Disclaimer: Yami No Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko. I make no claim on the characters, story, etc, other than my OCs, which I hope to keep to a minimum. If only I owned...if only...
Anime only. Post Kyoto Arc.
Spoilers: None. Full summary can be found at chapter one.
The blurred words are intentional. You'll see when you get there.
Quote is from (again!) Adam Phillips's excellent "Terrors and Experts" pg. 78.
Thanks for reading. And a special thank you for all the reviewers.
"Mourning is immensely reassuring because it convinces us of something we might otherwise easily doubt: our attachment to others."--Adam Phillips
The woman was taken back to Meifu for Watari to examine her, to discover any spell markings. Tsuzuki went back to the scene, alone, and walked around the area, trying to discover any markings, any clues. But there were none; not like he would have seen them anyways. He was too busy trying to figure out what was going on with Hisoka and a brothel. He didn't bother to ask if it was true. Hisoka's scarlet coloring was more than enough evidence.
Why?, he asked, over and over again. Why a brothel? Why never me? Unable to uncover anything helpful, he returned to Meifu, but did not go near the infirmary or the main office; instead, he went to GenSouKai, to seek comfort from his Shikigami.
What greeted him when he arrived was not the friendly face of Byakko nor the concern of Suzaku, but the visor and trappings of Touda. Even beneath the visor, Tsuzuki could sense Touda frowning. He sighed and slumped. He did not want to deal with this.
"I have seen neither hair nor hide of you in many months," Touda said, his smoky voice soft. Tsuzuki groaned. Touda took his hand and led him into a sunny glade in the forest, surrounded by sturdy oaks. A quiet stream flowed through it with a patch of flowers growing on the edge. Touda sat down and pulled Tsuzuki next to him.
"Touda, I'm tired. I don't think I can deal with this right now."
"Because you want to know what's going on with Kurosaki-kun," Touda said. Tsuzuki nodded and slumped even further. He lay down and stretched out on the grass.
"It seems so long ago that we were at dinner, enjoying a nice evening. And then, I overwhelm him with my emotions and then I find out this," he said. He sat up. "Why, Touda? Why a brothel? Haven't I always been there for Hisoka? Why not me?" His voice reached a higher and higher register as he demanded answers. Touda winced.
"Why don't you quit whining and ask him?" he replied. Tsuzuki looked at the snake who sat cross legged and was piggling pansies. Tsuzuki raised an eyebrow and eyed the god who shrugged idly.
"You don't say anyhing and I won't either." His hand left the flowers and he became rigid as Tsuzuki felt another presence approaching. In a moment, Suzaku appeared, her long dark hair flowing behind her, almost alive. In her hand was her sword. She was tense. He knew that she did not trust Touda, especially after Kyoto. That was why after he was feeling better he had come here to provide some damage control.
Too bad, he couldn't fix his own damaged self. Too bad, he was so terible that Hisoka would rather go to a brothel than to him. He clenched his fists; Kami, why was he still alive? Hadn't he cared for the boy? He had been there, every moment, coaxing Hisoka out of his constructed walls, out of his hatred. And still the boy found comfort in the arms of another, a woman, a man, it didn't matter, howcoulditmatterwhenallitmeantwsthatHisokawasnothis?
His thoughts came faster and faster until he let out a yelp and flung himself into Nee-san's arms. She dropped her sword; she and Touda had been too busy sniping at each other to notice that Tsuzuki was falling apart again. She wrapped her arms tightly around her master. Touda turned respectfully away while Suzaku coddled Tsuzuki, cooned to him, sang softly and held him tight. Touda tentatively touched Tsuzuki's shoulder before retreating to just watch as Tsuzuki sobbed into her chest.
The three stayed that way until the night became dawn in GenSouKai.
"I told you." Tatsumi's very presence in Konoe's office spoke volumes. In particular, it seemed to repeat "I told you so, I told you so" in tune to a metronome. Methodical, cold, and repetitive. Like a jackhammar. Although the secretary had no particular expression on his face—in fact, his features had aligned themselves into a model poker face—Konoe felt Tatsumi berating him. What made it worse was that he agreed with him. And what frustrated him was that he had no idea what Muraki did, but that whatever had happened, involved speaking.
No, what had happened was much worse. Muraki and the JuOhCho employees had exchanged words. Those indefinite marks, those simple terms which were used everyday in speech, in scribbling on a Post-it note. Every moment of every day. Yet whatever words Muraki had spoken had created a rift between Tsuzuki and Hisoka which no one understood or knew how to repair.
"Are you sending them back?" Tatsumi's voice, like his face, communicated no particular emotion. But Konoe could hear the icy cold surface, biting, freezing, underneath. A silent condemnation. A sunny day over a frozen wasteland.
"Yes," he replied. Tatsumi froze.
"Why?"
"Because you can't coddle them forever."
"I'm not--"
"Aren't you? By keeping them from Muraki, you are trying to make the world fuzzy and pink for them. Hisoka is a survivor."
"But--"
"Yiou have no faith in them.?" Phrased like a question, it was a challenge. Tatsumi did not respond. The only sound were those coming from the bullpen; at this moment, it was the photocopies and the soft mumble of Wakaba-chan cursing the slow machine. Tatsumi made a note to get the copier looked at.
"I don't want another Kyoto incident." Tatsumi finally replied. Konoe smiled thinly, never showing teeth.
"I don't either. In the interest of solving this case, they will go back. Tomorrow," he added, "so they can recover here. I am also requesting that you check-in with them—physically—at least once a day. If the situation demands it, you may step in and assit. You, however, may not go after Muraki directly." The compromise seemed agreeable to Tatsumi who nodded and left without a word, refusing to give voice to his thoughts.
Words. Again. Konoe decided to be silent the rest of the day. He stared blankly at his desk and listened to the whir and slight screech of the photocopier.
When Hisoka arrived at the office, the first thing he noticed was Tsuzuki's absence. He quickly looked at the board, to see if Tsuzuki had written his location, and saw nothing but a blank line by his partner's name. Nothing to tell his worried partner where he was. Hisoka growled quietly.
How can I explain visiting KoKakuRou if I can't find him! Baka! Not sure why Tsuzuki was the idiot in this case, Hisoka stalked off, glowering. He paused in mid-stride.
Wait—how exactly did Muraki know I was with Oriya? Did Oriya tell him? Hisoka thought back to his second visit. The pair were sitting on the steps, drinking tea informally. Hisoka was staring at the sakura tree, just budding. Oriya had noticed Hisoka's eyes were glued to the pink bufs. He knew only the basics; that Muraki had taken the young boy in a flurry of petals. He remembed Muraki toying with a petal one night and chuckling softly, stroking the bud casually.
"Hey Bon," Oriya said. Hisoka glanced at him. "Have you ever considfered what I want in return for these little sessions?" Hisoka's eyes widened before narrowing. He took in Oriya's face, cool, and his body, his shoulder leaning in slightly against the door. There wasn't a predatory look about him.
"My enjoyable company," Hisoka replied wryly. Oriya almost grinned before lighting his pipe.
"You are very pretty," he began off-handedly. Hisoka, who had turned back to look at the tree, snapped back to face the modern day samurai. Oriya noticed the sudden movement, the boy stiffening, his fingers tightening around the cup so that his veins popped out. He blew out a puff of smoke and tilted his head back, resting it on the wooden doorframe. He closed his eyes.
"Some of my clients request a boy or two." Hisoka's hand grew whiter. "I have one boy, already, to satisfy them, but another one—a pretty one—to entertain occasionally is desirable." The cup hitting the stones shattered the slience. Hisoka stood up jerkily.
"I will not sleep with your clients," Hisoka sneered, putting more vehemence in the word client than Oriya thought possible. The brothel owner looked at the boy through slitted eyes.
"Nor do I want you to. I figure Kazutaka damaged you enough." The comment, spoken casually, communicted to Hisoka that Oriya knew more than he wanted him to. He clenched his fists. The first name spoke to the familarity between the two.
"All I ask is if you would grace a client with you pretty face and 'enjoyable company' for an hour or two. One visit for one sparring session. Quid pro quo." Oriya chuckled softly; there was a demanding note in his expression.
Hisoka became a study of stillness. Through his barely opened eyes, hidden behind stray strands of hair , Oriya watched the boy, always a boy, no matter how many years he lived as dead. The boy, in his perfect stillness, resembled the cadaver his physical body was. He was white, his hands tight to his sides, his face as calm as a still pond. His eyes stared glossily at semingly nothing.
Oriya accostumed to his own silences, waited quietly, the only sound him exhaling the cedar smelling smoke. The chilly spring night hinted at warmth in that stillness.
"You have to make a promise," Hisoka finally said in a voice so low Oriya wasn't quite sure he had spoken.
"Promise what?"
"To never speak about what happens here. To anyone. Ever." Oriya sat up and looked at the boy who remained as still as the night. The only difference was his accusing eyes. Oriya nodded. Hisoka's eyes narrowed.
"I want to hear you say it."
"My word that I will not speak about our sessions, in or out of the courtyard."
Hisoka nodded and relaxed.
Sure that he had remembered that night right, Hisoka's hand clenched and unclenched reflexively, in prepartion for a fight. Oriya gave his word. If Muraki knew, the bond had been broken. Whirling around, he raced out of the office.
A moment later, he was running up the street to KoKakuRou. Throwing a door open, he ignored the startled woman cleaning the floors, and dashed into the courtyard. Sitting calmly on the steps, a pipe in mouth, an account book in the other was Oriya. He was going over figures from last night. Next to him was a laptop. Pausing for a moment to notice the inconguency of technology in such a carefully constructed home, Hisoka growled.
Oriya was alone. As in, without Muraki.
The man regarded Hisoka with what the boy would call a cautious gaze.
"May I help you?" he greeted courteously. Hisoka snarled.
"You broke your bond!" he yelled. Oriya pulled the pipe out of his mouth and casually pushed his hiar out of his face.
"That's a heavy accusation. What's your evidence?" Alarmed—or perhaps thrown off—by Oriya's calm manner, Hisoka ground his teeth.
"Muraki knew I visited you and that I sat in the tea rooms." Oriya started, his pipe slipping from his fingers and hitting the stone walkway.
"How is that possible if he's dead?"he asked, keeping his voice under control.
"According to your statement, it isn't possible because I'm dead. But my presence here would prove otherwise." Across the courtyard, a door slid open. Leaning against the wall, half naked, with an unlit cigarette sitting in the corner of his mouth, was Muraki who smiled at Oriya. His low, silk textured voice, startled Oriya and Hisoka who was glaring at Muraki but was being pointedly ignored.
"There is a traitor in my house," Oriya stated. Muraki smirked and lit his cigarette, flinging the used match onto the ground. Oriya raised an eyebrow. When did Muraki become so callous?
"More than one,you should assume," Muraki said.
"I should have known when that boy appeared soon after you left."
"Ah yes, Tojo. He has been helpful in more than one way." Hisoka met Tojo once. The tall boy, with firm shoulders and short midnight black hair, was the only male Oriya kept. Tojo wasn't a pretty boy but he screamed uke so loudly that even Hisoka could pick it up. Tojo was quiet, respectful, and demure, but still completely sexual. He could make brushing aside a piece of stray hair enticing, a suggestion.
Tojo emerged from the room that Muraki had. He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but his bare legs stuck out underneath. Hisoka shot Oriya a look who blinked rapidly but then pulled in his pipe. Hisoka could see his muscles moving—he was biting the stem.
Hisoka wanted nothing more than to blast Muraki into nothing. But he could see this wasn't his place. Whatever was going to happen was between Muraki and Oriya. Hisoka closed his eyes. He could feel the hatred and jealousy coming from Oriya in waves. Underneath them was a sad note, like the lost whistling of a flute in a flurry of drum beats. Regret, maybe.
"I'm sorry." Hisoka said abruptly, ending the staring contest. Oriya shot a look at him and leaned back, graceful again. He lost his jerkiness. Muraki looked at Hisoka for the first time.
"The boy speaks. Tell me, Oriya, what does he do for you that I can't?" Muraki murmured. Oriya lookd at the older man while Hisoka flamed red. For a moment, all three men glared at each other, unwilling to take a step forward, unwilling to answer a question. Tojo shifted, uncomfortably.
Hisoka waited for Muraki to speak.
A bit of a difficult ending. For my reviewers: Thank you so much! Any bit of love is totally cherished. :tosses out candy: all guranteed to rot your teeth. And here's some for the silent readers :more candy:
I hope I got this one right.