Anesthesia - Chapter 6

"Nanjo Hirose…"

All week, I've been turning that name over in my mind like a cryptogram. It's to be expected that it come to the surface like this eventually.

Oriya glances up at me, his pipe slanting from the corner or his mouth. "Him again? It's not like you to maintain an interest for so long."

"Mm, no, it's nothing like that, I assure you."

"I'll bet." The way he said that would have been quite irritating, were it anyone but him. Anywhere but this. "So tell me, Muraki, has he scattered his secrets like cherry blossoms at your feet yet?"

That makes me laugh a little. The last time I laughed, Nanjo Hirose's arms were looped around my waist and my lips still tasted of him. I shouldn't remember it now, but my laughter then sounded nothing like it does now. "His DNA test speaks to me like a volume of poetry."

Incidentally, there is something deliciously ironic to me about the way I took the sample for the test from the inside of my own mouth. Perhaps it would have been less theatrical to simply draw some blood, but by the time it occurred to me Nanjo-san had lost more than enough of that. Spilling family blood is always more troublesome than you would expect, as Orestes would attest.

Who, I wonder, will be the first to summon the Furies down upon the Nanjo house?

"Indeed?" Oriya is trying terribly hard to sound uninterested, and, to his credit, he's nearly succeeding. "Is it everything you hoped for?"

"All three of the Nanjos are very remarkable men, Oriya. However…"

He raises an eyebrow. "However?"

"However, they are not what I have been seeking. Anything inhuman is buried too deeply in the generations for me to trace."

"Such a shame." Oriya shakes his head so long hair falls in front of his eyes. "And where does that leave you?"

"Where I began."

"Not quite."

"Oh?"

"No. If you want things to go back to the way they were, then you'll have to forget about Nanjo Hirose."

That is one of the stranger things I can remember him saying to me. It's a little worrisome. "It's very sweet of you to be concerned, Oriya, but…"

"He has troubles of his own, Muraki. And he will draw you in."

"Then he shall find me the Scylla to his Charybdis."

Oriya raises an eyebrow. "Pardon me?"

"They were monsters." The word comes out as a sigh. "That's all."

He looks away, out over the courtyard, and as he's turned from me the floodlights hidden in the trees and tucked away in the grass wink out. All at once, so the color is washed away, leaving the gardens as monochrome as a dream.

It's midnight. The lights always go out sharply at midnight.

"It doesn't really matter, though."

"Doesn't it?" There's a little skepticism in his voice. "You always say that when you don't want to take my advice. When it isn't convenient for you."

I had not framed it in those terms before, but I know that he's right. "Duly noted," I tell him.

I stand. Circle closer, like a predator, to kneel beside him. Against the darkness of the gardens, the indigo of his robes is very vibrant.

I never dream in colors that bright.

"Did you need something?" He brushes black hair from his face with one hand, presenting the side of his throat to me. None too subtle tonight, is he? And I find myself thinking that his rough palms would be almost like the hands I really want on me, but nothing else about him would even come close.

I run my palm up his arm, crushing the silk of his haori beneath my fingers as though I can wring the smell of familiar tobacco from it. "Nanjo-san…"

He smiles. The expression doesn't touch his eyes. "No. I'm Oriya."

He's rarely ever so cute with me.

I kiss him on the corner of the mouth, a little reward for his troubles, and I say, "He was never afraid of me. I think that was what I noticed first."

Oriya sighs, hair slipping again in front of his face, like a portcullis crashing down between us. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. Especially not with poor excuses like that."

"Excuse?" I find myself pulling away from him a little. "It's not an excuse. He fascinates me."

"I know he does." Oriya turns to face me, shaking his hair back again. He sets his hand on my jaw, holding my eyes with his, like he used to do when we were much younger and he would explain a geometry problem or a grammatical rule to me. "And so it's an excuse."

He shakes his head. "Honestly, Muraki, if all you wanted was someone who wasn't afraid of you, you'd be here with me."

"I am with you."

"Are you?" This time his smile is a little less bitter, a little more resigned. "It's getting harder to tell these days."

"Oh? Perhaps I ought to reassert my presence."

Coolly, he watches me for a moment; silk hisses as he gets to his feet.

I rise to meet him, taking one of his hands between mine, pressing my palm against his so I can feel the places on his skin that have been worn into scales by the hilt of his katana.

"Muraki," he says quietly. "I trust, in the end, you'll do what's best."

I tilt my head against his shoulder. My hands guide his down between our bodies. I'll be damned if I spend another moment snagged on the memory of Nanjo Hirose.