In the Ashes of Jericho
By: Vain
12.25.01
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I don't own Yami no Matsuei or Hisoka or Oriya—Yoko Matsushita does. I simply enjoy covertly borrowing them, tormenting them for my own amusement, and then returning them and sneaking away again. Hehehehehe. Oryia's characterization is based on the anime series, not the manga, hence his perpetual relaxation ( ^_~ ) and this little work of art occurs about two months or so after the Kyoto Arch.
This contains sexual themes, and YOAI (YnM—duh), so if you're a prude, go away. And DO NOT flame me. Flamers are idiots.
Compliments, corrections, and constructive criticism are more than welcome, though. ^.^
Read and review please!
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« Vous voyez? Il y a des endroits où on ne me déteste pas. »
~Monsieur Hire
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Chapter One:
All the Lonely People
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Oriya finished cleaning the last teacup and sighed. "It was a good match, little one."
Hisoka nodded and stared blankly at the bare table in front of him.
The tall man cast him a gentle, knowing glance. "You're doing it again."
"Doing it?" The child shinigami frowned at him and rose to his feet from the tea table. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The other man snorted good-naturedly. It was a soft agreeable noise, free of mockery or condemnation. Oriya was no longer capable of condemnation. "You're upset. You're wondering why you continue to come here even knowing that I was . . . his friend. You shouldn't come here if it causes you such stress, little one. After all, Kyoto is that strange blonde's area. What if it became known that you associated with me? I'm sure your darling Tsuzuki-san would—"
The glare that Hisoka leveled at him bordered on being a physical attack. "Tsuzuki knows nothing about this. Nor will he ever."
It was not a threat; it was a statement.
Oriya nodded. He didn't feel the least bit threatened by the boy, despite the fact that he was well aware of what Hisoka was capable of when he became . . . truly annoyed. The man shrugged. "What right would I have to tell him, Hisoka? I am nothing more than scenery. You come to me and I merely welcome you. When you wish to train, we train. When you wish the sit in the garden, we sit in the garden. You wish to talk, we talk. I am at your disposal, Hisoka, and I hold no expectations. I have nothing left in this world without Muraki, child. Why should I begrudge you your life?"
Hisoka frowned slightly. "You are a strange man, Oriya-san."
"As are you, Korusaki-kun."
The silence that ensued made Oriya sigh. He wished that he could crack the wall around his young friend. Hisoka walked over to one of the walls and began to study the swords. Oriya watched him for a moment and felt something stir inside him.
It was true: without Muraki, he had nothing left to tether him to the real world except his business. And what was that, really? It could run perfectly well without him. He had seen to that. Oh, he knew Muraki was alive. Hisoka had told him as much the first day he came to him. But so long as Muraki did not contact him, he was dead to Oriya. They both knew that they were not bound to one another, despite whatever feelings or reservations either of them held. For him, Muraki had died the moment he had given the boy that key card. It had been Muraki's decision—his final desire and gambit. And Oriya could not, would not, begrudge him of it.
But now there was Hisoka—the long dead child who had appeared in his garden one afternoon over ten weeks ago and asked if Oriya was willing to train him. And then Hisoka had somehow filled up the hole Muraki had left—more than filled it. He studied the boy's profile for a moment: large green eyes; soft, sweet-looking lips; tiny, bird-like bone structure; high cheekbones; silky blond-brown hair that was always falling into his face; porcelain skin; aristocratic nose—he was perfection frozen in time, a flower that would never fade, never wither, never age, and never die.
It was terribly sad in a way.
"Why do you come to me, Hisoka?"
A pair of emerald eyes turned to him and blinked in their cold, catlike fashion. "You excel in the martial arts."
A slight smile touched Oriya's lips. "Ah, yes . . . that must be it."
Hisoka's eyebrow twitched suspiciously. "Besides," the boy continued as he turned back to the blades, "it's . . . peaceful here. The feelings . . . they're not so close here. You're mind is very focused and controlled. You don't hurt me. I remembered that from our first fight when I was trying to find a master to help me train. Your mind was very clear."
Oriya looked away from him and wondered how he had come to be in such a place with such a creature for company.
Hisoka moved to stand next the window in the corner of the room and looked outside. The moon was a pure white color—a flat ivory disk melted against a bruised night sky. It was getting late.
Blue eyes followed him as he went, marveling at his silent, effortless grace. He understood the martial arts easily, both in body and soul. Perhaps that was why he hurt so much. Oriya had long ago removed himself from the world; he couldn't imaging what a terrible burden it was to always balance rage with justice, never slipping, not even for an instant. And there was such rage in Hisoka's soul . . . it was an inferno. Oriya was very much afraid that it would engulf him someday. He had seen it happen before to someone whom he held dear.
"You hated Muraki—still hate him."
The boy didn't turn around. "Yes."
Oriya nodded and was silent for a moment. Then: "He was my friend, you know."
Hisoka closed his eyes. "He was a monster." The emotion that trembled below his voice and his clenched hands belied the smooth peace on his face.
"Yes." The taller man came to stand behind Hisoka and the boy tensed involuntarily. "But he was still my friend."
The slender child shifted to move away from the window and Oriya's suffocating closeness, but an arm suddenly shot out and a long fingered, fine-boned hand pressed itself against the wall, trapping the shinigami between the wall and Oriya. The youth whirled, his emerald eyes barely concealing his anxiety. "What are you doing?" Oriya had never been this . . . aggressive before.
The man's other hand reached out and pressed itself in the sharp bend of Hisoka's hip and drew them closer together. "You fight well, little one. I was impressed. I thought you'd never find your fire."
"Oriya—"
"I am alone in the world now. But I don't mind. I told you before: I matter little in the events of the world. I am merely a fly on the wall."
Hisoka pressed his hands against Oriya's chest. "Let me go."
A delicate eyebrow lifted. "Let you go?" The hand pressed against the wall gently cupped Hisoka's chin and titled the boy's head up so they were looking into each other's eyes. The hand at his hip began to gently work his shirt free from his pants. Oriya pronounced each word as though he were tasting it and Hisoka trembled at the sound. "Let. You. Go. Hmmm . . ." He shook his head. "No, child. I don't think that I can do that. You see you've caught me, my little one . . . my Hisoka . . . you've caught me utterly."
A low whimper escaped the child shinigami and Oriya gently pressed his lips against Hisoka's.
"Not now—"
"Shh . . ." Slow hungry kisses were drawn down a pale cheek, earning yet another whimper from the boy. "Shh . . . Hush, little love. I'll take care of you. I'll keep you safe."
Slender fingers began to undo the buttons of his shirt and Hisoka felt his knees go weak and he began to tremble. Why am I trembling . . .? He felt strange—lightheaded—and Oriya's gently urgent kisses were coaxing feelings out of his body that confused him. His mind kept telling him to yell at Oriya. To scream and blast him away and flee back to Meifu to where Tsuzuki was probably waiting for him and never come back to this place. But his body . . . his body had other ideas entirely. His arms fell to his side and he made a small needy noise of pleasure somewhere deep, deep in his throat as his shirt fluttered to the ground and Oriya's skilled lips and tongue discovered a hard nipple.
Two gentle arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him close. Oriya's robe had fallen open in the front and when their bare chests touched it felt so good it nearly burned.
"Oriya . . .!"
"Tell me to stop, little love." Oriya's head rose up and he licked his lips slowly as though he were savoring the taste of the boy on his mouth. He slowly kissed Hisoka again and this time the youth opened his mouth and allowed the man's plundering tongue in. His hands rose up and convulsively clutched Oriya's arms as the other's tongue gently stroked the velvet insides of his mouth.
Oriya pulled back again. He was panting. "Tell me to stop, little love." He nipped at the deliciously exposed neck before him. "Tell me to stop. Tell me that you don't want this, Hisoka, and I'll stop."
A hand slid up his shirt to explore his back and Hisoka moaned softly and arched his back. Oriya stopped suddenly and jerked him close, his eyes hungry and seeking.
"Tell me to stop, Hisoka! Tell me you don't want this!"
Green eye stared up into blue ones and Hisoka opened his mouth.
"Ah . . ."
Whatever he might have said died on his lips and the two of them stared deep into one another for a long moment. Oriya's smiled. "So be it then, my little love. Remember, you had your chance, beloved."
Hisoka had no words to respond with as his lips were claimed in another feathery kiss. The boy raised his arms to Oriya's shoulders and pushed the robe down, eager to feel the wondrous texture of the man's skin. He clutched eagerly at the flesh, earning a light chuckle from his lover.
"Ah, ah! Gently now, little love, gently. You shinigami are quite strong."
An apology tried to escape Hisoka, but was muffled by Oriya's lips. The boy relaxed his grip and his hands moved lower to the shallow dip of Oriya's back. One of the other man's hands became entangled in Hisoka's hair and tilted his head back to deepen the kiss. The other hand slid down below the waist of Hisoka's jeans to tease the soft curves of flesh underneath the rough denim. Their bodies shifted and intertwined, limbs entangling and soft sounds of pleasure escaping them both at the same time and getting lost in one another's mouths. Suddenly, somewhere between a twist and a thrust, their groins pressed together and the pressure of their mutual hardness was mind blowing and frightening at the same time.
The contact made Hisoka flinch. His eyes flew open and he tore himself free of Oriya's embrace and stumbled back several steps, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Oriya took a step towards him, one arm outstretched.
Hisoka flinched backwards again. "No!"
Oriya dropped his hand and turned away. ". . . Forgive me, child."
The boy stared at him for a moment, struggling to control his breathing and stop shaking. Oriya clenched a fist, the uncomfortable silence burrowing beneath his skin and eroding his impregnable control, and for a moment everything was horribly, endlessly, still.
The human licked his lips nervously. "I just . . . It's . . . I'm sorry, Hisoka. But you're so beautiful . . ."
Hisoka narrowed his eyes. He stared at Oriya a moment longer before bending down to retrieve his shirt. When he stood again, he jerked the thin material on with unnecessary force and scowled. "Don't call me that."
Oriya flinched, something that he hadn't done in years. "Ah—"
"Don't call me that," Hisoka repeated. "Beautiful. He always said that."
A sudden pain clenched Oriya's heart and he turned away and walked towards the door—the same door that he and Muraki had stood at that night so many weeks ago. That had been the last time he had seen Muraki. It had also been the first time he had seen Hisoka—the lovely, lovely Hisoka.
"He always said that," the youth continued as he meticulously did up the buttons of his shirt. " 'You're so beautiful,' he said to me that night. 'You're so beautiful. A work of art.' That's all he said that night." He shivered. "Don't ever call me that, Oriya."
When the man turned around, Hisoka was gone. Oriya stared at the empty room for a long moment before he turned back to the glass. "What a fool I am. You'd laugh at me, my friend—letting a god of death get to me so . . . How you'd laugh, Muraki . . ."
An owl hooted and the wind blew and he imagined that he heard laughter there. He stood in the doorway for a long time and wondered.
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