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T: In which there is the threat of a plot actually appearing, warnings, disclaimers and italics retain the same meaning and I own only that which does not appear in cannon!
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As he crosses the threshold of the room his nose is overwhelmed with the scent of formaldehyde and, for only the second time in his life, he feels a desperate want to throw up. Then a calm, faintly accented voice, is stating,
"I knew that, eventually, fate would draw our paths together again, Asato-san."
Who was this man that he could so casually utter that name? Who was he to think that he had earned such a privilege, to think that it was as his right to smile at Tsuzuki as one might smile at a much loved toy that had thought to be long since lost?
It is a hot, possessive, train of thought and the shear strength of it almost blinds him to his partner's reaction…almost has him missing the sudden clouding of Tsuzuki's eyes and the freezing of his muscles..
Yet the very part of him that is so very caught up in the want to know just why the stranger before him seems to be on so very intimate terms with the man he loves, is also the part of him that is conscious always of Tsuzuki's every movement…is the part that knows the other's mannerisms better even than he knows his own.
Thus he has only to catch the tightening of the other's fists from his peripheral vision to know that everything is not as it should be…for fear to spark the unneeded rush of adrenaline and for his feet to place him just slightly between the pair.
The stranger's one remaining eye trails over his form and then, smile fading into a frightening neutrality, he enquires,
"You are from the Iya valley, aren't you?"
His blood freezes and, very aware of the tremble there now in his voice, he enquires,
"How do you know that?"
"I believe I saw your face in a newspaper…or at least a face that looked very much like the face you own."
Of course he knew, instantly, to what the other was referring, the blind panic sparked by that knowledge enough to have him scrabbling towards the stranger in the desperate need to shut him up.
The familiar strength and warmth of Tsuzuki's arms wraps around him but two steps later and, as the other begins to carry him away, he hears the stranger remark,
"Until next time then, Asato-san."
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The police provided psychiatrist had used some fancy term to make it seem as though reading the article was as the only sensible course of action.
He should, of course, have trusted his gut instinct and riled against the woman…questioned how she could even pretend to understand how his mind worked after knowing him but a week.
Yet to do as such would have been disobeying an authority figure, something that, thanks to being raised according to the 'old code', was something he could view only as an unforgivable sin.
Thus he had taken the paper without so much as a word of protest and had silently read each and every cold, clinical, word of the article.
It had been as reading a fictional account or the reminiscences of a stranger and that fact had inspired such a panic in him that the psychiatrist had been forced to use the sedatives once again.
The sensation of seeing the world as though through a gauze is swiftly becoming a familiar thing to him and the part of his psyche that is still so very focused on being strong…independent…hates this fact.
Yet, for the moment at least, that part of him is buried deep beneath the desperate want to remember…to be able to read the words printed on that page and feel the emotions that he knows he should be feeling.
He tells her as much once he is able to and, her mouth set into a firm line, she responds,
"Tread lightly; otherwise you may end up disturbing things better left alone."
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They are curled together on the floor of their mediocre hotel suit, two cups of hot, strong, tea sat within arms reach. It is a position that, though seemingly intimate, is, in fact, born of the desperate, childish, fear that the stranger had inspired within them both.
"His name is Kazutaka Muraki." Tsuzuki glances down a moment to assure that he is listening and then says, "His grandfather was with me in the months before…the end…and apparently took a photo of me for posterities sake. Muraki found the photo along with the notes on my…condition…when he took over his grandfather's estate and, for the simple amusement of the thing, committed every little detail to memory.
"Our paths crossed not a month later and he was so very desperate to learn more of what I was now…of what I was capable of…that he captured and tortured my partner…" He trails and, hands clenching, he says, "I was angry…so very angry…that I did precisely what he had wanted of me and retaliated. Of course it was all for nothing in the end, I came too late to save my partner from the mental trauma that eventually lead to his passing and Muraki escaped without so much as a scratch.
"Ever since then he's been attempting to bate me out again…pushing me harder and harder most likely in the hope of breaking me. I resisted him at every turn and, just a little before you arrived, it seemed as though this tactic had paid off…as though he had finally let the 'game' go."
"Finding him here was little more than coincidence, Tsuzuki."
"No, no it was not." A pause, then, mouth setting into a firm line, he says, "I want you to go back to the Meifu."
Anger has him up on his feet and yet before he can question, request, or voice any form of admonishment, the other is stating,
"If you stay here he will hurt you in order to get to me."
Numbness and then a warmth that he knows is leaching through to his cheeks,
"I can't leave you to face him on your own, Tsuzuki." He responds before he snatches his cup off of the floor and retreats, through the adjoining door, into his own room.
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Her fingers are clutched tight around his hands, the tremors that shake her body magnified ten times over through the contact.
It has only been a month since she had come to ask forgiveness, to make him see what he had, subconsciously, been ignoring for so very long. Only a month and yet already he loves her again as he had when he had been but a boy…already he is filled with the almost blind want to shelter her from all harm.
Three times already this month he had failed in this task, has been able to do nothing other than comfort her in the aftermath…than to tell her the lies that he knows she needs to hear and keep his silence as she tells her own lies.
He hates himself for this fact, hates that he is not fast enough to prevent the incidents altogether or strong enough to do 'the right thing' and voice the truth at last.
Yet this hatred is nothing compared to that which he feels towards the man who names himself his father…those weaknesses insignificant against the confidence he feels each and every time he finds himself in that man's presence.
She moves, just slightly, and as his eyes catch the mess of swollen, bloodied skin, that confidence is further bolstered.
He would pay.
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T: I'd initially intended keeping this story Muraki free and yet, as always seems to be the case, he wormed his way in! Next chapter ASAP
