Oneshot, crossover fic (my first, yay!), very weird. Beware of, well, two very creepy gentlemen being themselves.
*`-,--
The night is unusually warm, and no maple leaves fall in the courtyard.
The tea-house isn't usually open this late, but the remaining clients paid for their time several weeks in advance, so a few low lights remain on inside the building as the servers wait, silently attentive, for instructions.
Tonight's clients have eaten dinner in relative silence--there are only two of them, and they have been at this ritual long enough so that dinner is a little formality by now: neither of them is the kind who speaks freely without the aid of slightly dulled senses, and the edges of sobriety and hunger would keep them from the kind of conversations they have come to enjoy. Both of them are men, and both speak in formal, pleasantly clipped tones when they do comment on the house chef's skills at sushi preparation or the weather. The small warm room, with its simple decor and soft tatami floor, contains a picture of perfect civility when it contains these two men.
When dinner is cleared, one of the servers--a young man whose gaze never leaves the floor, and whose kimono is plain and brown--brings in a bottle of wine, and two glasses. One of the men takes them from him, without a second glance; his companion looks mildly amused.
"Muraki-sensei, how kind of you."
"Not at all, Sakurazuka-san."
Muraki sets down the glasses; the bottle has already been opened so that the wine could breathe, warming to the unseasonably mild air. He pours a splash of dark liquid into his companion's glass and gestures gracefully at it with one pale hand.
"You embarrass me, sensei," Seishirou chuckles, taking the glass.
"Do I?"
"You know I don't know anything about wine tasting."
"You're too hard on yourself, Sakurazuka-san."
"No, I'm only honest. But I'll humour you."
He lifts the glass to his lips and sips slowly, his mismatched eyes shining briefly with amusement; after a moment he sets it back down, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"It's very sweet."
"Of course. It's a dessert wine." Muraki grins and fills his glass; as he reaches over the table, his sleeve next to Seishirou's creates a brief blur of light and dark--white suit, black suit, a bizarre yin and yang. The contrast is so dramatic as to be a little disorienting.
"I'm guessing we're going to talk about sweet things, then?" Seishirou's blind eye glints as he cups the curve of the glass in one broad palm. "Since this does seem to set a mood..."
"Ah, Sakurazuka-san, you know me so well." Muraki pours himself some wine; the spill of silvery hair that tumbles down over his forehead can't entirely conceal an odd glitter in his half-hidden right eye.
"It was just an educated guess."
"Don't belittle yourself. Now tell me about something sweet."
The Sakurazukamori closes his eyes briefly, playing his fingertips thoughtfully against the glass. The low light, filtering through the garnet of his drink, casts a red shadow on the table; that darkness on dark wood looks like an old blood stain.
"I take it you have something in mind, sensei."
Muraki's laughter is soft, his pale features full of mirth. "I saw him on the subway the other day... I suppose I simply have a curious nature."
Seishirou smiles indulgently, but there is the briefest flash of danger in the way his lips curve. "Isn't there some proverb along the lines of 'curiosity killed the cat'?"
"Why, Sakurazuka-san. You wound me." He places a slim hand over his heart in mock-despair. "I thought we were friends."
"We are, sensei." And there is a powerful unspoken hint in his voice: friendship does not mean trust, not here.
"Sakurazuka-san, I already have my hands full." Those slim, pale fingers spread a little wider across the layers of white fabric that cover Muraki's heart; Seishirou notices the gesture, and shifts forward just a little, his voice taking on a slightly conspiratorial tone.
"Then you'll have to tell me about it."
"But I asked first."
"Is this an argument I'm doomed to lose?"
"You have such a sense of drama, Sakurazuka-san."
"How good of you to notice!"
This time they both chuckle--the banter is part of the ritual, too, a way of keeping tensions between them at a perpetually safe level. Between these two, trust is not as important as comfort.
"All right, then," Seishirou says, before taking another sip of the darkness in his glass. "You did ask first, so it's only fair."
Muraki looks faintly pleased with himself. "He's quite beautiful, Sakurazuka-san. Especially his eyes."
Seishirou nods; it might be a trick of the light, but for half a heartbeat, his sharply handsome features seem almost thoughtful.
"Very expressive," he says. "He's like a child that way... always has been."
"You have a history?"
"Of sorts, yes." He shrugs. "If that's the best word for it."
A soft, musical noise works its way across the table--Muraki has dipped one white fingertip into the wine, and is slowly running it around the rim of the glass, making it sing. His one visible eye, almost blue in the warm light, is full of intense interest.
And, almost without knowing why, Seishirou continues to speak.
"He is like a child," he repeats. "It's not exactly innocence. It's... in the way he reaches for things. He doesn't seem to know how to tell anything but the truth, so when he wants something... he doesn't hide it. He can't. It's charming, in a way; it never stops being fascinating."
There is a short pause; the glass does not sing now.
"I think I envy you, Sakurazuka-san," Muraki murmurs.
Seishirou says nothing. The half-smile, and the dangerous edge beneath it, drift back into his expression.
The silence seems to encourage his companion.
"His eyes are such a wonderful shade of green. I knew someone with eyes like that, once..." He chuckles, shaking his head a little; the silver hair hanging over his eye sways and shimmers dully. "Not my type, though. I prefer something a little darker... almost like this wine, actually."
Seishirou tilts his head to one side. "Why, sensei, I had no idea."
"Of course not. I never told you."
"Are you going to?"
"Well. It is only fair." Muraki dips a fingertip into the wine, and it comes away wet and purpled; slowly he lifts it to his lips, and sucks on it for a few heartbeats until it's clean again.
"He is beautiful, Sakurazuka-san. But so very sad. His eyes conceal nothing from me; they are so lovely, wells of hope and pain alike... and something else that isn't quite mine yet." The eye concealed beneath his hair glitters again as his smile curves even further. "Not yet."
"Ah... I know that feeling."
"I thought you would," Muraki says.
The silence this time is distinctly uncomfortable--and then, after another sip of wine, the Sakurazukamori's features take on a slightly bemused smile. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking--even in what might otherwise be a moment of potential vulnerability, he stays fairly blank--but it's clear, at least, that there is something like faint, amused irony in his thoughts.
"Would you like to make a bet?" he asks.
"A bet? Of what kind?"
"Something simple, I think." Seishirou turns his wrist in a small, elegant circle, swirling the liquid inside his glass. "Something that can be done in a month."
"A kiss, perhaps?"
The eyebrow over Seishirou's blind eye arches. "You aren't serious."
"I am always serious about this kind of thing." Muraki runs his fingertip around the rim of his glass again. "Though, perhaps it shouldn't be a kiss... just consent. Anyone can steal a kiss, but getting one's beloved to actually grant it, perhaps even to initiate it..."
Seishirou's eyes harden almost imperceptibly at that use of the word beloved. If Muraki notices, he says nothing.
"Though, to be fair," he continues blithely, "that might be easier for you than it is for me, Sakurazuka-san. After all, if he is so childlike in his honesty, you would already know how inclined he is to give in."
"Something other than a kiss, sensei."
There is just a heartbeat's worth of silence before Muraki leans across the table, his visible eye glittering with something that is warm and wicked and utterly disconcerting.
"Let us make a bet, then," he murmurs, and his breath ripples forward to brush the taste of wine against Seishirou's lips. "Make him tell you one true thing, but reveal no truth of your own in return. Coax something secret from him and stay silent. Let yourself be unmoved by his beauty. Can you do that, Sakurazuka-san?"
The assassin's answering smile is small but dangerous.
"And what would the winner get?"
"Something sweet. Another bottle of this wine, perhaps. Strawberries out of season. We'll decide when a victory has been achieved."
Seishirou nods once. "Agreed."
And Muraki leans forward a little more and kisses his lips.
It's just once--just for an instant, enough to leave the faintest echo of sweet wine and warmth on his mouth. It seals the bet. But it takes Seishirou by surprise, so much so that he tenses visibly in the razor-thin moment before Muraki pulls back.
"To the victor go the spoils," Muraki murmurs, and then lifts his wineglass to drain the rest of the wine.
Seishirou remains blank another moment before his face takes on a brilliant but empty smile.
"Shall we split the bill, then, or was it your treat?"
They both laugh as if that had been the punchline of a tremendous, elaborate joke. The sound rings rich and deep and only faintly chilling, echoing all the way to the rafters.
Outside in the courtyard, a single maple leaf shakes loose of a stately tree in a sudden breath of wind and spends several long moments in free fall. It lands on the windowsill, unnoticed, as the breeze sweeps through the courtyard one last time and then dies down.
*`-,--
The night is unusually warm, and no maple leaves fall in the courtyard.
The tea-house isn't usually open this late, but the remaining clients paid for their time several weeks in advance, so a few low lights remain on inside the building as the servers wait, silently attentive, for instructions.
Tonight's clients have eaten dinner in relative silence--there are only two of them, and they have been at this ritual long enough so that dinner is a little formality by now: neither of them is the kind who speaks freely without the aid of slightly dulled senses, and the edges of sobriety and hunger would keep them from the kind of conversations they have come to enjoy. Both of them are men, and both speak in formal, pleasantly clipped tones when they do comment on the house chef's skills at sushi preparation or the weather. The small warm room, with its simple decor and soft tatami floor, contains a picture of perfect civility when it contains these two men.
When dinner is cleared, one of the servers--a young man whose gaze never leaves the floor, and whose kimono is plain and brown--brings in a bottle of wine, and two glasses. One of the men takes them from him, without a second glance; his companion looks mildly amused.
"Muraki-sensei, how kind of you."
"Not at all, Sakurazuka-san."
Muraki sets down the glasses; the bottle has already been opened so that the wine could breathe, warming to the unseasonably mild air. He pours a splash of dark liquid into his companion's glass and gestures gracefully at it with one pale hand.
"You embarrass me, sensei," Seishirou chuckles, taking the glass.
"Do I?"
"You know I don't know anything about wine tasting."
"You're too hard on yourself, Sakurazuka-san."
"No, I'm only honest. But I'll humour you."
He lifts the glass to his lips and sips slowly, his mismatched eyes shining briefly with amusement; after a moment he sets it back down, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"It's very sweet."
"Of course. It's a dessert wine." Muraki grins and fills his glass; as he reaches over the table, his sleeve next to Seishirou's creates a brief blur of light and dark--white suit, black suit, a bizarre yin and yang. The contrast is so dramatic as to be a little disorienting.
"I'm guessing we're going to talk about sweet things, then?" Seishirou's blind eye glints as he cups the curve of the glass in one broad palm. "Since this does seem to set a mood..."
"Ah, Sakurazuka-san, you know me so well." Muraki pours himself some wine; the spill of silvery hair that tumbles down over his forehead can't entirely conceal an odd glitter in his half-hidden right eye.
"It was just an educated guess."
"Don't belittle yourself. Now tell me about something sweet."
The Sakurazukamori closes his eyes briefly, playing his fingertips thoughtfully against the glass. The low light, filtering through the garnet of his drink, casts a red shadow on the table; that darkness on dark wood looks like an old blood stain.
"I take it you have something in mind, sensei."
Muraki's laughter is soft, his pale features full of mirth. "I saw him on the subway the other day... I suppose I simply have a curious nature."
Seishirou smiles indulgently, but there is the briefest flash of danger in the way his lips curve. "Isn't there some proverb along the lines of 'curiosity killed the cat'?"
"Why, Sakurazuka-san. You wound me." He places a slim hand over his heart in mock-despair. "I thought we were friends."
"We are, sensei." And there is a powerful unspoken hint in his voice: friendship does not mean trust, not here.
"Sakurazuka-san, I already have my hands full." Those slim, pale fingers spread a little wider across the layers of white fabric that cover Muraki's heart; Seishirou notices the gesture, and shifts forward just a little, his voice taking on a slightly conspiratorial tone.
"Then you'll have to tell me about it."
"But I asked first."
"Is this an argument I'm doomed to lose?"
"You have such a sense of drama, Sakurazuka-san."
"How good of you to notice!"
This time they both chuckle--the banter is part of the ritual, too, a way of keeping tensions between them at a perpetually safe level. Between these two, trust is not as important as comfort.
"All right, then," Seishirou says, before taking another sip of the darkness in his glass. "You did ask first, so it's only fair."
Muraki looks faintly pleased with himself. "He's quite beautiful, Sakurazuka-san. Especially his eyes."
Seishirou nods; it might be a trick of the light, but for half a heartbeat, his sharply handsome features seem almost thoughtful.
"Very expressive," he says. "He's like a child that way... always has been."
"You have a history?"
"Of sorts, yes." He shrugs. "If that's the best word for it."
A soft, musical noise works its way across the table--Muraki has dipped one white fingertip into the wine, and is slowly running it around the rim of the glass, making it sing. His one visible eye, almost blue in the warm light, is full of intense interest.
And, almost without knowing why, Seishirou continues to speak.
"He is like a child," he repeats. "It's not exactly innocence. It's... in the way he reaches for things. He doesn't seem to know how to tell anything but the truth, so when he wants something... he doesn't hide it. He can't. It's charming, in a way; it never stops being fascinating."
There is a short pause; the glass does not sing now.
"I think I envy you, Sakurazuka-san," Muraki murmurs.
Seishirou says nothing. The half-smile, and the dangerous edge beneath it, drift back into his expression.
The silence seems to encourage his companion.
"His eyes are such a wonderful shade of green. I knew someone with eyes like that, once..." He chuckles, shaking his head a little; the silver hair hanging over his eye sways and shimmers dully. "Not my type, though. I prefer something a little darker... almost like this wine, actually."
Seishirou tilts his head to one side. "Why, sensei, I had no idea."
"Of course not. I never told you."
"Are you going to?"
"Well. It is only fair." Muraki dips a fingertip into the wine, and it comes away wet and purpled; slowly he lifts it to his lips, and sucks on it for a few heartbeats until it's clean again.
"He is beautiful, Sakurazuka-san. But so very sad. His eyes conceal nothing from me; they are so lovely, wells of hope and pain alike... and something else that isn't quite mine yet." The eye concealed beneath his hair glitters again as his smile curves even further. "Not yet."
"Ah... I know that feeling."
"I thought you would," Muraki says.
The silence this time is distinctly uncomfortable--and then, after another sip of wine, the Sakurazukamori's features take on a slightly bemused smile. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking--even in what might otherwise be a moment of potential vulnerability, he stays fairly blank--but it's clear, at least, that there is something like faint, amused irony in his thoughts.
"Would you like to make a bet?" he asks.
"A bet? Of what kind?"
"Something simple, I think." Seishirou turns his wrist in a small, elegant circle, swirling the liquid inside his glass. "Something that can be done in a month."
"A kiss, perhaps?"
The eyebrow over Seishirou's blind eye arches. "You aren't serious."
"I am always serious about this kind of thing." Muraki runs his fingertip around the rim of his glass again. "Though, perhaps it shouldn't be a kiss... just consent. Anyone can steal a kiss, but getting one's beloved to actually grant it, perhaps even to initiate it..."
Seishirou's eyes harden almost imperceptibly at that use of the word beloved. If Muraki notices, he says nothing.
"Though, to be fair," he continues blithely, "that might be easier for you than it is for me, Sakurazuka-san. After all, if he is so childlike in his honesty, you would already know how inclined he is to give in."
"Something other than a kiss, sensei."
There is just a heartbeat's worth of silence before Muraki leans across the table, his visible eye glittering with something that is warm and wicked and utterly disconcerting.
"Let us make a bet, then," he murmurs, and his breath ripples forward to brush the taste of wine against Seishirou's lips. "Make him tell you one true thing, but reveal no truth of your own in return. Coax something secret from him and stay silent. Let yourself be unmoved by his beauty. Can you do that, Sakurazuka-san?"
The assassin's answering smile is small but dangerous.
"And what would the winner get?"
"Something sweet. Another bottle of this wine, perhaps. Strawberries out of season. We'll decide when a victory has been achieved."
Seishirou nods once. "Agreed."
And Muraki leans forward a little more and kisses his lips.
It's just once--just for an instant, enough to leave the faintest echo of sweet wine and warmth on his mouth. It seals the bet. But it takes Seishirou by surprise, so much so that he tenses visibly in the razor-thin moment before Muraki pulls back.
"To the victor go the spoils," Muraki murmurs, and then lifts his wineglass to drain the rest of the wine.
Seishirou remains blank another moment before his face takes on a brilliant but empty smile.
"Shall we split the bill, then, or was it your treat?"
They both laugh as if that had been the punchline of a tremendous, elaborate joke. The sound rings rich and deep and only faintly chilling, echoing all the way to the rafters.
Outside in the courtyard, a single maple leaf shakes loose of a stately tree in a sudden breath of wind and spends several long moments in free fall. It lands on the windowsill, unnoticed, as the breeze sweeps through the courtyard one last time and then dies down.