Only I
by Seishuku Skuld (skuldhotohori@yahoo.com)
Series: X
Pairing: implied Seishirou+Subaru
Warnings: implied shounen-ai, violence, Subaru being fucked up. Spoilers for X18.
Disclaimer: Subaru, Seishirou, and about 50% of my money belong to CLAMP and their affiliates.
Author's note: Originally written for Vul's 1999-word fic challenge on CLAMPesque, but I have since rewritten it. It is now much longer than 1999 words. I've added things, slashed the fic apart, had several drafts gone to my beta readers…so this is its final version. ^_^
I've always wanted to write a fuckedup!Subaru fic. So here it is.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Another day. Another twilight. Another monotonous routine comes to a close. The red sun sets, casting is rays far over the city of Tokyo; lengthening the shadows of what buildings remain standing in the center of the city. A heavy wind blows throughout the street, carrying with it the dust of destruction: half the city is collapsed, many of its inhabitants fled. Sickly neon signs flicker into the twilight, silent testaments to the struggle of the apocalypse.
Around the pivotal point of the city's immense network of streets is a large red and white tower, the pinnacle of what it is to be Tokyo. It is a symbol to what was the city's vastly spreading power and influence: Tokyo Tower, still standing tall and proud, despite the rubble around it. It is the site of the last kekkai that will determine whether the world remains, or whether it shatters. That time of decision seems not too far into the future.
I sigh. I would have looked up to the tower not so many months ago, my heart filling with futile ideals of fantastical heroism: that I'd be helping mankind, that I'd be saving them. That I, with my peers, would be their salvation; and the world would live on, fighting and surviving.
It was easy back then, knowing that I would stand by humanity until the last, no matter how terrible the odds, that I would fulfill some twisted noble destiny, carry some terrible burden. It was strange; having this monumental task thrust into my reluctant hands, upholding some ridiculous notion of my dignity and courage as a Dragon of Heaven. But only I knew inside that all I wanted was a coward's death.
At His hands.
A time that was just a few months ago now seems so far away. The memories appear to me clear as perfect crystal, flawless and pure; but yet somehow veiled. It is as if I reach for an intangible vision that only slips through my fingers when I give it the slightest touch.
I thought myself jaded then, disaffected from my young childish whims, but I laugh now, harsh and mirthless. Even then, when everything I knew and loved had been ripped away, I sought comfort, in the depth of my heart. I opened myself up to the young boy that would determine the fate of the world, and we had comforted each other in our own hurt. He'd lost his love, his best friend, and I too had lost the one man I had come to love; but we still loved them. Each to our own, each with a fiery passion that not even the fiery burning of the sun could consummate; the deep wound of longing and betrayal cut deep into our hearts and as our blood flowed together and mingled. At least we were comforted in knowing that when the next day would come, if there would be even the smallest chance to see the ones we loved, it would be no small comfort.
Even in the deepest darkest of nights, when I was all alone and there was no light from the moon and only my most quietest of rooms and coldest of bed sheets lay with me, I would dream. in the depths of my feverish heart, I would fear that I had lost Him, my love, my other half. But yet I knew He was always there, always watching my every move. It was a morbid sort of happiness - to know that - even though He didn't care, and He didn't love, He was watching.
That would put me at ease until I finally drifted off to sleep (amongst the salty traces of tears and the remains of my knife and my freshly-made scars); for I knew that until the end, He would always be watching me.
I have sixty-eight of those scars, in various places on my arms and legs. One for each time I doubted. I couldn't let myself question, because I knew it had to be true. It was wonderful every time, the delicious smooth slice of sharp metal across flesh. It made me feel as if he was really there. It made me feel as if I was alive and not some deadened pile of skin and bone; it reminded me that I was His toy, His play object. It reminded me that He was watching.
I smirk, as I jump from the steel beams of the Tower, landing silent and catlike upon the sidewalk. No one can see me if I don't want them to see.
That night, on the bridge, was the most heart wrenching day of my life. I had thought then, that nothing could touch me; that nothing could make me feel beyond what pain I had already felt (that was scar sixty-four). All I wanted to do was die at His hands, my warm blood spilling over his arm (that would have been sixty-five). I wanted for once, to see the look of satisfaction on His face that only the end of my life could bring him.
I wanted Him to be complete through my death, because if he was complete, then so was I.
Bitter tears rolled down my cheeks that day, when I thought nothing could make the pain worse. When I thought I hit the bottom, He threw me shovel and showed me exactly how low - how bad - it could be.
My wish was denied me. Even when I was certain, when I made sure it would be granted. (Sixty-five would have been the magic number.) Whatever deity or twist of fortune works his magic over Tokyo, he played a cruel, cruel trick on me that day.
In the midst of the explosion I pulled Him close to me, gripped His jacket, and looked Him eye to eye. I never felt so much determination then, such a macabre sense of glee that it was going to finally end; that in my last moments, I would be His: I would be locked forever in the elaborate web the Sakurazukamori spun, and as the last juiced eked out of me, staining the already tarnished underbelly of the city, I would belong to Him.
Forever.
"Kill me," I said to Him through clenched teeth, my fingers clawing into the fabric of His trench coat. "Kill me." Make me yours.
I waited so painfully long for it.
And He smiled, a foreign crease to His eyes, a look of delight and pure rapture that I had never seen before. He'd obliged me then, pulling His hand back, and I knew it would end - my thread spun out and cut with the sharp metallic snap of Fate's scissors - with a crash of thunder and torrent of pain, I would be His.
Forever and ever.
The crash of thunder came, as did the torrent of pain, but the blood that was spilled was not my own. The shears of Fate missed my delicate line and instead rent another. I stood as the smoke cleared, my own hand covered in vermilion ichor, my one good eye opened wide in shock, framed by cascading teardrops.
The sacrificial virgin was crying, because the ritual had stopped; and his role was no longer written in the play. He would not ascend to the Gods that day.
I didn't want it to be that way. I wanted to be close to Him, I wanted to be His - His prey, His toy, His victim. Whatever it would be, it suited me, as long as I belonged to Him.
His lifeless body slid to the pavement with a dull splash. There was blood everywhere; dark patches of it staining my snow-white jacket, which until then, had looked deceptively innocent. I stared at my hands, covered in His blood. I could have laughed then, had I not been in such a deep state of shock. It was red and slippery, and when I lifted it to my lips, it tasted coppery, just like mine.
My blood. It was so much like my blood on my hands, and how I wished with all my heart that it really was.
But it wasn't.
He was gone.
His one lifeless eye staring at me in a mockery of a smile, a joke of some sort of love He whispered about. He laughed, because he'd left me behind.
The trap had been thrown open, the bonds cut, the cage opened, but the little bird did not want to fly out.
And then it became a very new thing to me, to realize what it was in this world that made me so bitter. I began to hate everything.
I continue on my way through Tokyo, the shadows now disappearing as the last of the sun descends beneath the horizon. I wish it would never rise again. If there was some onmyoujitsu spell to destroy the sun - to freeze it, to destroy this hateful planet - I would do it; even if it would take a hundred hours or a thousand days. I would do it because then I'd have my revenge on the world as it froze over, covered in ice. Because I would be with my beloved.
Forever and ever. Until the universe collapsed.
I would be his.
The boy went to see me that night, in my room, where I was sitting, numb with shock. I was dumbfounded, and bleeding from a fresh wound in my arm. (I had made number sixty-five that night) I hated him, because his love was still alive. He had hope, when I had none. But I still sat there, talking out the drawls of a dry conversation as his worry for me flitted plainly over his child-like face. I wanted to slap that look away from him, I wanted to see him cry. I wanted to hurt him, hurt everything, hurt me.
"Not everyone can have happiness," I told him flatly, the plain truth. I realized it then, when He had lain in my arms, His life draining away from him in a painful river of crimson.
"You've never been able to kill anyone..." He told me. He gazed at me, and for the first time I saw flickers of genuine emotion behind His one eye. "Because you are so kind."
As my heart beat out His death toll, I knew that it was true. I had never been able to take a life, because I had been so soft. So idealistic. Because I believed that there was light in every heart, and good in everyone; and therefore, I couldn't have allowed mankind to perish. Because, deep down, I still wanted to be the hero of fairytales - I hadn't even had the courage to believe in my own jadedness, in my own corruption, which suddenly seemed as plain to my eyes as the sun on a cloudless day. I couldn't take my own life, because I believed there was something left in me that was worth saving.
"Subaru-kun…I…" He leaned towards me with the last vestiges of strength that He possessed, "you…"
And then the wind blew, a strong gust that carried bits of debris from the bridge, like a storm of howling voices. Though His lips were next to my ear, His words were lost in the chorus. But I still heard them, as surely as if they were branded on my skin.
He loved me.
I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved.
Later that night, I opened my window and escaped. I could no longer stand the idealistic young boy, and his distasteful purity. The belief and the wish that he clung to so tenaciously disgusted me. The pain we used to share, the pain he bore seemed like a dull throb compared to the monster I carried.
I couldn't stay. I lost myself in the night then, stumbling blindly about the city. There were no tears left to shed. My nerves were numb, and what were left were all but dead, sensitive to only one kind of stimulus.
I sought out comfort. Not in innocence, mutual pain and understanding, but comfort of a different sort.
It gave me what only I could feel, it fed me what feeling was left. I found myself in Ueno Park, storms of sakura petals wreathing about me in a bizarre helical greeting. The Tree knew me, it told me of what I wanted most, and how I could finally grasp it. It was so horrendous at first, that I backed away from its grasping limbs, frightened.
But there was nowhere to run, and eventually, it ensnared me in its trap. Where I was always meant to be. It held me then, like a mother holds her child. It made me cry, it made me weep and scream in abject pain and heartrending loss (the knife I carried then gave me number sixty-six). It tore me apart, stripped me of my skin, of my every protection. It touched me deep inside, delved deep into me until there was nothing I could hide. I continued to sob, shoulders shaking like a child - shedding tears like a cloud sheds the weight of a heavy spring rain. And when I was finished, it sewed me up in its own little way, putting me back together. It created a new me. A me that would serve it well; that would be stout bulwark against the blood and screams that would threaten to engulf me. A new me that would be closer to Him, that was not afraid of the scars.
I blink in the darkness. The depth of vision my new eye gives me still seems strange, though I know for most of my short life the world did indeed look like this. Everything seems extended, as if stretching out of its proper place to come take a curious look at me: not the jaded Sumeragi head, nor the confused Dragon of Heaven. They peer at the Sakurazukamori, newly created.
This is not my first kill. Nor will it be my last. It will be just one link in a long chain of souls I shall feed to the Tree. In exchange, it will make my wish come true. I make about three kills a night.
It's a dark alleyway, and there are all kinds of odd personalities poking about. The drug heads, the drunks, the women of the night. They are all here, gathered about the streets, swarming like stinking rats. It's a shady part of town, people avoid it during the day and only those with no meaning left in their lives seem to congregate here. It is some bizarre sideshow of despair: all the destitute, all the lost, all those with shattered dreams wander about this place, flitting between the buildings, peering from the alleyways - all shadows of what they once were. Strangely enough, it feels familiar. I brush that feeling aside. I show no expression, but in my mind, my lip curls in contempt. I hate them. I hate them all. I hate them for what they once were. I hate me too, in that way.
It gives me a perverse sense of pleasure as I grab one of the girls about the waist, covering her mouth with a gentle hand and a whisper of magic. She stares at me, wide-eyed, surprised, but that quickly passes as she reasons that I must be another one of her clients. Had I the spirit left to laugh, I would. But I don't, and I release her. She seems to relax, though I can see by the look on her face I must one of her stranger 'customers.'
There is a certain sense of glee to what I have to do, and only until my first kill did I understand. There was so much to be had in the taking of a life, in the taking of a life that did not matter, was inconsequential. The world would end in time, and the closer I could become to Him, the better.
It is easy toying with the girl, the flirtatious gestures, the false smiles. Innocents are so easily wooed. I lead her along for bit, until I tire of the game and decide to dispense of her; she's wasting my time.
I smile at the girl, give her a small kiss on the cheek. I close my eyes, and there's a rush of magic in my veins as the spirits of the ages infuse me; the rush of voices fills the air, the pounding of her heart is my metronome and the hunger of the Sakura Tree my own desire.
I snap open my eyes and plunge my hand through her heart.
Calculated, cool: there is a gentle touch on my shoulder, and my head turns to look, as it does, unfailingly, every single time. This is first time tonight. I promise Him, I will see him twice more.
He stands over me, an enigmatic smile of satisfaction on His face. Two blind, white holes are where his eyes should be, but I know just as well that He can see through mine.
"Sakurazukamori," He whispers to me, His lips parting imperceptibly, His words floating to me like soft clouds drifting lazily in the sky.
So little time. I remove my hand from the girl, and brush her blood on His lips as I silence Him.
In this world of between life and death, I am the only one.
I am the Sakurazukamori.
I wanted to be His, I wanted to be watched by Him forever. But only here can He see me. In the world outside, I am the Dragon of Earth, I am the pitiful soul striving to be one with my predecessor.
I want to be His, but that can never be. So the only thing I have left to want is to be Him. To be one with Him. To have His memory, his essence, survive with me. To have him beside me, in this dim, twilight world where souls escape in smoky tendrils and blood falls from cliffs in giant ribbons of scarlet.
This is the closest we can ever be.
He smiles at me, a pink tongue flicking out from behind His lips, licking my finger resting on His mouth. I mimic his action with my own tongue, and my own finger. The blood tastes a bit coppery, a bit salty, and a bit sweet. Just the way blood should be. So much like mine, so much like his.
The lifeless girl falls to the ground with a dull thud as I drop her cadaver, already limp. She lands with a splash in a pool of her own blood.
She is of no more use to me.
I peer down the cavernous wound in her bosom, watching her wretched heart struggle with excruciating slowness, bleeding its last drops as she slides into oblivion.
"Who are you?" her eyes ask me silently. They look at me pleadingly, the hole in her chest an endless well of darkness as the beating of her heart comes to a standstill.
I avert my eyes from her, pushing up my sunglasses. I smile at Seishirou and wrap my arms around him possessively, my mouth brushing the cool, soft skin of his ear as I whisper:
"I am Sakurazuka Seishirou."
~end~
by Seishuku Skuld (skuldhotohori@yahoo.com)
Series: X
Pairing: implied Seishirou+Subaru
Warnings: implied shounen-ai, violence, Subaru being fucked up. Spoilers for X18.
Disclaimer: Subaru, Seishirou, and about 50% of my money belong to CLAMP and their affiliates.
Author's note: Originally written for Vul's 1999-word fic challenge on CLAMPesque, but I have since rewritten it. It is now much longer than 1999 words. I've added things, slashed the fic apart, had several drafts gone to my beta readers…so this is its final version. ^_^
I've always wanted to write a fuckedup!Subaru fic. So here it is.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Another day. Another twilight. Another monotonous routine comes to a close. The red sun sets, casting is rays far over the city of Tokyo; lengthening the shadows of what buildings remain standing in the center of the city. A heavy wind blows throughout the street, carrying with it the dust of destruction: half the city is collapsed, many of its inhabitants fled. Sickly neon signs flicker into the twilight, silent testaments to the struggle of the apocalypse.
Around the pivotal point of the city's immense network of streets is a large red and white tower, the pinnacle of what it is to be Tokyo. It is a symbol to what was the city's vastly spreading power and influence: Tokyo Tower, still standing tall and proud, despite the rubble around it. It is the site of the last kekkai that will determine whether the world remains, or whether it shatters. That time of decision seems not too far into the future.
I sigh. I would have looked up to the tower not so many months ago, my heart filling with futile ideals of fantastical heroism: that I'd be helping mankind, that I'd be saving them. That I, with my peers, would be their salvation; and the world would live on, fighting and surviving.
It was easy back then, knowing that I would stand by humanity until the last, no matter how terrible the odds, that I would fulfill some twisted noble destiny, carry some terrible burden. It was strange; having this monumental task thrust into my reluctant hands, upholding some ridiculous notion of my dignity and courage as a Dragon of Heaven. But only I knew inside that all I wanted was a coward's death.
At His hands.
A time that was just a few months ago now seems so far away. The memories appear to me clear as perfect crystal, flawless and pure; but yet somehow veiled. It is as if I reach for an intangible vision that only slips through my fingers when I give it the slightest touch.
I thought myself jaded then, disaffected from my young childish whims, but I laugh now, harsh and mirthless. Even then, when everything I knew and loved had been ripped away, I sought comfort, in the depth of my heart. I opened myself up to the young boy that would determine the fate of the world, and we had comforted each other in our own hurt. He'd lost his love, his best friend, and I too had lost the one man I had come to love; but we still loved them. Each to our own, each with a fiery passion that not even the fiery burning of the sun could consummate; the deep wound of longing and betrayal cut deep into our hearts and as our blood flowed together and mingled. At least we were comforted in knowing that when the next day would come, if there would be even the smallest chance to see the ones we loved, it would be no small comfort.
Even in the deepest darkest of nights, when I was all alone and there was no light from the moon and only my most quietest of rooms and coldest of bed sheets lay with me, I would dream. in the depths of my feverish heart, I would fear that I had lost Him, my love, my other half. But yet I knew He was always there, always watching my every move. It was a morbid sort of happiness - to know that - even though He didn't care, and He didn't love, He was watching.
That would put me at ease until I finally drifted off to sleep (amongst the salty traces of tears and the remains of my knife and my freshly-made scars); for I knew that until the end, He would always be watching me.
I have sixty-eight of those scars, in various places on my arms and legs. One for each time I doubted. I couldn't let myself question, because I knew it had to be true. It was wonderful every time, the delicious smooth slice of sharp metal across flesh. It made me feel as if he was really there. It made me feel as if I was alive and not some deadened pile of skin and bone; it reminded me that I was His toy, His play object. It reminded me that He was watching.
I smirk, as I jump from the steel beams of the Tower, landing silent and catlike upon the sidewalk. No one can see me if I don't want them to see.
That night, on the bridge, was the most heart wrenching day of my life. I had thought then, that nothing could touch me; that nothing could make me feel beyond what pain I had already felt (that was scar sixty-four). All I wanted to do was die at His hands, my warm blood spilling over his arm (that would have been sixty-five). I wanted for once, to see the look of satisfaction on His face that only the end of my life could bring him.
I wanted Him to be complete through my death, because if he was complete, then so was I.
Bitter tears rolled down my cheeks that day, when I thought nothing could make the pain worse. When I thought I hit the bottom, He threw me shovel and showed me exactly how low - how bad - it could be.
My wish was denied me. Even when I was certain, when I made sure it would be granted. (Sixty-five would have been the magic number.) Whatever deity or twist of fortune works his magic over Tokyo, he played a cruel, cruel trick on me that day.
In the midst of the explosion I pulled Him close to me, gripped His jacket, and looked Him eye to eye. I never felt so much determination then, such a macabre sense of glee that it was going to finally end; that in my last moments, I would be His: I would be locked forever in the elaborate web the Sakurazukamori spun, and as the last juiced eked out of me, staining the already tarnished underbelly of the city, I would belong to Him.
Forever.
"Kill me," I said to Him through clenched teeth, my fingers clawing into the fabric of His trench coat. "Kill me." Make me yours.
I waited so painfully long for it.
And He smiled, a foreign crease to His eyes, a look of delight and pure rapture that I had never seen before. He'd obliged me then, pulling His hand back, and I knew it would end - my thread spun out and cut with the sharp metallic snap of Fate's scissors - with a crash of thunder and torrent of pain, I would be His.
Forever and ever.
The crash of thunder came, as did the torrent of pain, but the blood that was spilled was not my own. The shears of Fate missed my delicate line and instead rent another. I stood as the smoke cleared, my own hand covered in vermilion ichor, my one good eye opened wide in shock, framed by cascading teardrops.
The sacrificial virgin was crying, because the ritual had stopped; and his role was no longer written in the play. He would not ascend to the Gods that day.
I didn't want it to be that way. I wanted to be close to Him, I wanted to be His - His prey, His toy, His victim. Whatever it would be, it suited me, as long as I belonged to Him.
His lifeless body slid to the pavement with a dull splash. There was blood everywhere; dark patches of it staining my snow-white jacket, which until then, had looked deceptively innocent. I stared at my hands, covered in His blood. I could have laughed then, had I not been in such a deep state of shock. It was red and slippery, and when I lifted it to my lips, it tasted coppery, just like mine.
My blood. It was so much like my blood on my hands, and how I wished with all my heart that it really was.
But it wasn't.
He was gone.
His one lifeless eye staring at me in a mockery of a smile, a joke of some sort of love He whispered about. He laughed, because he'd left me behind.
The trap had been thrown open, the bonds cut, the cage opened, but the little bird did not want to fly out.
And then it became a very new thing to me, to realize what it was in this world that made me so bitter. I began to hate everything.
I continue on my way through Tokyo, the shadows now disappearing as the last of the sun descends beneath the horizon. I wish it would never rise again. If there was some onmyoujitsu spell to destroy the sun - to freeze it, to destroy this hateful planet - I would do it; even if it would take a hundred hours or a thousand days. I would do it because then I'd have my revenge on the world as it froze over, covered in ice. Because I would be with my beloved.
Forever and ever. Until the universe collapsed.
I would be his.
The boy went to see me that night, in my room, where I was sitting, numb with shock. I was dumbfounded, and bleeding from a fresh wound in my arm. (I had made number sixty-five that night) I hated him, because his love was still alive. He had hope, when I had none. But I still sat there, talking out the drawls of a dry conversation as his worry for me flitted plainly over his child-like face. I wanted to slap that look away from him, I wanted to see him cry. I wanted to hurt him, hurt everything, hurt me.
"Not everyone can have happiness," I told him flatly, the plain truth. I realized it then, when He had lain in my arms, His life draining away from him in a painful river of crimson.
"You've never been able to kill anyone..." He told me. He gazed at me, and for the first time I saw flickers of genuine emotion behind His one eye. "Because you are so kind."
As my heart beat out His death toll, I knew that it was true. I had never been able to take a life, because I had been so soft. So idealistic. Because I believed that there was light in every heart, and good in everyone; and therefore, I couldn't have allowed mankind to perish. Because, deep down, I still wanted to be the hero of fairytales - I hadn't even had the courage to believe in my own jadedness, in my own corruption, which suddenly seemed as plain to my eyes as the sun on a cloudless day. I couldn't take my own life, because I believed there was something left in me that was worth saving.
"Subaru-kun…I…" He leaned towards me with the last vestiges of strength that He possessed, "you…"
And then the wind blew, a strong gust that carried bits of debris from the bridge, like a storm of howling voices. Though His lips were next to my ear, His words were lost in the chorus. But I still heard them, as surely as if they were branded on my skin.
He loved me.
I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved.
Later that night, I opened my window and escaped. I could no longer stand the idealistic young boy, and his distasteful purity. The belief and the wish that he clung to so tenaciously disgusted me. The pain we used to share, the pain he bore seemed like a dull throb compared to the monster I carried.
I couldn't stay. I lost myself in the night then, stumbling blindly about the city. There were no tears left to shed. My nerves were numb, and what were left were all but dead, sensitive to only one kind of stimulus.
I sought out comfort. Not in innocence, mutual pain and understanding, but comfort of a different sort.
It gave me what only I could feel, it fed me what feeling was left. I found myself in Ueno Park, storms of sakura petals wreathing about me in a bizarre helical greeting. The Tree knew me, it told me of what I wanted most, and how I could finally grasp it. It was so horrendous at first, that I backed away from its grasping limbs, frightened.
But there was nowhere to run, and eventually, it ensnared me in its trap. Where I was always meant to be. It held me then, like a mother holds her child. It made me cry, it made me weep and scream in abject pain and heartrending loss (the knife I carried then gave me number sixty-six). It tore me apart, stripped me of my skin, of my every protection. It touched me deep inside, delved deep into me until there was nothing I could hide. I continued to sob, shoulders shaking like a child - shedding tears like a cloud sheds the weight of a heavy spring rain. And when I was finished, it sewed me up in its own little way, putting me back together. It created a new me. A me that would serve it well; that would be stout bulwark against the blood and screams that would threaten to engulf me. A new me that would be closer to Him, that was not afraid of the scars.
I blink in the darkness. The depth of vision my new eye gives me still seems strange, though I know for most of my short life the world did indeed look like this. Everything seems extended, as if stretching out of its proper place to come take a curious look at me: not the jaded Sumeragi head, nor the confused Dragon of Heaven. They peer at the Sakurazukamori, newly created.
This is not my first kill. Nor will it be my last. It will be just one link in a long chain of souls I shall feed to the Tree. In exchange, it will make my wish come true. I make about three kills a night.
It's a dark alleyway, and there are all kinds of odd personalities poking about. The drug heads, the drunks, the women of the night. They are all here, gathered about the streets, swarming like stinking rats. It's a shady part of town, people avoid it during the day and only those with no meaning left in their lives seem to congregate here. It is some bizarre sideshow of despair: all the destitute, all the lost, all those with shattered dreams wander about this place, flitting between the buildings, peering from the alleyways - all shadows of what they once were. Strangely enough, it feels familiar. I brush that feeling aside. I show no expression, but in my mind, my lip curls in contempt. I hate them. I hate them all. I hate them for what they once were. I hate me too, in that way.
It gives me a perverse sense of pleasure as I grab one of the girls about the waist, covering her mouth with a gentle hand and a whisper of magic. She stares at me, wide-eyed, surprised, but that quickly passes as she reasons that I must be another one of her clients. Had I the spirit left to laugh, I would. But I don't, and I release her. She seems to relax, though I can see by the look on her face I must one of her stranger 'customers.'
There is a certain sense of glee to what I have to do, and only until my first kill did I understand. There was so much to be had in the taking of a life, in the taking of a life that did not matter, was inconsequential. The world would end in time, and the closer I could become to Him, the better.
It is easy toying with the girl, the flirtatious gestures, the false smiles. Innocents are so easily wooed. I lead her along for bit, until I tire of the game and decide to dispense of her; she's wasting my time.
I smile at the girl, give her a small kiss on the cheek. I close my eyes, and there's a rush of magic in my veins as the spirits of the ages infuse me; the rush of voices fills the air, the pounding of her heart is my metronome and the hunger of the Sakura Tree my own desire.
I snap open my eyes and plunge my hand through her heart.
Calculated, cool: there is a gentle touch on my shoulder, and my head turns to look, as it does, unfailingly, every single time. This is first time tonight. I promise Him, I will see him twice more.
He stands over me, an enigmatic smile of satisfaction on His face. Two blind, white holes are where his eyes should be, but I know just as well that He can see through mine.
"Sakurazukamori," He whispers to me, His lips parting imperceptibly, His words floating to me like soft clouds drifting lazily in the sky.
So little time. I remove my hand from the girl, and brush her blood on His lips as I silence Him.
In this world of between life and death, I am the only one.
I am the Sakurazukamori.
I wanted to be His, I wanted to be watched by Him forever. But only here can He see me. In the world outside, I am the Dragon of Earth, I am the pitiful soul striving to be one with my predecessor.
I want to be His, but that can never be. So the only thing I have left to want is to be Him. To be one with Him. To have His memory, his essence, survive with me. To have him beside me, in this dim, twilight world where souls escape in smoky tendrils and blood falls from cliffs in giant ribbons of scarlet.
This is the closest we can ever be.
He smiles at me, a pink tongue flicking out from behind His lips, licking my finger resting on His mouth. I mimic his action with my own tongue, and my own finger. The blood tastes a bit coppery, a bit salty, and a bit sweet. Just the way blood should be. So much like mine, so much like his.
The lifeless girl falls to the ground with a dull thud as I drop her cadaver, already limp. She lands with a splash in a pool of her own blood.
She is of no more use to me.
I peer down the cavernous wound in her bosom, watching her wretched heart struggle with excruciating slowness, bleeding its last drops as she slides into oblivion.
"Who are you?" her eyes ask me silently. They look at me pleadingly, the hole in her chest an endless well of darkness as the beating of her heart comes to a standstill.
I avert my eyes from her, pushing up my sunglasses. I smile at Seishirou and wrap my arms around him possessively, my mouth brushing the cool, soft skin of his ear as I whisper:
"I am Sakurazuka Seishirou."
~end~