Sort of an in-between chapter. Not terribly necessary, but it sets the stage for the upcoming, so-called 'big one'.
... cheers.
The ride back to the house wasn't particularly eventful, but when they came up the drive, they saw several cars parked in front of the great house, all luxurious, all black. When theirs stopped, they opened their own doors as the chauffeur stepped back with a bow, waiting in this position for the ability to take the car away. Of course, the two of them instantly froze. Zero stood in the driveway, numbly shutting the car door as he imagined the possibilities: had Yuki been assaulted? Was the mansion ransacked? Would he have to play pallbearer for a third time? Kaname disappeared almost the moment he looked at him, the only thing suggesting he'd been there at all being the mangled front door, nearly gutted and splintered. Brought out of his stun, the hunter raced up the steps and into the house, running through the panicked destruction his friend had caused. He came to the parlour, panting, and saw the man holding his weeping wife, the two of them surrounded by similarly depressed people. The relief on the elder's face was out of place in the room, and as Zero entered, he saw that he was, too.
Yuki held her husband tightly, and Kaname looked over at Akatsuki, who cradled Ruka's back with gentleness and sorrow, "They had been catalogued by the Hunters. We don't yet know why." A few distrusting glares were sported by the vampires surrounding the pariah of a hunter, who straightened his stance and walked into the room calmly. The pureblood looked around at them, and then back at his friend with a distressed and not-quite amenable expression,
"I think you should leave, for the moment. We need to sort some things out." At that point, it wouldn't have mattered if Kaname was entirely willing to defend him; the satisfied looks of the Nobles at his exclusion tipped the scale,
"Bullshit." The man looked back at him in shock, stunned by his audacity. Then, he hardened, and with an indeterminable anger, waited for an explanation. Zero went on, "I worked with him, too. I have the right to be here!" Akatsuki interrupted him,
"This isn't the time for 'rights'. We must see to his affairs, now." A random Noble in the crowd spat at him in defence of the blonde's rather delicately-put refusal,
"Your kind is not required here. Now be a good little boy and run along." The look Kaname shot the man was furious and foreboding, so he stepped back into the small crowd with a sheepish, but contented appearance. Several others nodded to his comment, and the hunter blistered,
-
"You know you shouldn't be here." Hanabusa said from across the fire. Zero watched the flame disinterestedly,
"And you know you can't handle this by yourself." The Noble looked displeased, and guarded himself with a dignified disgust,
"Your presence is unnecessary. There is nothing here I can't handle on my own." The hunter stalled, then looked up, and dug through his bag, pulling out a small nutshell. Standing up, much to the blonde's curiosity, he threw the shell into the forest in front of him, covering his ears as a few seconds passed uneventfully. "What a-" A blast echoed past them, a light so incomparably majestic in its intensity, The Noble was forced into silence, an angry buzz in his ear. As it began to fade and his eardrum healed over, he heard the hisses and scurrying of lesser beings, which had probably been soundlessly tracking them for days, frightened by the explosion and scrambling from the scene. The hunter went back to eating, watching his counterpart from the rim of his bowl, a satisfied smirk on his face. Hanabusa sniffed,
"So maybe I underestimated the value of a pawn," but no matter how hard he tried to degrade the man sitting before, the telling grin spoke of his immediate failures, and he resigned himself to an aversive silence for the night.
-
Unable to disincline their desire to excommunicate him, Zero flew out the door, banging it loudly behind him, finding himself to be, yet again, the bane of his company. Back in the room, Kaname felt his thin defence of his friend proved he might have the same prejudices. Yuki's quivers resonated inside of him as he clawed at his back, shaking him as he closed his eyes and rested his head on hers, feeling his will and stoicism reel at his weakness, and the tragedy of his close friend's death. Takuma came up behind him, and the little brunette in his arms disjoined from him, allowing them their moment. The blonde's sad green eyes were reddened, and his hands fell to tremors as his oldest friend quickly embraced him, a chin hooking over his shoulder, palms still at his sides as he gave in,
"It almost feels unfair; two down in ten years," Kaname held him tighter as his soft smile faded at the thought of Senri's death, and those green eyes welled up with renewed sorrow as he held his friend back, finding comfort in someone so alike the long-dead boy. Finally, Akatsuki came over and patted his shoulder, and he looked up, wiping at the corners of his eyes as Kaname released him. He hugged the other blonde, who had been trying to restrain his torrential anger and depression,
"Long time no see," he said quietly, almost stunned from his misery by the other man's chokes. The older male had aged noticeably, the sacs under his eyes bulging with his accumulated grief. His pale flesh had yellowed in the long years of his heartache, bones growing brittle, and though nobody would mention it, it appeared that his friends' deaths had infected him with some terrible plague, a river of foul, atrophic puss invading his veins. His emotion-charged disease had sealed his fate in silence, those alive looking on in grim trepidation, though he ignored their pitiful or frightened looks, laughing off his grisly destiny at the best of times, the frailty of his self unreflective in his humour. Akatsuki stroked his back with a warm hand, feeling beneath the black coat a strange, dilapidated frame, so unlike the boy he'd known, heave in his tentative embrace. When they drew apart, he stood still, in awe of the decrepit form, which strutted through an encroaching anaemia to his wife, holding her dearly for a few moments. Nobody wanted to have too much time to reflect on another death, sometimes fearing the illness that had struck the Ichijou, others the weakness of a true breakdown amongst friends and partners.
Yuki tripped toward him through a dreary daze, her mauve dress swishing prettily against her skinny legs as she fumbled her feet. The man caught her some distance between them, and Kaname understood why Takuma had avoided looking at him head-on for, the moment those eyes fell upon the female Kuran's pale face, a blankness overtook him, and he fell into a short, hazy stupor. The woman clung to him for a little while, burying her head in his chest, fingers clutching his coat for support he might one day become unable to give. Her skin was pale like his, hair brown and soft like his. Her body was smaller, more delicate, fitting awkwardly into a thin black curve, but if he succumbed to his conscious wants, he found himself quite taken in by an obstinate reverie. Should he close his eyes, he was certain two blue ones would stare into him, fingers gripping a satin pillow case as he stretched and woke to the scent of a lavender garden, his nude lover sprawled like a cat at the Tudor windows, gazing silently at early-risen bees, unaware that his companion had awoken.
But he had the misfortune that Yuki looked up at him, teary and a mess like Senri never had been, the fragile illusion of his younger years breaking with ease. If he had any anger left, it would most certainly never find itself at the thought of his friends, but a loathsome dead man, whose actions were left deeply engraved in his memory, and the bodies of those around him. From the young blonde, he had taken two beloved men, and left his mark embossed in the horrid scars which clung to his nephew's body with a withering totality that, at times, acted as a wasting disease.
Akatsuki caught the murmurs and spoke up, "I think we should get down to business, now."
-
Zero had ended up at a brothel, in his wake probably leaving a pile-up or two, if anyone wanted to track him down. His aggression was frightening, but he managed to rein it in as he waited, calming, outside the unmarked doors. He entered with a dark expression on his face, ordering a room and a girl with a gruff voice, his yet unshaved face doing nothing to improve his image. A few passing customers grunted at him, keeping to their private worlds in the small magazine. The Madam pointed to the stairs, unsure and wary of his person, but he stormed past her quickly enough, shuffling up the flight with his fists jammed in his pockets, fingers bending the key to the Bentley waiting outside.
He didn't need sex: some fast, businesslike exchange in a dim room. He was unlike his trench coat-wearing counterparts, who trudged the corridor with upturned collars and greasy hair, or the men in wool suits who would march in with tired expressions after a day's work—or not—contented to fuck whatever soul would allow their release. No, what Zero needed was to relax. He needed something malleable and slender, with a pretty face, no matter if it was slathered in rouge. At a point like this, he might choose to simply dominate something, in lieu of his short-changed masculine assertion in front of a bunch of bloody rich kids. Opening the door, he found someone not at like them; sitting at the vanity with her dainty legs crossed. She brushed her hair, arms moving so her meagre cleavage jiggled, pointed elbows clinking against some terrible bottle of perfume. A whore, by any other means, but he honestly wasn't asking for much.
She acknowledged him with a soft smile, standing up in slippers, green eyes staring at him from a good foot and-a-half below. A sister type with brown hair and a couple of scars, no doubt a caesarean hiding beneath her pink negligee. Her arms wrapped around him and he grabbed her back, crushing her frame into his body so hard, he thought bones might have cracked. She played with his hair haltingly, and then he released her as she walked over to the bed, lying down as he approached.
When all was said and done, he brushed her hair for her, though she didn't ask, and dressed her in something less revealing that she would most certainly strip once the next customer came. The illusion that came on as he stroked her hair lacked the satiation he needed; almost a veneer of comfort spreading on her face as she hummed and tended to her nails, chipped and fragmented, parts still stuck in her john's abdomen. He left shortly thereafter, and nobody asked questions, although it was obvious he'd blown what might have been a day's pay to some others.