He must have been insane. This thought went through his head more and more as he stood outside her door. More specifically, the door he was forbidden to open barring his passage to the room he was prohibited from seeing. If he hadn't seen the emptied bowl and the dropped level of liquid in the cold, steel pot, he wouldn't have even dared to lay a finger on the door handle. He let his hand drop from the handle several times out of uncertainty before laying a definitive hand on the brass knob, gripping it tightly and turning it.
It was no surprise to him that he would find a single wooden staircase leading to the basement since he had heard her footsteps tromping down them many times. The smell of gunpowder and metal hit his nose as he took the first step into banned territory, and the first thing he saw when he got to the bottom was the rack upon rack and shelf upon shelf of various guns and ammo. In the back of his mind he made a note to ask her where she got them all—though of course he would only ask her if he was ever caught. Cautiously he tiptoed on the dirt floor, looking around out of necessity and curiosity as he searched for Izanami.
He made another note as he noticed the bookshelf stuffed to the edges with books of varying sizes—the only spare room on it being the six or so inches her radio took up—and a few photographs he couldn't very well identify, he would have to ask her for more reading material tomorrow. Upon hearing light snoring to his right, he ignored the bookshelf and turned his sights on the cot beneath the staircase where the sleeping woman he was looking for lay. He noticed, as he walked silently towards her, that she had most likely collapsed onto the cot from the way her body was positioned—stomach pressed against the canvas and arms and legs spread out haphazardly—and how she was still in the clothes she had worn earlier in the day; proof of her forced exhaustion.
Contrary to her usually serious—and somewhat eerie—demeanor, the face she held now was relaxed and—dare he say—soft. For a moment he was transfixed, what with never having seen her look this peaceful, then came the clinching feeling that he had purposefully caused such an expression for his own selfish means.
"Izanami?" he said aloud quietly, wanting to gauge how unconscious she was. She stayed silent, her breathing easy despite the light snoring. "Izanami, are you asleep?" he asked a little louder this time, her reaction this time was tangible and immediate. Her mouth, slightly opened as she slept, pressed into a somewhat firm grimace as she turned over onto her back, her frown settling back into a peaceful expression as she stilled.
Takuma breathed a quiet sigh of relief, running his eyes quickly over her body and letting his nose take control for the moment to locate the source of blood he had smelled earlier that evening. When he located it on her left arm beneath a large cloth bandage, he took her forearm carefully in hand and untied the slightly soiled material before the fabric stuck stubbornly to her skin. Watching her face, he gently eased the fabric from her wound and laid it beside her, taking note that the wound was a shallow one and one that would need to be opened a bit more if he wanted to feed freely and without trouble. Unfortunately this was the part of the plan that would risk his identity.
The sleeping pills he could explain, being found drinking blood from her arm he could not.
Sorry about this, Izanami. I'll try to take as little as necessary and make it as painless as possible, he apologized as he slipped a small knife from his sleeve, the thin blade nearly invisible in the pure darkness as he pressed it against the equally thin wound on her outstretched arm. He made the slit quick and smooth, not wanting to awaken her with prolonged pain. The sharp metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils, igniting the burn in his throat once more; hopefully this one feeding would be enough to tide over his thirst for the remainder of his time here.
He set the knife down beside him, waiting a bit impatiently for the blood from the shallow cut to well up into the crevice he made. He placed his hands above and below the thin blood trail, his mouth close to her bitter blood as he swallowed a shuddering breath. "As little…as necessary…" he said aloud quietly, reminding himself of his self-imposed promise. From between his lips his tongue slithered out, pink and slippery and eager for nourishment as the very tip of it touched the red liquid.
Bitter, like always, but not at all unwelcome as he let the flavors play on his taste buds before swiping the flat of his tongue along her arm again. And again. And again and again and again and again and again. And then one more time before his fangs elongated without his consent and scraped against the skin of her inner arm. Should I or shouldn't I? He wondered, taking a break from licking at her blood to run his tongue over his teeth, the very tip scraping against the flat muscle. No, I've had more than enough, he reasoned, tying the bandage tight around her arm before slipping the knife into his pocket and standing, turning away from her as he aimed to go back upstairs before getting distracted by her bookshelf.
Behind him marble eyes fluttered, dull and hazy as she treaded the pool known as consciousness and spotted the green-eyed man standing relatively still as he perused the bookshelf for a story he hoped she wouldn't notice.
"…Tak…ma…What…doing down…here…?" she asked slowly, voice thick with sleep and not at all competent as she danced the line between reality and dreamland. In her eyes his body blurred continuously, so much so that when he turned in moderate surprise at the sound of her sleep-addled voice she couldn't tell.
"I'm sorry; I was looking for another book to read. I didn't mean to disturb you," Takuma apologized; silently worried if she was awake when he fed. At the sound of his voice Izanami's face pinched together, as if she were hearing something unpleasant, before she rolled on her makeshift bed, her back to him as she fought sleep a few more seconds.
"Jus'…take one an' go…talk in morning," she murmured as Takuma smiled, bemused by how her characteristic answer was said in such an uncharacteristic way. Takuma did as he was told, taking from the bookshelf a particularly thick novel and tucking it under his arm, casting one last side-long glance at the light-haired brunette curled up on her cot before he walked quietly up the stairs, leaving her and her "mystery" of a room. He wasn't sure why it was that he wasn't allowed to go inside, and neither did he dwell on it. No, all he did as he closed the door on her basement/bedroom, the bitter taste of her blood still on his lips, was comment to himself that she had been cut off from humanity too long if the copious amounts of murder mysteries and lovelorn romance novels were anything to go by.
"So despite my frequent warnings, you decide arbitrarily to intrude anyway and wake me up in the middle of the night?"
"I couldn't sleep anymore and I thought it unwise to go for a walk outside again," Takuma replied, wincing as the bandage being unwound from his body caught on a patch of dried blood, sticking to the skin stubbornly until it was ripped away sharply and unwound once more.
"Would it not have been better to spend the night in moderate boredom?" Izanami asked him, watching his changing expressions with cold, unblinking eyes as the last of the wrap was pulled from his body. "At the very least you could have entertained yourself for a few hours by writing down all the ways to piss me off. You could have even divided it into subcategories."
He listened mutely, knowing full well that a berating was the lesser of the possible evils he would have had to deal with had he been caught. Knowing her she'd probably have a knife at his throat before he could even blink. "Huh, that's interesting," she murmured, her fingers hovering over the large gash on his chest, barely skimming his flesh before she turned away from him and searched through the first-aid kit, looking for the medicinal salve she usually put on.
"What's interesting?" he asked her, looking down at the wound and finding with delight that it was beginning to turn pink and fuse together through the stitches, albeit into an ugly shape.
"That I'm always right and you should listen to me more," she replied curtly, squeezing a decent amount onto her fingers and rubbing it generously onto the wound. "See what happens when you get a good night's sleep?" she asked, wiping the excess of her fingers and retrieving a medical tape and a large square patch of gauze, pressing it to the healing injury and taping it in place. "Now that you're not bleeding profusely anymore, I won't have to waste any more bandages."
He watched her for a moment as she put the supplies back inside the small metal box before he spoke. "Would that mean that I'll be leaving soon?" he asked her hesitantly, unsure whether it was because he still needed her blood or because he was starting to enjoy his time here.
She closed the lid, a strange grin lighting her face as she looked over at him amused. "Come with me for a moment," she told him, standing up from her chair and walking though the living room, waiting by the door for Takuma to button up his shirt and follow her out, leading him to the well in what one could only call her front yard. Curious, he watched her as she bent over the rim, grasping the rope strewn over the edge and pulling the bucket up from the depths.
"Hold this one-handed for more than two minutes and I'll consider thinking about letting you leave," she instructed him, handing the sloshing bucket over to him, the water inside spilling over the edge and staining his light blue button-up a dark blue. Even in two hands, the bucket wobbled and the water rippled, and no less than seventeen seconds after he removed one of his hands from the metal handle—his arm immediately struggling under the weight—did the bucket fall to the ground, the liquid disappearing into the dirt underneath his feet as he looked down disappointedly at his own weakness.
He half expected Izanami to say something curt or snarky, to berate him on thinking that he could heal so quickly even though he was doing that himself. He was so caught up in his thoughts that when Izanami laid her hand on his shoulder he jumped, surprise littering his face as he scrutinized her concerned expression. A new expression! He thought, both excited and weary of why she was showing him such an expression.
"Healing is long and arduous, so don't take this personally, Mr. Prince," she told him, "Everything takes time."
"Time isn't something I have a lot of," he replied dourly, crouching down to pick up the bucket.
"Aww, when did my cute little optimist turned into a cute little pessimist?" she asked him, crouching down in front of him and pinching this face teasingly, like a grandmother to her grandson. "Try again in a few days to allow the healing to continue. If you win I'll give you a prize," she continued light-heartedly, letting go of his cheek to lay her own against her hand, watching him somewhat amused.
He didn't reply beyond giving her a small smile and raising his hand to rub at his cheek, a small red mark appearing against alabaster flesh. "What kind of prize?" he asked her, straightening out of his crouch and watching her stand up with him.
"Wait three days then ask me again after lifting the bucket," she replied curtly, taking the bucket from him and throwing it over the side of the well, the rope gliding through her fingers as if it were made of silk before she tightened her grip on the end and tied it off on a small metal stake sticking out of the stone and cement. "Anyway, it's lunchtime. So, soup? Or—"
"No!" he exclaimed, wanting to hide his hand for a moment longer. It would be unusual if they fell asleep in the middle of the day, especially since Izanami seemed to stay awake until a few hours after sunset. Not that he knew first hand since he always went to bed before her. "I-I mean…something heartier…maybe one of those small birds you caught the other day?" he asked, attempting to retract his earlier statement.
"…Alright. I'll get the pheasant out of the fridge downstairs," she agreed, her gangly form walking away from him as she headed towards the house. He stayed behind, looking at her back as he questioned himself on why he had not seen a refrigerator downstairs last night. She stopped in the doorway of her home and inclined her head towards him when she noticed he hadn't moved. "It must have been pretty dark for you not to see anything if the dopey expression on your face is anything to go by," she snickered, watching his expression furrow as he frowned in disdain.
"Speaking of which, how did you like my room? Since that cat is figuratively out of the bag," she asked, turning fully to face him with crossed arms and an amused smirk, her blue-green eyes narrowed. Takuma thought on this question for a moment, wondering how he should word what he saw.
"…It reflects you quite well," he came up with after a few moments silence.
"Elaborate," she commanded tersely, her expression a blank slate.
He faltered a bit, not expecting her reply. "Um…well…ah, the multitude of guns displays your…violent…side," he started, watching her wearily although her expression never changed, so he continued, "I think the mystery novels show an unexpectedly inquisitive side and the, um, romance novels—"
"Show a slight case of sexual frustration? I'm eighteen years old, Mr. Prince, and I've been living here alone for three years. It's not abnormal," she interrupted, her blank face melting into one of joyful amusement at his startled face—the cause of course being her blatancy on the matter of her solitude. "But don't worry, Mr. Prince. I'm not so depraved that I would do anything to you in your sleep," she finished with a smile. "Anyway, stand there all day if you want, Mr. Prince. If you need me I'll be eating lunch. Join me when your face cools down," she continued, turning away from him with a genuine smile towards his fairly obvious discomfort.
Takuma swallowed the lump in his throat and consciously tried to remove the pools of blood that colored his pale skin in a light blush. Suddenly he was all too aware of the brief moments in which he was half naked and she had, unabashed, changed his bandages. Not to mention the day she had found him and he had awoken a few days later in foreign clothing. He felt, as he slowly left the long grass of the front yard, a small sense of relief, already having trusted her not to lie to him, although it did make him feel at least a little bit violated—not that he had any reason to fear for his innocence of course. He was just made a bit more aware of her every move.
Takuma was nervous. Not because of the lukewarm soup set before him, but rather of the inquisitive look Izanami was giving him as she sat down with her own bowl, asking him why he was not eating. He stayed silent, staring at the yellow-brown liquid with its chunks of carrots and celery thrown in willy-nilly.
"Are you having an issue with leftovers again?" she asked him, sighing heavily as if in annoyance. Takuma's brows scrunched together, not wanting to revisit the brief talking-down-to from no less than a week ago.
"No, I'm…just not that hungry," he answered sheepishly, sure that she could see right through him.
She could, not that she'd ever tell him. "Alright, more for me then," she agreed, a little greedy as she slid his bowl towards her from across the table, leaving him with a single glass of water and a useless spoon. "So how long do you plan on staying up today?" she asked him after several spoonfuls.
"Probably in a little bit," he answered turning the glass in his hand and watching the water inside swirl. She said nothing, continuing to empty her bowl bit by bit as she paid him little attention. "Are you sure you can eat that much, Izanami?" he asked her, a blond eyebrow arching as he watched her eat.
"One can never have too much soup, Mr. Prince," she answered, unusually happy as she swiped a pink tongue along her bottom lip. "And for the last time, call me Iz. You're much too formal," she stated irritably, giving him a look he could only describe as, well, irritability.
He continued to watch her in silence, every now and then drinking from his glass and watching her carefully, unsure of when the sleeping pills would take effect. It was a low dosage, not to mention that it would have been diluted through the liquid and she was having twice her normal share. He guessed he'd have to wait and see.
"May I ask something, Izanami?" he asked her, setting down his glass.
"Of course, what's dinner without conversation?" she replied, unusually lighthearted, as if eager.
"Why do you prefer to be called "Iz" rather than "Nami"? The latter makes more…sense…" he asked, trailing off when he saw her face darken and her glare return to her eyes.
"Because I prefer the former now," she murmured, lowering her eyes to the near empty bowl set before her.
He swallowed, hesitant yet insistent. "Now? Then there was a time when you were called the former?"
"…There's always a time isn't there," she said quietly, pouring the few drops left of her bowl into the second. "I think about fifteen years ago was the time?" she mused, stirring the contents as she laid her head against her opposite hand and stared down.
She looks a bit…drowsy. Maybe she's just a little tired, Takuma thought as he listened intently and watched her carefully.
"My Mom used to call me that all the time, and I hardly ever answered to Izanami," she continued, bringing a few spoonfuls of broth up to her lips before letting the emptied spoon drop back down into the small pool to repeat the same process. "At least, that's what Dad says since I can't really remember from way back when," she said tiredly. It amazed Takuma how quick the effects were, despite the tampered mixture being a bit stale. Silently he wondered if Izanami would end up falling asleep at the table, but the idea disappeared quickly as she stood up abruptly, her thigh bumping against the table and causing the half full bowl to wobble and spill a bit before settling back down.
"I need to do something downstairs real quick. Take care of this for me, would you?" she said airily, making a sweeping motion with her left hand over the table and its few contents before walking—as awkwardly as her gangly form suggested—around him towards the door at the end of the hallway.
"Do you need some help going down the stairs, Izanami?" Takuma asked out of courtesy and the fear that his selfish needs would cause her to injure herself.
"How old do I look, Mr. Prince?" she asked him, stopping in the middle of the hallway and laying her hand on the wall, inclining her head very slightly in his direction.
"…Old enough not to need my help?" he asked her tentatively, certain that it was a rhetorical question.
"Damn straight, but that's not the answer. I know that you just want another peek downstairs, but I see right through you, Mr. Prince," she stated incorrectly, continuing down the hall and stopping before the door, opening it and closing it as she disappeared behind it, leaving Takuma to listen intently as she took slow deliberate steps until her feet hit the hard dirt floor; footsteps soft compared to earlier. He stood when he was certain that Izanami had not fallen down the stairs and picked up the bowls left from dinner, dumping the left over soup down the sink drain before washing the dishes.
For a moment he wondered if he should throw out the tainted soup in the fridge, and immediately argued against it, remembering quite vividly that Izanami hated wasting food. I should throw it out anyway, just in case, he decided, opening the fridge and taking hold of the metal pot inside. The remaining soup sloshed about as he took it across the kitchen floor, setting it down briefly to open the back door and picking it up once again to take it far outside and dumping the poisoned liquid near the tree line. While he walked back to the small home with soup pot in hand, he discussed, in his mind, various excuses he'd use if Izanami asked him where the leftovers had gone.
The kitchen was clean, the dishes were spotless, and the ill-tempered brunette was fast asleep on a cot in her basement—the result of a doubled (yet diluted) mixture of vegetable soup and sleeping pills. Wisps of light brown hair fell across her sleeping face as her chest expanded and contracted with each breath that passed through her lips. Izanami lay on her side, her injured arm outstretched beside her while the other lay curled against her stomach, her long legs bent and thrown haphazardly. Above her knelt a tall, and extremely perplexed, blonde man, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as he stared down at her.
Having just unraveled her makeshift bandage he expected her to still have her small injury, a thin cut above the juncture of her arm beginning to scab over. But to his surprise he found a bright pink scar in its place. Silently he panicked, not having brought a knife with to reopen wound, only his thirst and his fangs.
He wondered as he stilled his breath whether or not to use his teeth to split open the skin, but that depended upon his desperation. He could go back upstairs to grab the knife, risking the amount of courage he had gathered just to walk past the doorframe. Not to mention he would be violating his personal promise of not causing her excessive bodily harm. The gentle side of him, the side who would rather risk her wrath than cause her harm, voted against either knife or fangs, wanting to take his body limit to the max until he healed and was able to leave. But he knew that, ironically, he would need to feed if he wanted heal.
"Please understand that I don't want to cause you more harm than necessary," he whispered to her unconscious self, gently grabbing her arm and ghosting his lips over the flesh. His tongue darted out, flat and wet as he located her vein, his teeth aching as his fangs elongated before sharply piercing the supple flesh and eliciting a pleasured moan from the back of his throat as her lifeblood flowed, staining his teeth and coating his tongue as he drank deeply and greedily, his eyes slipping closed in carnal delight; her blood no less equivalent than to the most delectable dark chocolate. All the while unnoticing of the pair of blue-green marble eyes silently watching him drink, unaware that these tired eyes slipped closed, allowing him to take what he needed for the time being.
