Disclaimer: Not mine. I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, sadly.
Author's notes: Written at 2 a.m. in the morning. May be disjointed and weird. Slightly dark, I think. I'm terribly sorry for disappointing anyone, I just wanted to try out a new style. Feedback and flames welcome, as usual. glomps
Thanks to everyone who reviewed before, you are my motivation. :) Honestly.
What Lies Between
A feint. Then a thrust.
He glimpsed the arc of light as the blade came down in one fluid movement, catching against the fabric of his shirt. He lifted his fingers up and felt the tear, feeling the warm liquid seep through his fingers.
"Well done," he said. In the dim light He saw the crimson stains spreading on his hand like the petals of a fiery flower; stark and beautiful.
When Saitou spoke again Himura heard the coldness in his voice icier than ever, its timbre sharp to an edge and cuttingly bitter. "Again, Battousai."
Saitou felt the wind tease his hair and brush the bangs away from his face. Darkness was setting, and the evening sun glowed amber on the horizon. He could see the bamboo in the wind, their slender stalks swaying with a lady's grace.
Elegant, he thought, so elegant. His voice rang out in the secluded grove as he shouted. "Fight me, Battousai."
The next attack came from the right. Dodge and parry. He felt the sword in his hands, its weight reassuring in the waning light.
Anger surged through his body and warmed him—it made him faster, sharper. Himura was aiming for his heart, he was sure. Each shadow, each unseen footstep, spelt the beginning of a deadly duel he knew would culminate in none else.
The bitterness stayed in his unmoving eyes.
The moon was a sliver of light in the sea of ebony, its slim crescent consumed by the heady presence of the night. Himura felt the rush of old return to his wearied soul, the lithe sprit of death once again dancing in his veins.
He felt the momentum of the Tokugawa come back to him in a flash; the valiant honour, the foolish courage, and the dreams riding on the lives of a thousand men. He remembered nights tainted with the blood of friends, foe, all alike, their guts poured out for the world to see, proof of brave men and fools alike.
Saitou understood the dreams haunted him and danced like wisps in the wake of his footsteps—he grasped for them in the depths of his memory and lived in the shadow of their pain.
The era had passed, he knew that. With it went his life, his hopes and his dreams: the ideals he had fought for, the passions he had been governed by… they evaporated like mist into the summer sky.
Saitou longed for the feel of stone against his feet and the impact of metal against flesh as the blade sliced cleanly through bone; blind alleyways to but one destination. He, always the victor.
A world ravaged by raging desire unchecked and fuelled by selfish dreams, savage butchery and rampant slayings. A world in which he dominated. A world wild with the lust of blood.
Saitou had burned with a lust of his own.
He lashed out suddenly, throwing his weight onto his sword and hearing the grunt of effort he managed to elicit from the shorter man. He jerked to the side and released his sword knowing that the tip of Himura's blade would gouge a wound into the flesh of his arm.
Saitou knocked Himura's sword out of his surprised hands, holding the other man's wrists in a vice-like grip. He pushed Himura back roughly and fell atop the other, feeling the warmth of his body against his.
Himura felt Saitou's fingers against his skin, their grip painfully tight. He knew the marks would stay for several days. He could feel Saitou's belt against his thigh, hard and sharp. "Like it now? Battousai," Saitou said by his ear, the whisper caressingly soft and teasing.
The taller man lifted his fingers and smeared the blood from his arm across Himura's lips, lingering lightly on the other's jaw line. In the moonlight Himura could see the blood streaming from the gash on Saitou's chest, soaking through the other man's coat and seeping into his shirt.
He traced his fingers along Saitou's back, moving downwards in tempting spirals before slipping under the other's shirt to run over smooth skin. Himura lapped at his lips, savouring the taste. He smirked at the older man, only to have his mouth captured roughly in hard kiss.
His skin was slick with sweat and stained with blood, the red liquid trickling over alabaster skin white in the moonlight. His hands were roaming all over now, rubbing, twirling, sliding slyly under layer of fabric he wished were not there. The copper taste was fresh in his mouth—its taste intoxicated him and made him drunk with a passion he never knew he possessed—and he arched his back and strained against the older man, feeling his slender frame mould perfectly with the other's contours.
Saitou lost himself in Himura; inhaling the heady scent of his blood on another's skin and revelling in the feel of warmth pressed tight against his. He could feel the excitement coursing through him, igniting the fire of his desire.
He knew that that was all that was left between them; the knowledge, and understanding, and pain of loss, the bitterness of regret, the coldness of betrayal, and the memories from an era that was long gone.
He had wanted that that could not and would never be; an outlawed lust and an illicit amour.
The groan of pleasure from Himura cut into his thoughts. "Hajime." It carried with a possessiveness he never knew the other had, and each tender syllable cut his heart into raw shreds. He shut out in his mind the Meiji era, with its new beginnings, its new hopes and new peace, and watched as a crimson haze once again clouded his vision.
Sinking his teeth into the exquisite curve of Himura's neck he drew blood, running his tongue across the wounds, sucking gently at the ragged skin. He stared into the other's eyes, reading the clouded amethyst depths, before contenting himself with smirking. "Battousai," he growled into Himura's ear, feeling the red locks damp against his face.
The night was still young.
Owari