The Night Came Anyway
By: ShinigamiForever
A/N: so, uh.... this is just a strange fic. It's in AU, but not so much of it to disturb anyone, I think. Seishirou is just a random assassin, and Subaru is still an onomoyouji, but there isn't anything on the end of the world. There is some mention of m/m sex, but nothing graphic, just very vague references. A little bit of angst, not your happy love story ending though, an attempted suicide, maybe OOC cause I'm a beginner. That's about it. Anyway, enjoy....
===
"Why?"
"What a question to ask, Subaru-kun."
"You have no right- no right!- to call me that."
"Subaru-kun. You wound me."
"If I only could, Seishirou-san. If I only could."
"Come now, Subaru-kun, I will make this up to you somehow."
"I will NOT come again."
"You will. You will come tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. Why, you will even come again tonight."
"Never."
"Ah, Subaru-kun, that is what you always say."
A sigh.
A chuckle.
A flick of a lighter.
"Don't smoke, Subaru-kun. It will ruin your health."
"Don't kill, Seishirou-san. It will be your end."
"Is that mockery I hear?"
"Must I answer that question?"
***
In the black alleyway, he wiped his fingers absently on his victim's coat, a delicate disdainful gesture. Pulling off his sunglasses, he swiped the back of his hand across his cheekbone, smiling at the red smear he saw on his skin.
He tucked his sunglasses quietly into his pocket, backing out of the alleyway. From the passerby's eye, he did not look suspicious, except for the small shallow cut bleeding on one cheek. He had liquid amber eyes, beautiful in a mocking fashion. He was built nicely, tall with broad shoulders, his frame accentuated by the expensive suit he wore. He donned himself in black, not a grayish charcoal black, but one as smooth as his eyes, ebony and midnight. With subtle graceful moves, he pulled out a cigarette, lighting it.
The momentary flash of fire illuminated his face. He looked young, but old enough to know better. His hands were soft. There were vague traces of blood on them, a coyly sweet scent that was drying now. The lighter went out.
The street lights were hanging globes of fireflies in the night, flickering with a discomforting buzzing sound. They spoke secrets to him, and he listened, tasting the edges of smoke in his mouth. Cigarettes were not an addiction to him. They were a pleasant distraction, and he had long learned to keep as much smoke as possible from entering his lungs. He liked the scent of tobacco, the brief lighting up of the white end when he puffed.
"Don't kill, Seishirou-san."
He was startled to hear that voice, and he turned around, swiftly, the trenchcoat flying dramatically around him. His hand held the cigarette, almost cupping the bottom half of his face. He said nothing, showed nothing but a twinkle of arrogant laughter in his night-lit eyes.
There was no one on the street but him.
The smoke from the sewer vents curled, sneering, in the air, mocking his foolishness. Smiling, he took the tip of his cigarette from his mouth and flipped it to the ground, using his heel to ground the tobacco leaves to dust.
Walking away, he lingered for a moment under a spotlight, watching the wind blow away the scent of the cigarette smoke.
***
"Subaru!"
"Kamui, shouldn't you be in school?"
"We had a shortened day."
"I see."
A scuffle of feet.
A questioning gaze.
A nervous glance.
"Subaru..."
"Yes?"
"Are you... well... feeling okay?"
"What do you mean, Kamui?"
"Just, you're- never mind."
"Kamui?"
"It's nothing. Really."
"All right."
***
For a moment, he considered ditching the job and driving away, just to keep driving until he ran out of gas or until he reached the end of the world. The promise of rain was enticing in the soft sibilant whisper that was wind, wet with grayness. There was a gentle caress in that breeze. The pale mollifying hands of spring pulled at him, telling him no one would care if he left.
It had been a long time since he had had anyone to care for him. He had been in a sketchy routine of life, eating and sleeping only when he thought to such. He had lost a lot of weight and had dark circles under his eyes. Kamui had remarked a few days ago that he looked almost skeletal. True, he knew his cheekbones looked gaunt and his entire body looked skinny, but he also knew that the young teenager was referring not to his appearance, but to his personality and his behavior.
But all this thinking was simply stalling. He had a job to do. A job that probably could wait until he wanted to do it, but ah, that was skirting his responsibility. A cynical smile graced his lips. Even when he was feeling churlish, there was that annoying voice that chided him.
He was no long the beautiful boy he once was. Even though traces of that snow-white boyhood still existed, he had grown up in a painful manner. There were creases of worry and sadness ages old written in his forehead. His hair was cut a bit shorter, stressing the angles in his face instead of curving out his naturally boyish complexion. And his eyes had changed. Still the same jeweled emerald color, but they were sadly dulled.
He made his way to the front door of his client's house, but froze when his hand touched the doorknob. A soft brush of wings sounded behind him. Turning around, his hand automatically reached in his pocket for his ofuda, but there was nothing there except for the flowering trees and an empty sidewalk.
Still, Subaru thought he saw a dark feathered hawk fly away.
***
"I'm worried."
"Arashi babe, you're always worried."
A casual pat.
An angry glare.
A wink.
"Heh heh. Sorry. About what?"
"Subaru-san. He's not being... himself."
"I know what you mean."
"I just don't know what we can do for him."
"Just give him some time. Maybe it's just a depression or something."
"I was thinking..."
"Yeah?"
"Nothing. Just- nothing."
"Whatever you say, babe."
***
The reason he was here was obvious: he had nothing better to do. As always, he knew the truth and the lies and was not about to lie to himself. Even if he was an assassin, it didn't mean he could go around killing people all the time. Besides, he couldn't say he didn't enjoy being her. Because he truly did. In a strange way. To some eyes, he could even be said to be in love. But that was an utterly useless notion, love.
It was just nice to be here, be somewhere he knew he was not in control of everything. Where some events could be pleasantly random, if still expected. He was, as the poets were so fond of saying, playing with a double-edged sword. To gain love was impossible without loosing some love. The knife cuts both ways.
He sat down at the bar, rustling his coat so that he wouldn't be sitting on it. The restaurant, if that's what it was and not just some drinking tavern, was full of the usual brawny customers: business men returning from work, people out of a job, whores, young teenagers looking for freedom. Nobody he knew. But no matter, he was here simply to wait for someone. No more, no less.
The bartender looked up from his counter and cocked his head curiously. He ordered something off of the top of his head, some cheap liquor that no doubt tasted horrible. The bartender, someone who looked like an old Navy sailor, handed him a glass cup full of cold liquid. He thanked the old man politely. The bartender moved off.
In the dim lighting of the seedy building, he blended in perfectly with his dark black trenchcoat and clothes. In his perfunctory business suit, he could also be mistaken for one of the "usual customers" were it not for the way he carried himself. There was something lethal in the way he smiled, and the smile that graced his lips now, sharp enough, it seemed, to cut, was what kept many of the local whores away. He held the cheap cup of liquor in his hands, the contents about the same color as his eyes. Both a dark shade of amber, almost reddish brown, like solid pine sap flaked from the tree.
A sudden hush fell over the bar, and he turned, curious, to glance at the door. A lithe figure made his way across the room, approaching him. Like the parting of the Red Sea, he thought, turning away.
Subaru made his way to the dark figure at the bar, deflecting the stares of the other occupants in the room. He could feel the hostility and mix of admiration in the air. The hunched figure before him was still, silent, tensing for a move. In a flash, he had a knife held to Seishirou's neck, draping his thin frame over the broader body, the other arm around the older man's waist, holding them together. He knew that the assassin had allowed him to close in. There was no other way for him to surprise the older man unless Seishirou wanted to be surprised. "You came," he murmured, leaning into the other's ear.
"Mm," Seishirou answered, right hand going to the knife and slowly turning it away before taking a sip of his drink. Subaru let go of the weapon, listening to it clatter to the table. Drawing back, he gestured silently to the bartender who nodded with haste and handed the young man a cup. Subaru signaled again his thanks, then turned to his companion and lifted his glass in a toast.
Seishirou smiled, his eyes taking in the details of the other's appearance. Donned in a blue shirt and black slacks, Subaru seemed totally out of place, pristine, cool and collected against the back drop of the crowded bar that had returned to its usual noisy fray. There was a faint sheen of- what? Glitter? Sweat?- something that glimmer on his forehead, brilliant and startling light in the dim lamplight.
For a while, they drank in silence. In an unspoken agreement between them, they left in unison, walking out the door and into the hotel they always went to.
***
"'Under the spreading chestnut tree, I sold you and you sold me.'"
"What is that?"
"I don't know. It's from the book 1984."
"Mm. 'I sold you and you sold me'?"
"My favorite line."
"Understandably so."
"Subaru-kun, what does that tone of voice mean?"
"Nan demo nai."
"Something is bothering you?"
"Nothing, Seishirou-san, nothing at all."
A shrug.
A hesitant smile.
A gentle caress.
***
If somehow you could enter a particular hotel room on particular nights, you can see two figures enfolded in the sheets. One is somewhat taller than the older, with a pale eye and a refined face that looks as if it is used to smiling. Even when he is asleep, which he rarely is, his lips can be seen trying to curve into a confident sarcastic smile. Another is thinner, of a smaller frame. There is a constant crease in between his eyebrows, a wrinkle of worry from years of straining and working. Usually, the younger one is asleep, curled up next to the older one, a break of moisture across his whole body, sweat and fluid and semen.
On some nights, the older one would be awake and sitting up in bed, naked, the sheets twisted around his waist and his younger lover beside him. He would be leaning on the headboard, his fingers searching the table beside him for the wrinkled cigarette box, fingers deftly pulling out one and lighting it. Sometimes the scent of match sulfur and tobacco wakes the other one up. Sometimes, it does not.
If it does, the two would sit in tense solid silence and stare into nothingness or each other, depending on the mood. The one would get up, usually the younger one who is more uncomfortable in the silence, and walk to the bathroom, lock the door, and within moments the shower would be running. If it is the younger one and if you can somehow press your ears against the door of the bathroom, you can almost always tell he would be softly crying. If it is the older one, he would take his shower in silence, dress, then pad back out, smiling almost benevolently at the other one.
However, if the companion is not awakened by the scent of cigarettes, the older one will have a few moments to watch the younger sleep in quasi-peace. Sometimes, he runs his fingers through featherlight black hair, watching it fall back onto pale pink skin. Always, after a few minutes of gentle stroking, the older one will get up, take a silent shower, get dressed, and wait silently in the hotel chair. The teenager is always awakened by the sound of running water.
But most of the time, the older one is out of bed within 5 minutes of sex, as soon as the younger one is starting towards an exhausted sleep. He will then step into the shower and clean himself before dressing. The younger one is never fully asleep and only pretends to be, and in a sense, he is aware of every action of Seishirou as he leaves. And after the door shuts almost silently, Subaru would then curl up and wet the already damp and dirty sheets with tears almost as silent as the door, so hot they threaten to burn holes into the cotton fabric.
***
"Seishirou-san..."
"Don't call me that, Fuuma-kun."
"My, aren't we touch today."
"Mm."
"What do you wish for, Seishirou-san?"
"For you to stop calling me that."
"Ah... What do you really want?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I desire nothing."
"Therein is our problem."
"Therein is our answer."
A low laugh.
A clink of silverware.
A flicker of candle light.
"You are amusing, Seishirou-san."
"Why thank you, Fuuma-kun."
***
He sits in the cafe, reading. From the soft light above, a halo of light lands on his hair. He is drinking tea, right hand in a polite delicate position, alabaster skin tinged with olive brown tones. In the other hand is a thin book of poetry, frayed at the edges and dog-eared, as if it has been read often. He lets the book open to whatever page it desires and reads the poem. He notes to himself that the book often knows what he is thinking and will produce a poem to either mock or comfort him. They say an object eventually gets to know its owner. He does not doubt it. Just as he knows his lover, his lover knows him. One belongs to another. Again, a double-edged sword.
A waitress passes him and asks if he needs anything. He is at a point of familiarity with them; they know his face and he can name them, but they do not know him nor his name anymore than they know the reason he is always here, waiting for someone who never comes. They think he is educated in England and came back to find a bride. Indeed, his English is very good. He has no accent. Except for an occasional twist of a phrase, he sounds truly English.
He shakes his head, smiling as he sets down his book. The waitress blushes under his look. He has eyes that are hypnotizing in their intensity, as if he found you the most interesting person he has ever seen. There is something so captivating in his look that the observed becomes flustered, just as if he and the observed where the only two alive in the world.
The waitress walks away, and he picks up his book again. But what he sees is not the words of the poem. He sees instead the flushed cheeks of a young man, the sweaty forehead plastered with wet black bangs, the bright glittery leaf-green eyes that were sometimes squeezed shut by eyelids, or sometimes snapped open with insane light. He sees thin slender fingers that helplessly gripped his own. And strangely, he sees the curved edge of his lover's ear, warm and soft and pink. he could almost see, at the edge of his vision, the head thrust back with the mouth contorted in an expression of pain and pleasure.
In his mind, however, he hears the fear-curdled scream of his last prey, and he can oddly hear the distant drip of a faucet, almost like blood.
Even when he gets up and pays his bill, he can hear the continuous "drip, drip, drip."
***
"What is the meaning of happiness?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I would like to find happiness. I would like to know what happiness feels like."
"Kamui. I would think you know."
"I'm not sure. Sometimes, I wonder whether or not what I feel is happiness. I thought maybe you would know."
A self-deprecating laugh.
A curious look.
A shake of the head.
"I am the wrong person to ask."
"Subaru?"
"Yes, Kamui?"
"What is your happiness?"
"Mine?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps peace. And... maybe..."
"Maybe?"
"To let go..."
***
He sneezes, and thinks vaguely that someone must be thinking about him. Vaguely he wonders who it is, but shakes his head. He doesn't care.
Instead, he watches the razor blade on the toilet tank. It is so precariously balanced, so thin and carefully sharpened that it is dangerous. The silver glint blinds him with its promise of release. He shudders, but he's not quite sure why, whether it was because of the blade or because he was damp in the cool air.
He reaches for the razor blade, and for a moment his fingers pins the thin piece of metal to the porcelain tank. A patch of goosebumps flies up his arm. Shivering again, he snatches it before his hand gives way to the cold. The razor blade is small and hard in his fingers.
He is sitting in the bathtub, completely naked, the water steaming all around him. He can feel the warm lapping tongues that covers must of his body. He leans back into the water, the hand holding the thin piece of metal dangling over the edge of the bathtub. He thinks, maybe he can stay like this, poised forever, calm, the world shut away by a locked door. He feels he can just hide behind a veil of steam and privacy. Here, it is quiet. Here, in this world of water and soft light, he is serene.
But the moment passes, and he is once again weary of life and his own search for happiness. He wants to rest, to fall asleep forever. Like finding peace in the lake isle of Innisfree, he might find peace in this act of self-pity. He wanted his memories and weariness to seep out like sweat and tears from his skin.
"Burnt by the sun,
As the crimson sea did run,
I heard these words from a dove,
There will be no more love. [1]"
He lifts his razor blade above his wrist, slick with warm water, and with the shiny bit of metal cold and his fingers hot and wet, it almost slips into the water. A jolt of fear, nauseating and dark red, shoots through his arm. Another tremble. Nonetheless, he lowers the blade, hearing a high keening in his ear as he watches the metal slice effortlessly into his warm skin. The blood bubbles up, red and slick, and he feels no pain.
Unbidden, he sees the image of a young man above him, tall and strong. One eye is blind, and his lips are drawn back in a curious asking smile. He is caught by that image of warm skin and amber eyes, hypnotized by the mouth forming the words of a prediction, a challenge.
"You'll come again tomorrow."
And suddenly, he knows he cannot disobey those words. They hold him and he lets go of the blade, eyes still glued to the nonexistent face looming above him. Only he can see the naked lean body reaching over with a hand to touch his face. Just as he cannot see the razor blade slide itself slowly down through the hot water, he cannot see the slow river of crimson make its way to his elbow. A drop falls into the tub, diluting into pink, then into nothing.
He gets up out of the water, wrapping a towel around his slit wrist, and letting the cold cold air hit his moist skin. A tiny drop of water falls from the faucet into the pool of water with a tiny 'ping' sound. He considers crying, but for some reason, he doesn't, and instead finds another towel to wipe away the blood.
The other is waiting for him. He will not back down to that challenge.
***
"Tomorrow..."
"What?"
"Tomorrow. I won't be here tomorrow."
"What about the day after?"
"Never."
"Why?"
"You don't sound surprise, Subaru-kun. In a state of shock?"
"Eh, tabun." [2]
"I think you are."
"You didn't answer my question. Why?"
"The next time we meet, we'll be enemies."
"I don't believe you have a crystal ball, Seishirou-san."
"I don't."
"Then how do you know?"
A pause.
A inhalation of breath.
A small chuckle.
"I just do."
"You will come tomorrow."
"So you say."
***
"Would you like another drink, sir?" He looked up at the waitress who was looking down at him. Shaking his head, he mumbled his thanks and stared down at his empty glass. He didn't realize he had drank all the liquor already. But he had. The waitress went away, leaving him to himself.
The crowded bar was a rowdy noisy group that moved in a continuous sickening wave, like a large monster. Perhaps it was the effect of the drink. Perhaps it was his own head.
But within the blur of people, he caught the image of a tall man with an expensive suit. He sat up, looking over the crowd. It was just another Japanese man. Disappointed. he sat back in his hunched position, brooding over his own foolishness. But he knew he was going to irrationally stay here until he had sat there the entire night.
He did not come.
It was past midnight by the time he looked up at the clock again. Most of the customers had already left, and he was one of the last people there. The waitresses threw curious looks at him, but he was already getting up. He placed more than enough money on the table and stumbled away.
As he stepped outside, he whispered to the rainy air, "Nasakenai na, ore ha." [3]
Walking away, he tasted bitter raindrops and tears on his lips.
***
I hoped
-the night came anyway.
I hoped
-the night came anyway.
Is this the way
to do it?
No. Begin again.
I hoped,
today.
I will still hope,
tomorrow.
One day,
I will risk everything. [4]
===
A/N: Feedback, anyone?
[1] off of a movie called "Burnt by the Sun." I'm not really sure if these are the right lyrics, but I think what I wrote is around the meaning of the original words.
[2] translation: Maybe.
[3] Translation: I'm pathetic.
[4] "Conjugation of the Verb, 'To Hope'" by Lou Lipsitz
By: ShinigamiForever
A/N: so, uh.... this is just a strange fic. It's in AU, but not so much of it to disturb anyone, I think. Seishirou is just a random assassin, and Subaru is still an onomoyouji, but there isn't anything on the end of the world. There is some mention of m/m sex, but nothing graphic, just very vague references. A little bit of angst, not your happy love story ending though, an attempted suicide, maybe OOC cause I'm a beginner. That's about it. Anyway, enjoy....
===
"Why?"
"What a question to ask, Subaru-kun."
"You have no right- no right!- to call me that."
"Subaru-kun. You wound me."
"If I only could, Seishirou-san. If I only could."
"Come now, Subaru-kun, I will make this up to you somehow."
"I will NOT come again."
"You will. You will come tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. Why, you will even come again tonight."
"Never."
"Ah, Subaru-kun, that is what you always say."
A sigh.
A chuckle.
A flick of a lighter.
"Don't smoke, Subaru-kun. It will ruin your health."
"Don't kill, Seishirou-san. It will be your end."
"Is that mockery I hear?"
"Must I answer that question?"
***
In the black alleyway, he wiped his fingers absently on his victim's coat, a delicate disdainful gesture. Pulling off his sunglasses, he swiped the back of his hand across his cheekbone, smiling at the red smear he saw on his skin.
He tucked his sunglasses quietly into his pocket, backing out of the alleyway. From the passerby's eye, he did not look suspicious, except for the small shallow cut bleeding on one cheek. He had liquid amber eyes, beautiful in a mocking fashion. He was built nicely, tall with broad shoulders, his frame accentuated by the expensive suit he wore. He donned himself in black, not a grayish charcoal black, but one as smooth as his eyes, ebony and midnight. With subtle graceful moves, he pulled out a cigarette, lighting it.
The momentary flash of fire illuminated his face. He looked young, but old enough to know better. His hands were soft. There were vague traces of blood on them, a coyly sweet scent that was drying now. The lighter went out.
The street lights were hanging globes of fireflies in the night, flickering with a discomforting buzzing sound. They spoke secrets to him, and he listened, tasting the edges of smoke in his mouth. Cigarettes were not an addiction to him. They were a pleasant distraction, and he had long learned to keep as much smoke as possible from entering his lungs. He liked the scent of tobacco, the brief lighting up of the white end when he puffed.
"Don't kill, Seishirou-san."
He was startled to hear that voice, and he turned around, swiftly, the trenchcoat flying dramatically around him. His hand held the cigarette, almost cupping the bottom half of his face. He said nothing, showed nothing but a twinkle of arrogant laughter in his night-lit eyes.
There was no one on the street but him.
The smoke from the sewer vents curled, sneering, in the air, mocking his foolishness. Smiling, he took the tip of his cigarette from his mouth and flipped it to the ground, using his heel to ground the tobacco leaves to dust.
Walking away, he lingered for a moment under a spotlight, watching the wind blow away the scent of the cigarette smoke.
***
"Subaru!"
"Kamui, shouldn't you be in school?"
"We had a shortened day."
"I see."
A scuffle of feet.
A questioning gaze.
A nervous glance.
"Subaru..."
"Yes?"
"Are you... well... feeling okay?"
"What do you mean, Kamui?"
"Just, you're- never mind."
"Kamui?"
"It's nothing. Really."
"All right."
***
For a moment, he considered ditching the job and driving away, just to keep driving until he ran out of gas or until he reached the end of the world. The promise of rain was enticing in the soft sibilant whisper that was wind, wet with grayness. There was a gentle caress in that breeze. The pale mollifying hands of spring pulled at him, telling him no one would care if he left.
It had been a long time since he had had anyone to care for him. He had been in a sketchy routine of life, eating and sleeping only when he thought to such. He had lost a lot of weight and had dark circles under his eyes. Kamui had remarked a few days ago that he looked almost skeletal. True, he knew his cheekbones looked gaunt and his entire body looked skinny, but he also knew that the young teenager was referring not to his appearance, but to his personality and his behavior.
But all this thinking was simply stalling. He had a job to do. A job that probably could wait until he wanted to do it, but ah, that was skirting his responsibility. A cynical smile graced his lips. Even when he was feeling churlish, there was that annoying voice that chided him.
He was no long the beautiful boy he once was. Even though traces of that snow-white boyhood still existed, he had grown up in a painful manner. There were creases of worry and sadness ages old written in his forehead. His hair was cut a bit shorter, stressing the angles in his face instead of curving out his naturally boyish complexion. And his eyes had changed. Still the same jeweled emerald color, but they were sadly dulled.
He made his way to the front door of his client's house, but froze when his hand touched the doorknob. A soft brush of wings sounded behind him. Turning around, his hand automatically reached in his pocket for his ofuda, but there was nothing there except for the flowering trees and an empty sidewalk.
Still, Subaru thought he saw a dark feathered hawk fly away.
***
"I'm worried."
"Arashi babe, you're always worried."
A casual pat.
An angry glare.
A wink.
"Heh heh. Sorry. About what?"
"Subaru-san. He's not being... himself."
"I know what you mean."
"I just don't know what we can do for him."
"Just give him some time. Maybe it's just a depression or something."
"I was thinking..."
"Yeah?"
"Nothing. Just- nothing."
"Whatever you say, babe."
***
The reason he was here was obvious: he had nothing better to do. As always, he knew the truth and the lies and was not about to lie to himself. Even if he was an assassin, it didn't mean he could go around killing people all the time. Besides, he couldn't say he didn't enjoy being her. Because he truly did. In a strange way. To some eyes, he could even be said to be in love. But that was an utterly useless notion, love.
It was just nice to be here, be somewhere he knew he was not in control of everything. Where some events could be pleasantly random, if still expected. He was, as the poets were so fond of saying, playing with a double-edged sword. To gain love was impossible without loosing some love. The knife cuts both ways.
He sat down at the bar, rustling his coat so that he wouldn't be sitting on it. The restaurant, if that's what it was and not just some drinking tavern, was full of the usual brawny customers: business men returning from work, people out of a job, whores, young teenagers looking for freedom. Nobody he knew. But no matter, he was here simply to wait for someone. No more, no less.
The bartender looked up from his counter and cocked his head curiously. He ordered something off of the top of his head, some cheap liquor that no doubt tasted horrible. The bartender, someone who looked like an old Navy sailor, handed him a glass cup full of cold liquid. He thanked the old man politely. The bartender moved off.
In the dim lighting of the seedy building, he blended in perfectly with his dark black trenchcoat and clothes. In his perfunctory business suit, he could also be mistaken for one of the "usual customers" were it not for the way he carried himself. There was something lethal in the way he smiled, and the smile that graced his lips now, sharp enough, it seemed, to cut, was what kept many of the local whores away. He held the cheap cup of liquor in his hands, the contents about the same color as his eyes. Both a dark shade of amber, almost reddish brown, like solid pine sap flaked from the tree.
A sudden hush fell over the bar, and he turned, curious, to glance at the door. A lithe figure made his way across the room, approaching him. Like the parting of the Red Sea, he thought, turning away.
Subaru made his way to the dark figure at the bar, deflecting the stares of the other occupants in the room. He could feel the hostility and mix of admiration in the air. The hunched figure before him was still, silent, tensing for a move. In a flash, he had a knife held to Seishirou's neck, draping his thin frame over the broader body, the other arm around the older man's waist, holding them together. He knew that the assassin had allowed him to close in. There was no other way for him to surprise the older man unless Seishirou wanted to be surprised. "You came," he murmured, leaning into the other's ear.
"Mm," Seishirou answered, right hand going to the knife and slowly turning it away before taking a sip of his drink. Subaru let go of the weapon, listening to it clatter to the table. Drawing back, he gestured silently to the bartender who nodded with haste and handed the young man a cup. Subaru signaled again his thanks, then turned to his companion and lifted his glass in a toast.
Seishirou smiled, his eyes taking in the details of the other's appearance. Donned in a blue shirt and black slacks, Subaru seemed totally out of place, pristine, cool and collected against the back drop of the crowded bar that had returned to its usual noisy fray. There was a faint sheen of- what? Glitter? Sweat?- something that glimmer on his forehead, brilliant and startling light in the dim lamplight.
For a while, they drank in silence. In an unspoken agreement between them, they left in unison, walking out the door and into the hotel they always went to.
***
"'Under the spreading chestnut tree, I sold you and you sold me.'"
"What is that?"
"I don't know. It's from the book 1984."
"Mm. 'I sold you and you sold me'?"
"My favorite line."
"Understandably so."
"Subaru-kun, what does that tone of voice mean?"
"Nan demo nai."
"Something is bothering you?"
"Nothing, Seishirou-san, nothing at all."
A shrug.
A hesitant smile.
A gentle caress.
***
If somehow you could enter a particular hotel room on particular nights, you can see two figures enfolded in the sheets. One is somewhat taller than the older, with a pale eye and a refined face that looks as if it is used to smiling. Even when he is asleep, which he rarely is, his lips can be seen trying to curve into a confident sarcastic smile. Another is thinner, of a smaller frame. There is a constant crease in between his eyebrows, a wrinkle of worry from years of straining and working. Usually, the younger one is asleep, curled up next to the older one, a break of moisture across his whole body, sweat and fluid and semen.
On some nights, the older one would be awake and sitting up in bed, naked, the sheets twisted around his waist and his younger lover beside him. He would be leaning on the headboard, his fingers searching the table beside him for the wrinkled cigarette box, fingers deftly pulling out one and lighting it. Sometimes the scent of match sulfur and tobacco wakes the other one up. Sometimes, it does not.
If it does, the two would sit in tense solid silence and stare into nothingness or each other, depending on the mood. The one would get up, usually the younger one who is more uncomfortable in the silence, and walk to the bathroom, lock the door, and within moments the shower would be running. If it is the younger one and if you can somehow press your ears against the door of the bathroom, you can almost always tell he would be softly crying. If it is the older one, he would take his shower in silence, dress, then pad back out, smiling almost benevolently at the other one.
However, if the companion is not awakened by the scent of cigarettes, the older one will have a few moments to watch the younger sleep in quasi-peace. Sometimes, he runs his fingers through featherlight black hair, watching it fall back onto pale pink skin. Always, after a few minutes of gentle stroking, the older one will get up, take a silent shower, get dressed, and wait silently in the hotel chair. The teenager is always awakened by the sound of running water.
But most of the time, the older one is out of bed within 5 minutes of sex, as soon as the younger one is starting towards an exhausted sleep. He will then step into the shower and clean himself before dressing. The younger one is never fully asleep and only pretends to be, and in a sense, he is aware of every action of Seishirou as he leaves. And after the door shuts almost silently, Subaru would then curl up and wet the already damp and dirty sheets with tears almost as silent as the door, so hot they threaten to burn holes into the cotton fabric.
***
"Seishirou-san..."
"Don't call me that, Fuuma-kun."
"My, aren't we touch today."
"Mm."
"What do you wish for, Seishirou-san?"
"For you to stop calling me that."
"Ah... What do you really want?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I desire nothing."
"Therein is our problem."
"Therein is our answer."
A low laugh.
A clink of silverware.
A flicker of candle light.
"You are amusing, Seishirou-san."
"Why thank you, Fuuma-kun."
***
He sits in the cafe, reading. From the soft light above, a halo of light lands on his hair. He is drinking tea, right hand in a polite delicate position, alabaster skin tinged with olive brown tones. In the other hand is a thin book of poetry, frayed at the edges and dog-eared, as if it has been read often. He lets the book open to whatever page it desires and reads the poem. He notes to himself that the book often knows what he is thinking and will produce a poem to either mock or comfort him. They say an object eventually gets to know its owner. He does not doubt it. Just as he knows his lover, his lover knows him. One belongs to another. Again, a double-edged sword.
A waitress passes him and asks if he needs anything. He is at a point of familiarity with them; they know his face and he can name them, but they do not know him nor his name anymore than they know the reason he is always here, waiting for someone who never comes. They think he is educated in England and came back to find a bride. Indeed, his English is very good. He has no accent. Except for an occasional twist of a phrase, he sounds truly English.
He shakes his head, smiling as he sets down his book. The waitress blushes under his look. He has eyes that are hypnotizing in their intensity, as if he found you the most interesting person he has ever seen. There is something so captivating in his look that the observed becomes flustered, just as if he and the observed where the only two alive in the world.
The waitress walks away, and he picks up his book again. But what he sees is not the words of the poem. He sees instead the flushed cheeks of a young man, the sweaty forehead plastered with wet black bangs, the bright glittery leaf-green eyes that were sometimes squeezed shut by eyelids, or sometimes snapped open with insane light. He sees thin slender fingers that helplessly gripped his own. And strangely, he sees the curved edge of his lover's ear, warm and soft and pink. he could almost see, at the edge of his vision, the head thrust back with the mouth contorted in an expression of pain and pleasure.
In his mind, however, he hears the fear-curdled scream of his last prey, and he can oddly hear the distant drip of a faucet, almost like blood.
Even when he gets up and pays his bill, he can hear the continuous "drip, drip, drip."
***
"What is the meaning of happiness?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I would like to find happiness. I would like to know what happiness feels like."
"Kamui. I would think you know."
"I'm not sure. Sometimes, I wonder whether or not what I feel is happiness. I thought maybe you would know."
A self-deprecating laugh.
A curious look.
A shake of the head.
"I am the wrong person to ask."
"Subaru?"
"Yes, Kamui?"
"What is your happiness?"
"Mine?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps peace. And... maybe..."
"Maybe?"
"To let go..."
***
He sneezes, and thinks vaguely that someone must be thinking about him. Vaguely he wonders who it is, but shakes his head. He doesn't care.
Instead, he watches the razor blade on the toilet tank. It is so precariously balanced, so thin and carefully sharpened that it is dangerous. The silver glint blinds him with its promise of release. He shudders, but he's not quite sure why, whether it was because of the blade or because he was damp in the cool air.
He reaches for the razor blade, and for a moment his fingers pins the thin piece of metal to the porcelain tank. A patch of goosebumps flies up his arm. Shivering again, he snatches it before his hand gives way to the cold. The razor blade is small and hard in his fingers.
He is sitting in the bathtub, completely naked, the water steaming all around him. He can feel the warm lapping tongues that covers must of his body. He leans back into the water, the hand holding the thin piece of metal dangling over the edge of the bathtub. He thinks, maybe he can stay like this, poised forever, calm, the world shut away by a locked door. He feels he can just hide behind a veil of steam and privacy. Here, it is quiet. Here, in this world of water and soft light, he is serene.
But the moment passes, and he is once again weary of life and his own search for happiness. He wants to rest, to fall asleep forever. Like finding peace in the lake isle of Innisfree, he might find peace in this act of self-pity. He wanted his memories and weariness to seep out like sweat and tears from his skin.
"Burnt by the sun,
As the crimson sea did run,
I heard these words from a dove,
There will be no more love. [1]"
He lifts his razor blade above his wrist, slick with warm water, and with the shiny bit of metal cold and his fingers hot and wet, it almost slips into the water. A jolt of fear, nauseating and dark red, shoots through his arm. Another tremble. Nonetheless, he lowers the blade, hearing a high keening in his ear as he watches the metal slice effortlessly into his warm skin. The blood bubbles up, red and slick, and he feels no pain.
Unbidden, he sees the image of a young man above him, tall and strong. One eye is blind, and his lips are drawn back in a curious asking smile. He is caught by that image of warm skin and amber eyes, hypnotized by the mouth forming the words of a prediction, a challenge.
"You'll come again tomorrow."
And suddenly, he knows he cannot disobey those words. They hold him and he lets go of the blade, eyes still glued to the nonexistent face looming above him. Only he can see the naked lean body reaching over with a hand to touch his face. Just as he cannot see the razor blade slide itself slowly down through the hot water, he cannot see the slow river of crimson make its way to his elbow. A drop falls into the tub, diluting into pink, then into nothing.
He gets up out of the water, wrapping a towel around his slit wrist, and letting the cold cold air hit his moist skin. A tiny drop of water falls from the faucet into the pool of water with a tiny 'ping' sound. He considers crying, but for some reason, he doesn't, and instead finds another towel to wipe away the blood.
The other is waiting for him. He will not back down to that challenge.
***
"Tomorrow..."
"What?"
"Tomorrow. I won't be here tomorrow."
"What about the day after?"
"Never."
"Why?"
"You don't sound surprise, Subaru-kun. In a state of shock?"
"Eh, tabun." [2]
"I think you are."
"You didn't answer my question. Why?"
"The next time we meet, we'll be enemies."
"I don't believe you have a crystal ball, Seishirou-san."
"I don't."
"Then how do you know?"
A pause.
A inhalation of breath.
A small chuckle.
"I just do."
"You will come tomorrow."
"So you say."
***
"Would you like another drink, sir?" He looked up at the waitress who was looking down at him. Shaking his head, he mumbled his thanks and stared down at his empty glass. He didn't realize he had drank all the liquor already. But he had. The waitress went away, leaving him to himself.
The crowded bar was a rowdy noisy group that moved in a continuous sickening wave, like a large monster. Perhaps it was the effect of the drink. Perhaps it was his own head.
But within the blur of people, he caught the image of a tall man with an expensive suit. He sat up, looking over the crowd. It was just another Japanese man. Disappointed. he sat back in his hunched position, brooding over his own foolishness. But he knew he was going to irrationally stay here until he had sat there the entire night.
He did not come.
It was past midnight by the time he looked up at the clock again. Most of the customers had already left, and he was one of the last people there. The waitresses threw curious looks at him, but he was already getting up. He placed more than enough money on the table and stumbled away.
As he stepped outside, he whispered to the rainy air, "Nasakenai na, ore ha." [3]
Walking away, he tasted bitter raindrops and tears on his lips.
***
I hoped
-the night came anyway.
I hoped
-the night came anyway.
Is this the way
to do it?
No. Begin again.
I hoped,
today.
I will still hope,
tomorrow.
One day,
I will risk everything. [4]
===
A/N: Feedback, anyone?
[1] off of a movie called "Burnt by the Sun." I'm not really sure if these are the right lyrics, but I think what I wrote is around the meaning of the original words.
[2] translation: Maybe.
[3] Translation: I'm pathetic.
[4] "Conjugation of the Verb, 'To Hope'" by Lou Lipsitz