in her hair and pull back, to have his fill from the one fount that is forever forbidden to him.
It is in these moments, with her blood in his mouth and his body crying out for hers, that Hanabusa allows himself to think--to dream--that she is meant to be his. Not Kaname's; not Kiryuu's.
His.
His soulmate, stolen by chance.
Everything inside him knows that she is his, in the basest way. He may not share her bed, or her throne--but he is at her side, always, loyal. To the King, he gives his sword.
To the Queen, his life.
And his heart.
And she knows it--she knows it, truly. It's in the way she watches him from the corner of her eye, always anxious to have him near. It's in the way her hands tightened in her lap at the mention of his name--and the way her she lowered her eyes, to veil her excitement.
It was in her smiles.
Maybe, it might seem over-reaching; no one else could see as he did, because no other had hidden in the same way they did.
It's in the way he inclines his head, in acknowledgement of her glance. It's in the way he makes sure to rise early to be at her side, though he relishes sleeping in. It's in the way he is quick to defend her honor and slow to retire from her presence--and in the way his gaze trails after her each evening, when she goes to be with her King.
It was in his smiles, as well, though much more carefully tucked away.
He takes her blood, in this way, in the manner of a servant. He aches for more, but cannot force her to allow him. It's not his way.
Her head is thrown back against her chair, her hair spilling around her. Her chests rises and falls in deep, quaking breaths; her cheeks are flushed and her lips parted. She watches him through half-lidded eyes and he catches sight of her state when he glances up to meet her gaze.
There is an understanding between them, in the space left unfilled by words or protocol. His desire, her want--their mutual, burning infatuation and the sense that there could be more, if they reached further...
An understanding that...it could not be.
Not in that way. Not beyond this.
She regrets causing him pain--hates that it is her blood and her form which so tempts him to do things which might one day get him killed.
He repents his involvement, the turmoil it causes within her; he despises that he has stoked the fires of her passion to this point, where she feels she must conflict herself between her vows and her heart.
They are sorry for what the effects of what they do--but never sorry for the thing itself.
So when they part, at the end of the evening, it is with his head bowed and her body swaying with exhaustion. He walks her to her chamber door and escorts her inside, but never does he stay and she cannot invite him to do so.
They say love is a bridge from one heart to another; from one soul, a link, to its match.
They cannot go fully across that bridge, nor can they turn their backs and let it fall into decay.
Instead, they stand in the middle and stare endlessly toward the other side.
Apologetic, but unremorseful.