Preliminary Notes: This story occurs just after the Donor episode in volume 7 of the manga. In case the little dream sequence at the end of the preceding chappie didn't clue you in yet, this is a YAOI (Leon x Count D) fic. Just a warning to the homophobic.
Delirium
by spare
Chapter 3: The Morning After
She had been waiting for him.
It was cool and dark where she sat, deep green tresses a silken curtain framing a petite, olive-skinned frame. Today, because spring has just ended, her eyes were a muted gray. She smiled a smile that did not reach them.
"This could be my last summer," she had said after the usual greetings and inquiries were behind them, her voice growing soft. But only a little bit. "I will follow them, soon. You will hold your little ritual after it happens, won't you? In honor of my passing?"
He bowed his head slightly. "I shall do that, yes."
A sigh. "I could hope for no more. Indeed, it is a miracle I have survived this long. Seven years..." She shook her head ruefully. "My kind would be considered lucky to live for three."
She allowed herself to be cradled in his arms, leisurely tracing the lacy edges of the robe he wore as his slim hand stroked her hair soothingly.
A thought seemed to occur to her, then, and she peered back up at him in earnest. "Tell me..." Kneeling, she leaned over to where he sat, spindly, childlike fingers reaching out to touch the delicate ivory of his chin. "What does it feel like... to go on... forever?"
Her eyes held his gaze, searching his face for answers. Finding none, she turned away. "No. Never mind," she finally acquiesced, drawing her hand away. "Forget I ever asked. I..." She blinked. "One such as I would never quite understand it."
She smiled again, brightly, and it would have been spring once again, if only her eyes were not the color of storm clouds and the curve of her lips did not wobble at the corners, as they did right now. "I would never understand it," she repeated. She turned her face to his again. Her gray eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Isn't that right, Count D?"
x x x
Count D's Pet Shop, 6:07 am.
He had woken up earlier than he was accustomed to. Outside, the sky was still dark, and overcast with the promise of rain. A brief downpour, really. Enough to wash away some of the dirt and grime that clung like a death shroud over the city.
Unable to go back to sleep, he had gotten out of bed, dressed, opting for a robe of white lilies embroidered on a backdrop of rich blue silk, and, having nothing better to do, prepared some tea.
That had been almost an hour ago. The tea had grown cold, the fragrant liquid undisturbed within the delicately painted porcelain cup. And here he still was, sitting in the pet shop's dimly lit office, a stack of scrolls arranged neatly on one side of the mahogany desk before him, the untouched tray of tea on the other.
It was quiet. Maybe too quiet. The store's inhabitants were still deep in slumber; at least, those who were not nocturnal. He considered checking on Sita. Had her hunt been successful? Agame was certainly silent this morning. Perhaps he and Kirara had finally mated. It had been three months since the courtship... The Count sighed, long, tapered fingers tapping the burnished surface of the table, but did not leave his seat.
Earlier, he had sent Q-chan to look in on Leon's brother. It was unneeded; Chris was asleep in his room just three doors down, Pon-chan nuzzled comfortably on his left shoulder, Tet-chan snoring softly at the foot of the bed. He only wanted to be alone during this hour, be provided a respite, however brief, to gather his thoughts.
For, like it or not, the Detective's words from the day before troubled him. The American's visit had been so routine -- the brash officer barging in unannounced and uninvited, blue eyes as determined as they were full of accusation, and him taking the other's verbal assaults in stride, parrying each statement almost effortlessly.
Until Detective Orcot described the manner of creature that had caused the author's death.
Fatal Desire.
So he had said it. The name he had not expected to utter ever again, lo these many years. But how could that be so? It has been fifteen years since her passing. He had felt it, had mourned it. As he had promised.
"Narrow leaves, with veins all over them. Weird bulb things growing at the bottom. Overrun the place."
Yet the Detective had accurately described the plant. There could be no other.
"Some freak plant did him in."
And the creature had fed.
He paused, fingers settling at last over the desk. She -- for it was most certainly a she -- had fed.
And what came after that? Did it brown and wither in the blink of an eye, having at last sated its hunger?
He closed his eyes.
"This could be my last summer."
Did it die?
"Of course, it did," D declared, at once opening his eyes. He could feel a sharp sting in his right palm. His right hand had curled into a fist, long, claw-like nails digging into the pale flesh. His mismatched gaze fell upon it, disbelievingly, and he immediately relaxed his grip once again. Droplets of blood seeped out from where his nails had torn through the skin.
"Kyu?"
"Q-chan," he greeted gently, looking up at the Valvertinger rabbit as it flew through the open doorway, a worried look on its face. "No, nothing is the matter. I was just... thinking aloud."
"Kyu..."
The Count smiled. "I see. So T-chan is awake?"
"Kyu."
"Let us leave the kitchen to him, then," he noted agreeably. He stood up, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles on his robes, and calmly headed for the door. "In the meantime, I think we should go down and see how Agame has fared, shouldn't we?"
x x x
Leon Orcot's Apartment, 6:18 am.
Leon woke up the way he always did on workdays. He sat up, right arm groping for the small alarm clock he usually placed at the edge of the bedside table, pounded on it. The top was already depressed. Right. He'd forgotten to set it last night. He had been too tired. Still was. A bit worse, actually. His head throbbed, his muscles ached, his throat felt like he'd swallowed a day's worth of rock salt, and his thighs and belly were wet and... sticky.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
It all came back to him then, bits and pieces reassembling to form one coherent whole, driving sleep from his mind as effectively as if he'd been doused by a bucket of cold water. His dream. The spring. And...
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Narrow, cat-like eyes, peering out at him from beneath sooty lashes. Lush, sensuous lips. A pale, slender body gleaming in the moonlight.
He had... He actually had...
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Leon groaned, his face a mixture of disgust and disbelief, looking down at the drying mess on his lap. He'd come. Pretty hard, if the whitish stuff spattered on his stomach and thighs (and the sheets, oh, hell, the friggin' sheets) were any indication.
Muttering another string of curses, he eased his legs off the bed, fishing out a half-squashed box of tissues from the heavily cluttered surface of the bedside table. He cleaned himself off quickly, efficiently, trying his darnedest not to think--
about last night or catlike eyes or narrow hips or, or -- oh, screw it
-- about anything.
He took a deep breath.
Blank it all out as he went about his business. There. Shit.
By the time he was done, he'd used up the entire box of tissues. He threw the last of the stuff to join the growing pile in the trash bin, undressed, (still not thinking about anything, anything at all, certainly not about whatever he may or may not have dreamed doing with the Count) deposited the soiled bundle of night clothes in the laundry basket.
A nice, cold shower, that was what he needed. He grabbed a towel off the chair he'd hung it on yesterday, headed straight to the bathroom, and twisted the nozzle full blast. The water stung, a thousand icy needles piercing his skin, and he stood there for some time, shivering, eyes closed, head bowed. It was only when he finally let his eyes open that he allowed himself to return to the subject he had so surreptitiously evaded.
I've just had a dream about the Count. His mind stated it as simply, as calmly, as it could. A wet one. He turned the shower off and toweled himself dry. A quick glance at the mirror told him he needed a shave, and that he did, even as his mental tirade continued mercilessly on.
You've caved in at last, Orcot, he thought gloomily. All those other nights of staying awake, flat on his back, scowling in frustration at the posters and magazines that were not doing the trick, have not been doing it for him for two whole months. Trying to ignore the hardness between his legs, knowing full well that the best images his mind could conjure of late were lush, painted lips curved up in a knowing, teasing smile and those damned mismatched eyes glittering, daring him through a curtain of jet black hair. All those mornings spent telling himself he'd certainly not been doing that, had not been fantasizing about the pet shop owner, no sir. All those afternoons denying it ever happened.
And what the hell had all that been for, in the end?
"Not a single fucking thing, that's what," he blurted aloud. Or tried to. He'd managed as far as "Not a--" before a harsh yelp escaped his lips. He forced his gaze back at his reflection on the bathroom mirror, where a thin red line was rapidly swelling with blood just below his left cheekbone. He'd cut himself. Jesus.
This is all your goddamn fault, D, he inwardly swore, splashing water on his face, over the wound. He finished shaving as best as he can, and ambled back to his room. Because if it wasn't, then it would be his. Hell, maybe it wasn't anyone's fault. He didn't know when he'd progressed from obsessing about nailing D's ass for homicide and drug-trafficking to obsessing about nailing D's ass up the wall, milky-white legs anchored to his waist as Leon moved between them, but he knew he hadn't gotten a good night's lay for longer than any healthy male of twenty-something can go without. Maybe it was... a reaction, or something.
Yes, that was it, he breathed, pulling on his jeans and a loose shirt. The thought calmed him somewhat, even though he still decidedly felt less than fresh as a daisy. He stepped out of his apartment, and was halfway to the ground floor before he realized he didn't have any shoes on.
He groaned. It was going to be one of those mornings.
x x x
LAPD Headquarters, 9:21 am.
"You're late," Jill announced from where she sat atop the cluttered haven that served as her desk, one leg crossed over the other, an open folder balanced on her lap.
"Just twenty minutes," Leon said shortly. Ignoring the odd look his colleague was giving him, he headed over to his own table. Lurched. His head didn't throb anymore, but it felt fuzzy, like he'd been drinking the night before, and his back and leg muscles still felt sore. And he felt warm. So warm. Fever-warm. It was nothing he couldn't handle, sure; he'd had worse before, worked through worse before, but heck...
Shouldn't have taken that shower, he thought, tugging at the collar of his shirt as if he could loosen it up further, and took his seat. The churning feeling in his stomach told him he should have grabbed a bite to eat on the way over.
"You're never late," Jill continued, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. "What's up?" A knowing smirk crept across her features. "Had us a little detour at the pet shop before heading off to work?"
"No, I didn't." He shot her a glare. "Knock it off, Jill." He wouldn't have any of that, not this morning. Christ. He raked a hand through his hair, proceeding to pore through the paperwork he'd left off yesterday.
She feigned a pout. "Well, aren't we grumpy this morning." She picked up the folder and stood up, walking to where he was. "Here." She handed him the folder. "Jules told me to give you this."
"Gomez?"
Jill nodded. "The Chief's brought me into the Marcel case, too." She sniffed, rubbing her temple. "Terrible business, one of my all-time favorite authors up and croaking like... like that. And-- hey, is that a cut?" Frowning, she craned her head forward to examine the wound. "Nasty," she commented, clucking her tongue. "What happened?"
"Cut myself while shaving," Leon retorted, frowning back. The what case? Then it clicked. Right. Sean Renaud, a.k.a. Jacques Marcel. The dead writer guy. Stupid head cold's getting in the way. "Anyway, what have we got?"
"It's all in there," she declared, indicating the folder. "But better you hear it straight, right? No, Marcel didn't buy it from a pet shop in Chinatown, Leon," she quipped.
He resisted the urge to glare daggers at her. "Yeah. Found that out yesterday." Right before the crazy incident when he got the quickest hard-ons he'd had since high school. And the dream. And this morning.
"The freak plant was a gift. Arrived the day his agent left him."
He quirked an eyebrow. "Not the same agent who found the body?"
"The one and the same," Jill affirmed. "She and Marcel had a falling out, according to his cleaning lady. The plant came in just minutes after she'd stormed out of his place. No note as to whom it came from, but Marcel seemed to be all excited when it arrived. He sent Corazon -- that's the cleaning lady's name -- away shortly afterwards, so all the info we get ends right about there, but here's a weird thing. Corazon distinctly remembers Marcel repeatedly calling the plant 'Diane'."
"So?"
"Diane is the name of Marcel's ex-girlfriend." She paused. "Was. The girl's been dead for over a year."
Leon whistled. "Don't tell me Renaud's another Ethan Grey." (2)
"Could be," Jill agreed, shrugging. "Of course, now we may never really find out, since you just about up and destroyed the evidence..."
"It was an accident," he protested. "How the hell was I to know it would--"
"Yeah, ok, cool down," She interrupted with a chuckle. "Really, Leon, you're too easy to tease. The Count must have a ball with you."
He fought down a blush, failed. "He does not--"
"Hit a nerve, didn't I?"
"Whatever," Leon sighed, throwing up his hands in exasperation.
Jill pointed again to the folder. "Well then, read up, cowboy," she drawled, patting his back. She stopped, suddenly, drawing her arm away. "Hey, you're warm." Frowning, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. "Jesus, you're burning!"
I am? He waved her off. "I could manage." To prove his point, he picked up the case folder, proceeding to leaf through its contents. "Have a nice morning, Jill."
The woman merely shrugged. "It's your body if you want to abuse it," she said, making her way to the main door. "And you're holding the folder upside down." With that as a parting shot, Jill sashayed out of the room.
Leon cursed, righted the folder, and pulled at the neck of his shirt again.
x x x
Author's Rants: Hey there. I attribute this chapter's long delay firstly to schoolwork, secondly to the copy of Phantom Brave my little brother just had to go and get me hooked into playing, and thirdly to a REALLY screwy computer that takes about half an hour to start up, one hour to work properly, and has a penchant for crashing somewhere in the middle of that. I know it's a little late to say this, but thank you for your comments! I need them, obviously. Oh, and I'm afraid the fourth chapter will come out after two weeks at the earliest. (Ducks before tomatoes and other more hurtful projectiles are thrown her way.)
(2) From the Delicious episode in Volume 2.