Disclaimer: X/1999 and TB? No, not mine I'm afraid…
Just when you thought that "they" had quietly done away with her…Kyou-chan's back! Huahaha! FFnet's not keeping me down! Nope, nuh uh! Anywho, this is a fic I've been pounding out since October…hee. I bring it to you as almost a self-reflection…because writing is my deadly addiction.
Warnings: SS, yaoi implied. Sinister thoughts, ffnet-blasphemy (c'mon…this is one of MY fics. Of course it's there), and self-mutilation. Yeah…this is a pretty dark fic, and although I kept it pretty low-intensity, if any one of these things bothers you, please use discretion.
-Kyou-chan
Addictions
Night—perfect and black, glowing darkly at the crest of a waxing moon—it was his haven. The pale crescent above smirked like a Cheshire cat. Deceitful yet amused, it was an assassin's smile, and it suited him just right.
The world was an ocean of shadow by which he was the ruthless predator of wicked life. Seishirou was a man of the night.
Loose strands of moonlight poured into the glass exposure of his towering apartment. Such radiation was his only trail when he worked, and was a dangerous one. But his labors for the night had ended, and he had nothing to fear from standing in its illumination.
His blood-smeared fingertips held a single white cigarette to his lips, and he inhaled without restraint. Its tip burned with fiery embers, and he exhaled a silver breath of air.
Inhale, exhale.
He could feel the chemicals twisting their way into his bloodstream, himself and the nicotine becoming one. It was deadly and wonderful and erotic all at once, and he became excited for the next breath to come and sate him again.
Inhale, exhale.
From his vantage point by the glass, he could see all of Tokyo gleaming below him, although for some things, his own eyes would not do.
His shikigami had little trouble in the locating the desired building, and through the spirit he could close his eyes and see through the very walls into the room that hid his prey.
He found him hunched over the bathroom sink coughing breathlessly. This entertained him; the coughing was clearly from his habit of smoking. Of trying to be like him. But he knew that that was impossible.
Like the cigarettes, he was a toxic poison to his prey's purity. Smoking was not a simple habit to be mimicked, but an addiction and way of life. His Subaru-kun was too gentle for it, and so it was inevitable that he would fall ill.
Inhale, exhale.
Pained green eyes looked up in the sink with misery. There were tears streaming down his face, perhaps from the intensity of the coughing, although a secret agony burned in his expression. Seishirou observed with fascination.
Even red with hurt tears, the onmyouji's eyes were beautiful and entrancing as they had always been. Of course they were now different in their beauty from years before when there had been innocence and breakable kindness in his bright emeralds. Now there was grief, despair and hidden hope, all of which was just as mesmerizing. They held everything his never would. That was what made those two jade eyes his treasure.
Inhale, exhale.
Subaru appeared to be regaining his composure and took a few wobbly steps away from the sink. He then began removing his dark sweater with a few exhausted tugs.
Seishirou gazed with appreciation at the Sumeragi's exposed chest. His prey was an alluring creature both exotic and gorgeous. He noted that Subaru's waist was much too thin and malnourished. The onmyouji had not been eating for days.
A curious thought came to him that he should take Subaru to dinner one of these days so that he might eat a proper meal. It was a strange notion and Seishirou was confused where it could have come from. He decided that it was merely another game of his to play with his toy and tried not to ponder it any further.
Inhale… Exhale…
When Subaru unsuspectingly began unbuttoning his jeans, Seishirou knew that he was planning to take a shower. He briefly contemplated whether he should continue watching on him or give him the privacy he thought he had.
It never failed to irritate him when he thought like that. Subaru belonged to him, and he had every right to look. Such a thought as giving him privacy bordered on caring for the younger man, which he certainly could not.
And so he kept watching as the onmyouji slipped out of his pants in anticipation for what followed. As he always did, Seishirou had to prove to himself that he was still Master.
Inha—
Seishirou cursed as he felt the tips of his fingers singe. He opened his eyes, and the image of Subaru vanished. The cigarette had diminished to the filter where he had accidentally burnt himself.
Annoyed, he put out the cigarette on the nearest surface he could find, and threw it to the side. He closed his eyes again in desperation, searching for the Sumeragi, hoping he had not missed anything.
When he refocused he saw Subaru standing listlessly in his underwear. Such pale, pretty legs for a man. But Seishirou could never completely think of his Subaru-kun as a man; he was an androgynous being of supernatural perfection, an elegant nymph.
Although he thought he was alone and was already down to a pair of boxers, Subaru hesitated to strip any further. Impatience bit at Seishirou, and he wondered if his prey might be sensing his shikigami. It would have been a disappointment; Subaru would no doubt cover himself indignantly and then hurl ineffective spells at him. He was in the mood for neither.
His qualms were dismissed, however, when the onmyouji slipped several fingers beneath the waistband and pulled down. Seishirou licked his lips as his eye hungrily traveled up and down Subaru. He was awe-inspiring as the golden light accentuated every naked curve of otherworldly perfection.
For those precious few moments when Subaru chose to uncover his seducing body, Seishirou realized that he had no craving for cigarette smoke. Watching the other man undress and shower was a greater rush than inhaling a dozen cigarettes all at once. It was by far more satiating so that smoking was merely a weak substitute in between.
He watched in exhilaration as Subaru bathed, the onmyouji not knowing how erotic a sight he was as he innocently lathered soap over his body.
Seishirou knew that one day his cravings for Subaru would transcend gazing at his nude flesh into taking him and hearing his name on the young man's ragged voice. But for now spying was enough.
Subaru had finished his shower and was now hastily redressing. The show was over, and Seishirou reopened his eyes to his dark apartment.
A cloud of smoke remained slithering through the blackness, its gray coils wrapping around him. The smell of cigarette smoke could be dizzying if he let his guard lapse. It was soft and feathery, harsh and jagged, and with every breath he found himself on the edge of oblivion. That was what made the dangers of its toxin worthwhile.
But Subaru was different. There was no poison in him, even as hardened and bitter as he now was. Yet the onmyouji was dangerous, nonetheless, and Seishirou knew it.
It was not in the physical sense that his plaything was lethal—Subaru may have equaled his own strength, but was still too gentle to threaten him. The Sumeragi was a presence which lingered forever within him; no matter how small a taste Seishirou might have of him, he would need more until he lost all control.
And in the end, control was all that people like Seishirou had.
If cigarettes were his addiction, then Subaru was his obsession, body and soul. He would always need Subaru, and it was that need which was so dangerous.
The smoke continued to dance seductively over his shadowy figure. He suddenly lusted for another cigarette, but found none in his empty pack.
He frowned, realizing just now that his body was starved for tobacco. Throughout his musings, his hands had begun to shake, and he cursed himself for allowing his strength of body and will to deteriorate, even if it was in the safety of his own apartment.
He left his spot by the window and searched for another package.
There was none.
He rifled his pockets, just in case a cigarette had been shaken loose as he traveled and worked within the shadows.
They were empty.
He even sifted through the ash tray for a leftover—anything he could smoke because now his craving stirred panic.
Now he was being downright pathetic.
In the disarray he had created in his apartment, he snatched his trench coat and hurried to the door, intending to find a vendor still open this late at night. A shaky hand reached for the door knob, but he already knew his quest was doomed.
Images, tastes and smells poured through his brain like a rain of daggers. His senses, dulled and imprisoned by the convenience of one addiction or another were coming to life all at once, and it overwhelmed him.
His breathing became more labored in the elapsing seconds. There were thoughts and sensations that were better left suppressed and guarded in the depths of his mind. Smoke and lust could do that; they overshadowed and sedated what he fought so hard to keep hidden, each in their own sinful way. From dulling his mind, he could function as Sakurazukamori; Seishirou could learn to survive himself.
But now there was no tobacco to drown himself in, and there was no beautiful onmyouji to watch. And without the two, Seishirou was weak.
He blinked, and saw into the corners of his brain that held all the guarded memories. Smiles and sakura, the empty faces of the dead that meant so little and so much: all of this he could see in just one blink of an eye. And there was blood, so much blood that he could suffocate himself in it.
But there were worse things to be remembered, and he saw them too. His spirit was bound to centuries of evil, which never slept, never lapsed in its mad will to escape from the Sakura. He was the keeper of hell's gate, and when its flames touched him, Seishirou found his humanity surging back to him with excruciating intensity.
Hate descended on the Sakurazukamori like a plague that could dissolve him in a single breath. In every cell of his body he could feel the thirst for revenge, for his life force to be quenched. He guarded the spirits that loathed all that was living. The instant his strength of mind wavered, those souls grazed his own, and siphoned away everything that made his life tolerable.
His knees buckled and he collapsed. All that remained with him in that merciless instant was that insatiable anger and abhorrence whose weight was so great that even his tarnished heart fractured beneath it.
And then searing flashed reawakened him from his agony. Slowly, he could feel a sharp pain jagging into his thigh—the first sensation other than those overwhelming emotions that managed to touch Seishirou in what was almost an eternity.
The physical sting reached out to him when he was on the edge of losing himself and guided him back to reality. Long seconds eroded away the hatred of the sakura-bound spirits until Seishirou had returned to himself.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself on his hands and knees, his sight burning with tormented tears. He was alone in the dark living room of his apartment as though the universe halted when he fell. Nevertheless, he knew that this could not have been so when he noticed drops of fresh blood staining the carpet beneath him.
His clothing was sprawled over the floor at a distance from where he was crouched. His topaz eye fell on a naked hip where tanned skin dripped with a wet gash. The cut was not particularly deep, but a long stream of blood trailed down his leg regardless.
All he had to notice was the dagger clasped in his palm to understand that he had done this to himself. It was never surprising for Seishirou to find himself with a new cut; the pale scars across that very same thigh were a testament to how many times this had happened before.
Pain was but another sedative, and it was becoming more necessary with every new scar. It was how he prevented himself from drowning in the burden of his responsibility as Sakurazukamori.
He rose off the floor and noted how his heartbeat still sped in the aftermath of his attack. Without a second thought, he brought the blade back over his skin, and dug its edge parallel to the first gash. His eyes closed against the rush of blood from this satisfying act of self-mutilation, and he relaxed himself with the loss of more blood. A faint smile twisted on his face.
Pain was also his survival, his addiction. As he watched the blood gleam in the moonlight, he noted how this, too, had its unforeseen cost. Just like the tobacco, it was destroying hid body, and like his lust for Subaru, he knew that his need for pain would always persist and grow.
He placed the bloody dagger on the nearest table, and turned a final gaze to his window. The sky remained fathomless, the dark a portent of future nights spent victim to his addictions. Cigarettes, his Subaru-kun, and that sharp dagger—his life was already lived between these addictions, and he knew it would end under them.
The only uncertainty was of what would be the agent of his death.
Or who.
Owari