Author's Note: This song really reminded me of this couple, and I've been wanting to try a songfic for a while now. And to anyone who's read my other work, I'm not dead! XD
Warnings: Angst, mentioned yaoi. Don't like, don't read.
Disclaimer: The song's not mine. Yami No Matsuei also not mine.
Well, when you go
Don't ever think I'll make you try to stay
Oriya watches as Muraki crosses to the other side of the room to gather his things, the delicately pale skin of his back shining in the moonlight. For the longest time, he treasured the sight, feeling privileged to be one of the few ever to be graced with such a beautiful display. These days, Oriya often wonders if it's Karma out to get him. As much as he adores the view of Muraki's perfectly curved back, he finds that he's been seeing more of it recently than even he wants to. Now, instead of filling Oriya with the peace it used to, it only leaves him with a cold dread in the pit of his stomach. After all, seeing that back now means that, instead of staying the night, Muraki is leaving, and not sure when, if ever, he would be back. Still, even this does nothing to avert his eyes as Oriya continues to stare at Muraki's flawless skin. After all, he has no idea when he'll be able to glimpse it again, and it really is such a lovely sight.
And maybe when you get back
I'll be off to find another way
Muraki gets dressed in silence, pulling on his pants first. The soft sound of fabric sliding against flesh reaches Oriya's ears as he flicks back a strand of long brown hair from in front of his face. As per usual, Oriya says nothing. He has never made the mistake of asking Muraki to stay the night. After all, he knows his friend well enough to predict his reaction. There used to be times when Muraki would stay in bed with him, but by the time Oriya woke, he would always be gone, his side of the bed (and yes, it is still his side, even though he stays less and less often) cold and empty. Still, Oriya asks nothing of him. He likes to think that he at least has his pride, but as he watches Muraki bend down to pick up the belt of his white trench coat, the one that had bound together his wrists just moments before, he knows this is not the case. Instead, he is left with nothing but the dull aching in his chest as he watches Muraki dress.
And after all this time that you still owe
You're still just good for nothing I don't know
"I need you to bury a woman for me." Muraki turns to him as he straightens his blood stained coat. Oriya watches without responding, the red on Muraki's lab coat catching and holding his attention as it glistens, still wet, in the dim light of the moon. It's something Oriya hears often, and the blood on Muraki's clothes is always a dead giveaway, to say the least.
"Shinigami should be arriving at the scene shortly, so I won't be able to do it myself." Again, Oriya does nothing, knowing full well what is meant by that statement. The body is sitting in the middle of a fairly nondescript forest, next to a fairly nondescript tree. Or, at least nondescript now, in the middle of winter. In the summer, the bright green leaves would be tinged slightly red, something he and Muraki both individually discovered while walking through the forest in high school. Oriya wonders if Muraki remembers the significance of the tree, their first meeting, or if he takes the bodies there to let their blood feed the sinister red tint of the leaves. He figures it the latter, and nods silently in response.
So take your gloves and get out
You better get out while you can
"She's been dead for approximately three hours," Muraki tells him, putting his watch back into the breast pocket of his coat. "By this time, all the blood should have drained." Oriya nods as he watched Muraki scan the room, finally finding his gloves and putting them on. His gloves are white. White, like his coat, his pants, his hair, his skin. It is the signature color of the good doctor; white, innocent, pure. Muraki is none of these, as the blood staining his clothes so plainly points out. This is something Oriya is acutely aware of as his eyes continue to follow him. White is a color that has always looked good on Muraki, but, it really is the red that makes the otherwise plain attire seem something so remarkably striking. The color of light clothing a man who is the very essence of darkness; the color of life coloring him as the very essence of death. Oriya supposes that it can be seen as something rather poetic, but all he is really able to think about is how beautifully out of place Muraki looks standing amongst the ornate, yet in comparison, significantly less lovely objects that decorate the room.
When you go, would you even turn to say
I don't love you like I did yesterday?
"Tsuzuki should have been alerted to the unusual death by now, so I'll probably be meeting with him sometime within the next few days." Oriya nods silently, the expression on his face remaining emotionless and blank. He knows about Tsuzuki, the shinigami in charge of their region, the shinigami with the most seniority, the shinigami with the highest success rate, the shinigami with the most beautiful amethyst eyes. Oriya knows this, but more than anything, he knows the look on Muraki's face when he talks about him, the sound of his voice when he mentions his name, the look he used to see directed at him, the tenderness in his voice he used to hear when Muraki was talking to him. Not anymore though. Whatever twisted semblance of love the doctor can feel is no longer directed at him, but at Tsuzuki. Still, Oriya sees no change in sight, and has become skilled at telling himself that it doesn't hurt. After all, what good does it do to hurt? So Oriya simply watches, ignoring the familiar throbbing pain in favor of taking in completely Muraki's expression and pretending that it is directed at him.
Sometimes I cry so hard from pleading
So sick and tired of all the needless beating
Muraki walks from one end of the dimly lit room to the other, passing through the doorway to the bathroom. Oriya simply watches him, knowing very well what the man is after. The quiet rustling of towels is accompanied by the not so silent opening and closing of drawers, and Oriya sighs softly.
"Top shelf," he says, watching as Muraki finally pulls out a trail of white bandages. From where he is sitting, Oriya can see the doctor's face in the mirror as he examines the bloody gash in his neck, one that was so lovingly delivered by a certain amethyst-eyed shinigami during their last encounter, and stubbornly wills himself not to say anything. He knows that if he does, Muraki will only chastise him for his "foolish attention to unnecessary details" as is his favorite way to phrase it. Oriya has long since given up trying to convince his friend that he should be more careful when dealing with dangerous people. They aren't in high school anymore, and he knows that he can no longer use their age as an excuse to worry excessively over Muraki. So Oriya does nothing and watches, blinking his eyes. It's the only thing he knows that will stop the tears.
But maybe when they knock you
Down and out is where you ought to stay
Vaguely, Oriya wonders how long they've been doing this. How long has Muraki been visiting him at night? How long has he been hiding bodies? How many times has he seen Muraki get knocked down? He doesn't care to remember, and he doesn't care to ask why it keeps happening, why they keep doing this. He already knows the answer, after all. Tsuzuki. Everything Muraki does, he does for the shinigami. Even Saki has become but a distant memory for the doctor. The hits he takes are no longer for the sole purpose of exacting his revenge. Instead, they are now for Tsuzuki. Oriya sees the look on Muraki's face every time he fights the amethyst-eyed shinigami; he sees that exhilaration, that high. And while he watches, out of the corner of his eye as he fights his own battle, he selfishly wishes that the next blow will do him in for good. He wishes that Muraki would walk away from him unable to fight. That way, he would no longer have to see the sickeningly pleased way with which Muraki wore his scars.
And after all the blood that you still owe
Another dollar's just another blow
Oriya's legs hurt from not moving them, and he discreetly stretches them out in front of him as Muraki finishes in the bathroom and puts back the bandages. He walks out of the bathroom, red already starting to show on the white cloth wrapped around his neck. How much blood has Muraki shed for that shinigami? Too much, he thinks. Probably almost as much as he himself has shed for the good doctor. Still, what can he say? So Oriya's eyes simply watch as Muraki reaches into his lab coat and pulls out a wad of bills, dropping it carelessly on the dresser.
"For all your trouble," he says, looking back at Oriya. Despite the fact that Muraki does the same thing every time, the brunette swallows thickly, pushing back the bile rising in his throat. Oriya hates how much those bills make him feel like one of the women in his brothel, being paid for her services. A simple convenience, to be bought and discarded at will. Muraki doesn't mean it that way, of course, but his friend's ignorance of what his words imply only make Oriya hurt more. Still, he never returns the money, which Muraki thinks pays for the discarding of the bodies. Instead, he uses his own wealth to pay for the 'trouble,' and gives those specific bills to only the most successful whores, the ones that do everything asked of them and more. The ones that ask no questions, hold their tongue, and simply do.
So fix your eyes and get up
You better get up while you can
Out of the same pocket that the cash came from, Muraki fishes for his glasses, finally pulling them out and wiping them with the clean white corner of his robe. He quickly pushes back his hair and slides the metal frames on, and for a split second, Oriya is looking at his friend's lavender eye, a color that reminds him too much of Tsuzuki's amethyst ones. But as soon as he sees it, it's gone again, hidden behind a veil of silver-white hair. But that doesn't stop him from thinking about it. The shinigami all know about it by now, but they don't know it the way he does. All the shinigami know is its power, how Muraki uses it against them, uses it to draw in Tsuzuki. Oriya remembers how Muraki's eyes used to look. To him, they were the two most beautiful thinks in his world. Not now though. Oriya can't look at that mechanical eye and not think of Tsuzuki, he can't look at it and not feel sick to his stomach.
When you go, would you even turn to say
I don't love you like I did yesterday?
No longer having any things to gather, Muraki sits next to Oriya on the edge of the bed and slips into his shoes. He puts them on slowly, tightening each individual shoelace one at a time. He ties the knots perfectly, each one even and flat, as expected. His overcoat rustles as he stands and takes a step away from the bed. In that instant, Oriya suddenly feels sick, like an ice cold hand reaching into his body and squeezing his stomach. His heart leaps to his throat, and panic overwhelms him. He reaches out his hand to pull Muraki back, but Muraki turns around, not noticing.
"If Tsuzuki comes to see you, you know where to send him." As soon as Muraki walks out the door, Oriya runs to the bathroom and throws up. In the silence of the flat, he can hear nothing but his own retching. It's the sight of Muraki's back walking away from him for good. It makes him sick.
When you go, would you have the guts to say
I don't love you like I loved you yesterday?
I hoped you enjoyed it. P.S. Reviews make me happy. ^_^