Disclaimer: No infringement intended, CLAMP owns the world, and owns me. :p
Recommended listening for this story: Jordin Sparks – Battlefield (Not entirely fitting but it's what I was listening to while writing the end.)
Word Count: 1674 (in the actual story, notes not included)
Rating: High T to Low M, in my opinion. Rated M for safety.
He could hear and smell it, blood flowing fast and hot under the scarred skin of the battlers. He could feel the beating of their hearts through his weapon when he struck them. Blood poured out, created red stains against the black and white marble of the chess board. Hunger stirred in the pit of his stomach, his nostrils filled with the exhilarating, overwhelming scent of liquid life. Yet even though it smelled delicious, this could not compare to the scent and taste of his prey. Bitterness burned through his veins even as need churned in his belly. He hated it so much, desired it so much. The delectable aroma of his prey's blood overwhelmed his senses, and he turned to watch his dark companion, moving with grace and skill as he battled, blood slipping down from a small cut on his shoulder made by an enemy blade. He felt his eye slit and turn gold, felt himself begin to pant slightly, and struck his next opponent harder than he might normally, attempting to ease the anger boiling inside him.
When the "game" ended, when the wounded were carried off the board to be tended to, when they were once again declared the victors; they finally returned to the rundown apartment that had been their home these last two months. The flat reeked of old vomit and long forgotten trysts, scents which only Fai's sensitive nose caught. The carpets were worn through in places, the furniture was old and rugged, and the walls were chipped and dirty. Sometimes, he thought of Outo; of his pretty little cafe, and the cherry blossoms outside the window, and one or two moments of true happiness. When he thought that way, he was always quick to remind himself that this place was so much more suited to him, so much more what he deserved, for everything he was.
Somehow, he forced the hunger down, forced a smile onto his face, for the sake of Sakura and Mokona. He sometimes wondered why he even bothered. Mokona could see through it, always had; and now Sakura too gazed right through the crumbling, smiling mask and realized it was all a lie, though she could not yet see the truth, the deep darkness that was his heart.
The only eyes that truly saw him, truly saw how hideous he was deep down, were the red eyes of the otherworldly warrior; eyes which so constantly bored into him. He may not know what caused it, may not know the whole story, but he knew the result. Kurogane saw the blood-drenched monster creeping beneath the pale, flawless skin; saw the fangs, both literal and figural, hiding beneath the sweet and flirtacious smiles. No matter how much Fai avoided it, there were always moments when their eyes met. In those moments, he saw an animal reflected in ruby; frightened and wounded, but also starving, snarling and cruel. He always smiled, when their eyes met. If they were alone, he smiled with his teeth pressed against his lips, so that as they drew back his fangs scraped them and blood ran down his chin.
He hated Kurogane for his strange hyposcrisy, for labelling Fai among those he hated most, yet still forcing this pathetic existence upon him. It was like taking a plagued rat as a pet; always loathing it, always disgusted by it; never allowing it the mercy of quick destruction. He hated Kurogane for lying. Kurogane said he would kill Fai himself, if the wizard so desperately desired death. And yet no matter how much he ached for it; no matter how much he craved to watch his own blood flow over his hands; no matter that he lusted for a blade through his chest as much as he had once lusted for the ninja's body against his; Kurogane would not kill him.
Most of all, he hated Kurogane for seeing him as he truly was, and caring anyway.
He was hungry, and it would still be some two hours before the children went to bed, before Kurogane would force him to feed. Until that time, he must maintain the small semblance of normality which he clung too so desperately for Sakura's sake. When she slept, turning restlessly upon her rough bed as dreams of the lost boy she loved plagued her, only then could Fai let the falsity fall away. Only then might he smile bitterly rather than with a lie of happiness. Only then might he drive his fangs hard into already wounded flesh and relish the slight tensing, the tiny wince; the barest traces of pain. Only then might he scoff in acidic amusement at the way the ninja shifted slightly away from him as he sucked; a failing attempt on the red-eyed man's part to hide involuntary arousal. Only then might he have small, thrilling moments of revenge.
Two hours. The minutes ticked by in merciless slowness, while Kurogane sat on the ragged couch and drank, talking in a low voice to Syaoran, who nodded occasionally, solemn. Sakura was curled up in an armchair with a book, but only staring blankly at the pages, not actually reading. Mokona had its own bottle of sake and was gulping it down quietly, for once. Perhaps it sensed that Fai was in a far worse mood tonight than even Kurogane's darker moments; that it might lose an ear to deadly claws tonight if it were not very quiet. Fai stood in the small kitchenette off the living room and let his right hand's claws slip out and drive deep into the countertop, down, down, down. It did nothing to soothe him. He put the forefinger of his left hand to his lips, then past them, driving a fang into it sharply, letting his own blood's scent and texture fill his senses, pouring into his mouth but not satisfying, never satisfying.
A hand settled firmly on his shoulder and he spun around, attacking automatically due to both self-preservation instinct and his exceptionally bad mood. Kurogane caught the vampire's wrists with easy skill before long, knife-sharp nails could reach his shoulder, calm red eyes meeting angry, slitted gold. Fai bit his tongue to hold back a hissed curse, yanking himself free from the ninja's grip. Pulling a weak facade of normalcy over himself with about as much effectiveness as a thin sheet against the cold, the mage smiled bitterly at the taller man.
"Do you need something?"
A stern look came over those chiselled features and for the briefest second the playful urge to poke at the creases between dark brows itched at the tips of Fai's fingers. He clenched his hands into fists and let anger wipe away the feeling.
"No, but you do."
He didn't argue the point, but instead shrugged and glanced back through the kitchenette's door to the living room.
"They're still awake. It can wait."
"Why do you bother hiding it? It's not like they don't know."
"It's one thing for them to know I'm a monster." Fai's voice was laced with venom, unspoken words wound around those spoken. I'm a monster because you made me one. "It's another thing for them to see it."
"You're not a monster just because you drink blood."
It's all the other things that make you a monster. It was not Kurogane's voice that accused him in his head, but the voice of another, a haggard child with his own face. It's my blood on your hands that makes you a monster, not the blood of this man on your lips. You were a monster long before you were a vampire.
Fai wondered, sometimes, what kept him from just ending this damned existence. Even if Kurogane was constantly watching, suspicious, it wasn't like the ninja could take his claws from him. He could slit his own throat quickly and easily, if he decided to. The thought was suddenly so appealing that he brought one still extended claw to his neck, relishing the mental image of his own blood pouring out, of all the pain and anger draining away to black. Forgetting about the other presence in the room, he dragged his nails down his throat lightly, just hard enough to leave red lines, throwing his head back in what was an almost sexual pleasure.
Rough hands grabbed his wrists, yanking them over his head.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Suddenly the constant rage simmering beneath the surface of his being boiled over, and the next thing Fai knew he'd somehow broken free, shoved the taller man against the far wall, and driven his fangs into the hollow above Kurogane's collarbone. Blood filled his senses. Distantly he could hear Syaoran's voice, questioning and worried; Kurogane's voice answering; sounds of the children leaving and a door closing behind them down the hall. The intense heat and scent of his prey washed over him and brought with it an inescapable, burning lust. It was not only in his own body, but in the blood flowing over his tongue; the taste of his prey's desire. Vision and awareness hazy, he realized he was rubbing up against the dark man like a cat seeking attention. Someone made a soft sound, a moan, and he didn't know whether it was himself or the other. He had the feeling that something important was slipping from his grasp, some fact that ought not to be forgotten. Gasping, he pulled loose and was about to press his bloody mouth to Kurogane's when something clicked back into place inside his mind.
He hated this man.
He hated this man because there was no other choice.
He hated this man because it was for the best.
He hated this man because, if he were to dare feel anything else, Kurogane would only end up as broken as he was.
Fai broke people. The more he cared, the more certain the object of his affections was to be utterly crushed.
"I hate you. I hate you, Kurogane."
Fai turned and walked away.