Love Lies Bleeding
Memories are just where you laid
them,
dragging waters 'til the depths
give up their dead.
What did you expect to find?
Was it something you left behind?
Don't you remember everything I
said when I said:
Don't fall away, and leave me to
myself.
Don't fall away, and leave love
bleeding in my hands,
in my hands again;
leave love bleeding in my hands.
In my hands,
love lies bleeding.
'Hemorrhage (Love Lies
Bleeding)', Fuel
The monk
slept.
The last
two days had been rough; Hikou's rapid departure and Tasuki's desire to know
everything about the demon had left the shichiseishi of Gemini drained. He was
unsure of what to feel about Hikou's abrupt exit. He was tired of Tasuki's
questions.
After a
meal of strong, spicy food--the region's specialty--he found himself tired. A
slight unease to his stomach reminded him why it had been so easy for him to
avoid strong tasting foods as a monk of Suzaku. Spicy meals aside, he found
himself sluggish with weariness of body and soul, and so excused himself from
Tasuki's company as politely as he could to rest.
He curled
upon his small, cramped bed, and looked at the wind chime that hung above it.
To the stars beyond it. He contemplated on them as he looked out his window,
his eye slowly closing.
The night
was so strangely comforting. Ebon arms cradled those tiny points of light. Was
he not a star? Even a collection of stars, dedicated to Suzaku? He pondered on it
as his eyelid shut, imagining himself kept in the dark's protective embrace.
One is
rarely aware when they fall to sleep and when they begin dreaming. Houjun was
no different. The darkness of the sky and the darkness behind his eyelid was
one and the same. The arms that held him were no longer the insubstantial chill
of the night, but flesh and blood.
The weight
of a body, so warm, was above him. A human weight, though, not the extra mass
of a man forged out of water, heavy with unnaturalness. He was warm; warmer
then he had really been. But there he was, though Houjun did not look at him.
His hair trailed over Houjun's face, and in its wake, the scar--the seal of his
sin--erased like a faulty mathematical equation, no longer correct or relevant.
He opened
his eyes.
Hikou
smiled at him quirkily, his face that of the boy and not of the demon. He was
all that Houjun could see; he was close enough to feel the wash of his breath
against the monk's face, and so, beyond the darkness, nothing else could be seen.
Hikou
leaned in and kissed the prone monk, his hands sweeping over his shoulders. And
Houjun found himself responding automatically; lips parted, tongues tangled
with an easy sensuality that their coupling had certainly not possessed. But it
was the Houjun he could give the younger man.
But still,
it trembled in him. It felt wrong.
He loved
Hikou. As a brother. Or perhaps, as a lover. But not as a partner. What did it
matter, how he loved him, so long as he did? Here he was, offering freely of
his flesh, even as Hikou's hands ran the length of him.
Was it
love?
What is
love, anyway?
( -- Warm
bodies, entangled, rocking against each other in a way they'd never done
before, hands in hair, over skin, passion not of anger but of something else --
)
But was
that really what he wanted?
The kiss
broke. The weight atop him changed, the center of gravity dropping slightly.
The body slimmed, hair growing longer. And slowly, Houjun's partner sat up.
And there
she was.
"Kouran,"
Houjun found himself breathing. Seen as she might've been on their wedding
night, straddling his hips. Her lavender hair tumbled down her shoulders, hid
her breasts and tickled his skin where it brushed over his belly. Golden eyes
were warm as she smiled, the coquette atop him, and seemed to invite him with
her loving gaze.
This is
love. Take it.
His
long-fingered hands reached for her, straining abruptly for the strength to
lift and grasp. But he latched onto her arms, and held on tightly. It was not
the action of a lover or fiancé. It was the action of a man drowning.
She only
giggled. Oh, you've caught me, her eyes said. What's a girl to do?
From
demonic darkness to the light of a woman he'd so often put on a pedestal. His
hands trembled on her, but still, he held on.
He wanted
to hold her.
He wanted
to shake her.
He
wanted... he wanted...
Did he
want this?
Was this
love?
Did love
lie to him? Deceive him? He found himself staring at her in wide-eyed
confusion. He did not notice that her eyes were somewhat narrower than before,
or that her hair turned silver at the tips. He only saw her face, felt her
weight.
Did love
lie?
No! He
didn't want to believe that. Somewhere within, he was still a child building
sandcastles before high tide. He refused to believe that their parapets would
be toppled, that their fortress would fall. He wanted to believe in love. He
did.
But love
had lied.
"Why?"
he finally asked, voice hoarse. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you
come to me with the truth?"
He didn't
want to believe that love had been a lie.
"Would
you have hated him, Houjun?" she found her voice. It was sugary sweet,
like honey. Honeyed like her eyes; amber hued, clingy, sticky.
Something
else had been sticky, too. He couldn't get it off his skin. He could feel it
now.
"No,"
he denied without hesitation. He wouldn't have submitted to hate. He wouldn't
have. He would... He would...
He would
have beaten the shit out of him and enjoyed every goddamn moment. The spatter
of blood would have been wine, the break of bone its drinking music. He would
have hated Hikou for the violation, for the shattering of trust, the attempt to
ruin what was supposed to be the happiest day of his life. He would have hated
him for that tiny thing stolen. He'd never kissed her; what right did Hikou
have to be the first? He would have hated him just as he did at the river.
"Yes,"
came the broken admittance, his eyes closing.
"Do
you hate yourself for loving us?"
He let go
of her arms, brought them across the face. If Hikou was the dark, and she was
the light, Suzaku, please, strike him blind. It hurt. It burned. He didn't want
to see anymore.
"Stop,"
he pleaded. "Stop."
She
stopped. In fact, she did not move. She simply sat there astride him and
watched with her honeyed gaze.
But the
questions did not stop. From whence they came, he did not know. Inside?
Outside? But still, they rang in his ears.
Could he
blame Hikou for hating him?
No.
Would
Hikou blame Houjun for hating him?
He didn't know.
Kouran--would
she hate him for loving Hikou?
He didn't know.
What would
she say?
Stop.
What would
she think?
Stop.
To see her
lover and her friend, entwined an satiated upon that small bed, limbs
entangled.
STOP!
Is love
real, or is merely a prelude of hate?
Stopstopstopstopstop!
She was
gone. He stood, disoriented and weeping, and his legs went out from under him.
But there was arms there. Strong from farm work, lifting him up and pulling him
close. A sharp chin found his shoulder.
Hikou's
breath was warm against his neck, his voice husky, "Do you want
love?"
Houjun
swallowed, even as he felt his body respond to the man's hands, warm around his
torso at first, before moving as Hikou guided him. Was this love? Was love
spawned from their hate? Or was this something different, something base and
disgusting?
"No,"
he rasped. "No. I don't. I don't." This wasn't love. It was a pale
facsimile. He wasn't worthy of the real thing. He'd killed it. Killed it with
Hikou. Killed it with Kouran, punished by her family and drowned in her cellar
like a rat, unable to flee from the floodwater.
He killed
it with his own two hands.
He began
to weep, again, in Hikou's arms. The hands moved over his skin, and drew him
near, heedless of his tears. "Suzaku," he breathed.
"What
good is he, anyway?" Hikou asked, as he eased the limp-bodied shichiseishi
down to somewhere soft. "What did you have in the end? Nothing."
Houjun's
eyes cracked open to the sight of Hikou lowering himself atop the prone monk.
"Is a
tool all that you are?" Hikou said, before he kissed him, hands parting
his legs. "I'll protect you."
The monk
sighed softly. To be protected, instead being the protector. To have his burden
lifted. He relaxed now, never mind what Hikou was doing. He didn't care. It
didn't matter. He disconnected from his flesh, even as he dimly felt an
invasion, the demon-man's body above him, his mouth on his skin.
His eyes
closed and there was darkness again. He did not see anything but stars when he
opened the unscarred eye again. The windchime gave it's soft, sweet music, and
he listened. He felt tired. Everything in the room was peaceful and serene,
just as when he had first closed his eye.
But he
felt the stickiness.
And he
felt ashamed.