[title] Bone dry
[summary] In this world where red-haired creatures are considered the epitome of an exotic pet, Mikoto knows his place very well indeed - knows enough to comprehend the complexities of his captivity. Still, he'll take whatever thi strange twilight offers him and love it, even in the light of day.
[notes] gift fic for a friend. i've been very lazy about cross-posting and so there are...several stories that are up on ao3 and not here lol. this is an attempt to breathe some life back into this account. lemme know if you want to see my missing seowaka on this site, or you could just hop over to ao3 and read them :)))))
;;warnings for weird distopian AU allusions
/
It is almost daybreak by the time Mikoto is allowed to creep away from the festivities and return to his gilded cage in the east wing of the sprawling mansion that he calls home.
The sky is dark with the heavy promise of rain, hazy coils of smoke winding intimately through the cloud cover, nestling into their linings like a lover would. An accurate reflection of whatever is going on down here, he thinks, mind flashing back to all the times he has glimpsed people coupling in the most expected places, thinking themselves shielded by the curtain of night and drink and lust. Not that his presence would really deter or alarm any one of them, Mikoto muses, since he isn't considered a someone with any import – why, he's barely viewed as an inferior subspecies of the human race. In this world where red-haired creatures are considered the epitome of an exotic pet, he knows his place very well indeed – knows enough to comprehend that the only reason he's well fed and kept warm in winter is his possession of a head of rich red locks, porcelain skin, a smooth complexion, a winning smile.
Being dehumanised is all part of a days' work.
Mikoto knows things; he certainly isn't as stupid as they'd like to think his poor animal brain makes him. Being born with beauty to commercialise was a curse, and getting picked up almost instantly by a rich family as a christening gift for their firstborn child was a blessing (of sorts). The way his life has unfolded is something he should technically be grateful for, since it's allowed him to live, and live comfortably. Sure, there's the creepy fondling every now and then by some lecher at a revel (honestly, it never matters whether they're drunk or not), but he hasn't had to suffer through what some others of his kind suffer through.
There are so many things he could be, you know?
He could be working in a dingy little brothel, spending night after night being spread beyond his limit to entertain ceaseless streams of paying customers.
He could be tethered out in the open town square of some backwater swamp village and brutalized for being a freak of nature, near stoned to death by little children and old people alike.
He could be living on the run, always barely one step ahead of the traffickers or the law enforcement douchebags who love to assume that a red-haired being a free person is the same as being some escapee on the run.
Instead, here he sits. In his gilded cage lined with silken blankets over a marble floor. Mikoto's person is entirely owned by the young master Kashima, of course, but the rest of the household is relatively free to stare. Others can look, but they cannot touch, as was made abundantly clear by the time he was old enough to begin receiving nearly too much attention. If he recalls correctly, they'd been ten. The servants, friends of the young master's brought over to celebrate some such important occasion or other, all a blur of faces and grabbing arms and invasive questions; suddenly frozen in place by a few short sentences.
"This one's mine," the young master had announced out of the blue, eyeing the little redhead calculatedly from behind striking cobalt lashes. "Doesn't everyone say so after all? Shall I dare to presume – (and here a dangerous pause) – you all know what exactly that means?"
"Of course, Yuu-sama," was the murmured response as they shuffled from the room, and Mikoto felt longing fingers slip, slip slowly away, untangle themselves leisurely from the lushness of his mane; turned his head to bow to the one holding the reins. And he doesn't speak, because he's been raised to only speak when spoken to, but he does indulge for a moment in the luxury of thinking he can trust this person.
In any case, the young master Kashima never pays him any attention; she's too busy devoting all her waking hours to charming all the female serving staff into literally eating out of her hands in the shortest amount of time possible. So that leaves Mikoto alone to while the days away, to wish that there was something more productive he could do with his precious life than waste away while attempting to count the number of gold leaf flakes used to decorate the gilt edges of his master's bedframe. Are his muscles already beginning to atrophy? Surely he cannot allow them to lose their definition, he hardly has anything apart from his beauty to be proud of anymore. When no one else is in the room he does stretches and leg lifts and push ups and feels worthless, right down to the core of his very soul.
Tonight, instead of walking down the marble corridors past portraits with judging eyes, he opts to trail the stone-flagged path through the gardens, with the intricately carved arches and wilting petals looming overhead. Here, too, he is far less likely to have to avert his own judging stare from others as they undulate together on a separate plane, and wonder dully how it must feel like to escape from reality, even if only for a short half hour, even if only that way. Mikoto pirouettes on a whim, and the sound his chains make against the rough-hewn surface of the cobbles is marginally more bearable than the clanking echoes that reverberate indoors, the sound dragging after him like a shadow.
Despite his myriad momentary distractions, he makes sure never to forget just where he is supposed to be heading back to. Not making it back to his quarters is something he knows would be capable of causing a massive stir in the master's household. His lips part in a wry grin at the thought of all the accusations that would be flung, before twisting decisively into a grimace. With a last look up at the sky, he hastens along the route back to his rooms, as he'd originally intended.
Tripping over someone's ankle as he stops to smell the roses is so not part of the plan.
At first he dismisses it as some drunk visitor who'd been puking in the flowerbeds and then collapsed there. It certainly wouldn't be the first (or last) person he'd catch spilling their guts onto the hybrid roses or planted face-down in the prize geraniums or ripping up the trailing honeysuckle with alcohol-induced convulsions. Mikoto lowers himself onto his haunches and curls a hand firmly around the stranger's ankle, ready to yank whoever it is out and back to the main hall where they can be picked up by their own families' servants.
Much to his surprise, he hears a startled yelp of protest, and finds himself on the receiving end of an indignant stare that cuts right through the darkness. Not relinquishing his grip, he settles down to sit cross-legged on the cobbles and peers suspiciously at whoever he has in hand, their features still too far deep in the thorny cloud of rosebush to properly discern. There isn't a chance in hell of his sticking his own head in there, though, so instead he tugs and keeps tugging, until at last with a disgruntled sigh the person shimmies out from within the plant's embrace, looking much unharmed and very deadpan.
"What were you doing in there?" he queries sharply, unsure if the practice of such behaviour is a normal thing; mere milliseconds later he realises that he still has one slightly sweaty palm wrapped possessively round the ankle of a girl and panics internally – she's conscious and didn't sound at all drunk and if she should happen to be a noble there's no telling exactly what might become of him – then has another epiphany when he squints thickly through the veil of moonlight and registers the exact shade of her hair.
A striking vermillion, lovely contrast to her violet eyes that it makes: while her hair isn't quite red enough for her to be considered as valuable a commodity as Mikoto himself is, it's quite red enough to mark her as different from the rest. There are twin red ribbons in her hair as if to make up for the lack of natural colour, and he absently thinks that the little slip of a thing looks fairly pretty thus adorned. She is most definitely a servant to some lord or other, so maybe he isn't gaping as much as he would have when she answers his question.
"Soaking in the scent of the roses," she intones mechanically. "My master ordered me to, so don't give me that look. I haven't lost my marbles."
Mikoto blinks (but not too incredulously) at her and mentally amends his earlier conclusion – make that servant to some eccentric lord, possibly one with a weird fetish. Sighing, he smirks half-heartedly, easily pulling her up along with him as he stands. "The likes of us doesn't have any marbles to lose, girl."
"Sure we don't," she scoffs, rolling her eyes at him and brushing her calves off. "Anyway, I doubt this is working, I probably just smell like soil instead." She looks him up and down, taking in the rich red hair and the good clothes and the gleam of silver at his ears and wrists and ankles ( – her own are free, actually, once he'd slipped his fingers from her skin) and then says slowly, "I don't suppose you'd know the best way about it?"
"You're serious," he blurts out without thinking, before taking a moment to regain his composure. He clears his throat and pulls his shoulders back. "As it so happens," he says, "I do."
"Alright," his companion says impatiently, "so what do I have to do?"
He forces himself to swallow the lump in his throat before he speaks, lest he choke midway through the words. "You…you have to follow me." Her gaze darts swiftly up to his face and the blood rushes to his cheeks as he stammers, "N-no, but really, and be q-quiet. We're dead if we get caught. Y-you know that. C'mon."
He almost trips in his haste to scurry off, which prompts a faintly amused scoff to leave her lips. "Lead on, Red," she calls mockingly from behind him, and he pauses a while to turn and eyeball her. Shut up and trust me, Ribbons," he snaps back under his breath, and spins on his heel before he can even think of catching her eye.
/
/
Mikoto leads her through the garden and down a winding path that sees them to the swathe of land at the back of the Kashima estate, they can see the tower where the stores are kept, the stables, and the end of the orchard. That isn't their destination, however, and the girl watches curiously as he pads over to a trapdoor sunken into the ground next to the greenhouse and curls his hands around the heavy iron ring affixed to it.
He grunts with exertion, bracing his arms and putting all his weight onto his hindmost limb to lift the heavy stone slab – and has to scramble not to drop it when he feels thin arms lock around his waist form behind and hold him firmly. When he turns his head with difficulty to give the girl a look, she just stares up blankly at his side profile (he is panting, he is sure he is) and raises a nonchalant brow. "What?" she says, "I'm just helping you out." He decides not to comment. After all, he cannot see how her eyes are warily fixed on the corded muscle bunching in his arms, or the veins that rise starkly against the thin skin of his nape.
With a final summoning of strength he manages to lever the trapdoor into position, and stands there catching his breath for a long moment, almost leans back into her arms. Then he checks himself, and places his hands over hers (they fit beautifully) to slide them off his waist and down over his hips, to hang in the narrow air between their bodies.
"Don't do that," he bites out as he strides away, backlit by the moon's beams and poised to climb down the ladder that extends into the earth, one foot on the packed dirt threshold; he half-turns to address her. "You were just lying under some bush, weren't you? Don't get dirt on my clothes."
As he clambers down as quickly as his feet will carry him, he hears her scoff at him again, but remembers to at least rejoice in the fact that she cannot see his searing blush.
When she joins him in the dank air of the underground cellar his first instinct is to grin proudly. As the dust settles and their eyes become accustomed to the dimness, they can make out piles and piles of flowers in varying stages of decay, stacked high from floor to ceiling; some the crisp brown and ash grey of two summers back; some curling at the edges as memories of yesterday's life seep out of the pigmented petals. The entire chamber is redolent with the fragrance of blooms. She must see then that he wasn't lying to her.
Not all the harvested flowers are left to rot beautifully where they lie, of course. Certain quantities are set aside to be pressed into oils and soaps and perfumes. Mikoto takes some and spritzes his companion. A few casual flicks of the wrist as she turns on the spot, "And we're done!" he exclaims triumphantly, "You definitely smell of roses now."
Instead of the thanks he is expecting she frowns at him irritably, and just like that he is reduced to hapless staring. He waits for her to explain herself. "This will wear off pretty fast," she grumbles dejectedly, "how do I get the scent to last longer? As in, really have it seep into my skin."
Mikoto goes quiet again.
"I don't know," he professes in a low whisper. "Tell me, how far are you willing to go for this stupid request? Hmm? Are you going to let me massage scented oil into your skin? Allow yourself to be crushed against a blanket of rose petals? Or buried in a barrel of them? Are you?"
The last part comes out an angry hiss, for reasons he has not yet the clarity of mind to pick out.
The girl's eyes glint strangely in the semi-darkness and as her line of sight carefully avoids him he finds his eyes forcefully drawn to rake her figure, scrutinising her in vain for any hint of what her motive could be. His eyes fix hungrily on her mouth when her lips part and she says, "I suppose I am," and he sucks in a measured breath and smoothens the front of his tunic but nothing, and absolutely nothing at all can help to calm the staccato pounding of his heart.
"And you?" she fires back; "Aren't you saying that you would very much like to do those things to me?"
"I – yes – no – yes," he stammers out, running his hands through his hair in the frustration of not being able to read the subtext of his own words, his own desires. But after all, when will they ever get another chance like this? There really is no saying, and Mikoto refuses to let this opportunity of all opportunities to simply slip through his fingers.
This really isn't the place, he hears himself say, and sees her nod in tacit agreement about adjourning to his room. She refuses to lace fingers with him, but he takes heart in the knowledge that her fingers of one small hand remain tightly gripped on the folds of fabric at his waist.
/
/
Liberally sprinkling the bedsheets with rose petals is more embarrassing than he'd anticipated it to be, but he manages to get through the ordeal just fine. From there he moves to sitting at the girl's side on the edge of the mattress and tentatively dabbing the scented oil over her wrists and temple and the nape of her neck. He's about to pour out more and get down to massaging her slender calves – is already running an assessing palm over the back of her knee – when the awkward intimacy of the situation hits them like an avalanche and they both scramble away hastily for a little time-out.
Mikoto lights the incense he's filched from the store with trembling fingers that dribble fine ash down his front, inhaling deeply as the scent begins to permeate the room. Here, concentrated in the cusp of his hands before it can diffuse, it is as potent as it is sinfully daze-inducing; he offers it to the girl reverently and they share in the narcotic bliss, and sink in unison onto the silk coverlets of his bedding in a boneless mass. It's almost like watching a flower wilt, though supplemented with marginally more grace and infinitely more morbidity. His eyelids flutter open slowly after a spell and he realises that the sky has actually lightened considerably from the time they'd stumbled in here – which is what jolts him wide awake.
His companion is curled up next to him, a warm and comforting weight against his side. Her head would tuck so neatly under his chin, he thinks, shifting carefully to lie on his side. He is much freer to examine her in sleep, eyes lazily dragging over the tangle of her bright hair, the tips of her eyelashes, even the slight flaring of her nostrils as she breathes. Without moving the rest of his body, he reaches an arm out to fumble for the bottle of rose-scented oil; because he will go insane if his hands aren't occupied right this instant; and he knows he placed it nearby before foolishly getting them both drugged up in less than two minutes. It has done some good in the time they've been out of it, though – the smell of roses and smoke coils throughout the chamber, subtle but ever so present. It's been hours, and he wouldn't be surprised if their hair and clothes now practically ooze the scent.
Lifting up a tendril of her hair to ascertain that is what proves to be his undoing, for his eyes fix upon the collarbone that has been exposed by her sleep-mussed state, and the delicate but unmistakable imprint below the ridge of bone. A flower. He reaches to trace it with his fingers, murmuring aloud the first thing that comes to mind, "Sakura."
She wakes.
"You don't call me that," is the first thing she mumbles, voice thick from the period of disuse. He blinks in surprise, but is of course ready and armed with a comeback, after years of sitting and talking to entire continents full of imaginary friends. "Alright," he smiles, "what then? Bara?"
She considers him for a long second during which she stares him down (and refuses to laugh at his attempt at a joke), then shifts her head to stare up at the vaulted ceiling.
"Chiyo." She says shortly, and he feels obligated to say his name, too, though he breathes it out slowly for her. "I'm Mikoto."
Feeling a little desperate, he casts around for a way to stopper the rising tension and proffers the small bottle of scented oil in the end. "Here," he says haltingly, aware of the blush creeping over his cheeks despite the fact that nothing even vaguely sexual has actually happened between him and Chiyo these past few hours, "you can take this with you when you, um, leave. W-whenever that is."
This time she genuinely crinkles her violet eyes at has a faux-covert snigger at his expense, and Mikoto feels like an idiot at the same time he feels like he's been blessed. "Don't sound like that; I'm not leaving just yet."
He cannot swallow the lump in his throat, and coughs pitifully at the end of her speech. "And y-your master?" he queries anxiously, the image of what his own master must be up to right now stilling his tongue for a moment.
Unexpectedly, Chiyo leans up and ruffles his hair with one hand, stifling a yawn with the other. "He won't mind. Can we just go back to sleep for a while," she murmurs into the early morning air, already nestling further into the warmth of the silk that cocoons her. Mikoto makes some indistinct noise of acquiescence and snuggles in too, casually draping an arm over her waist as he presses a soft kiss to the crown of her head.
He'll take whatever this strange twilight offers him, and love it even in the light of day.
/
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