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A Castle of Silence and Bones
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023.
but no flowers rest over these tombstones
(nothing but everything happens during the winter)
The first flakes of snow are in the process of falling when Asahiko has - in a lapse of judgment and capitulation to selfishness - asked Kiku to visit the outer regions (districts, provinces, territories) of their empire, more as a show of faith than any actual favor, but it nonetheless removes the esteemed Kiku-sama from the confines of the Akasaka Palace.
And, as a result, subsequently frees Yao-hime from the confines of Kiku-sama's ordained locations.
This year, he has passed twenty-four years of existence, and of those years, two were spent leading a nation, and twenty of them he can remember with Yao-hime.
"Yao-hime," he asks, bowing at the waist, as if the other was of royal ancestry, "Would you like to go outside and see the first snowfall with me?"
"Of course," the princess of the palace replies, and follows it up with, "If that is what the emperor wishes."
With an elegance that Asahiko finds impossible to replicate, Yao leaves the main chamber, swishing robes and softly-tinkling decorations. The other's long, purposeful hair, Asahiko notes, seems to have stopped growing, curling a couple inches below the elbow.
He waits, as a young man of his age would do, while Yao changes into garments more fitting for the harsh cold, his suddenly unfocused gaze needing to latch onto something, anything, in the expanse of the room. While it is not the first time - by far - that he has visited the chambers of Kiku-sama, it is the first time he has been in them without the knowledge - much less implicit consent - of Kiku-sama. Yao-hime, most likely, is not aware of this subtle difference, and Asahiko does not find it important enough to mention, as he lounges facing the slowly-graying world.
It is strange, the lilting way which snow falls, he thinks, how it piles and piles and piles without any notice, until it is surrounding you, encompassing your entire body, and you are too cold to feel and too tired to complain.
"Tennou-sama," Yao murmurs, a hint of amusement in his voice. Asahiko snaps himself from his thoughts, turning his head to give his attention to the other.
The trees in both the inner and outer gardens are bare, but he takes Yao to seem the snow-covered branches all the same. The soft silence of the world about them is more than enough impetus, because he is twenty-four years old and knows what he wants - sees it right in front of him and how the larger snowdrops fall sweetly on thick eyelashes.
Even now, Yao-hime reminds him of a caged bird; he is cruel and wicked like everyone around him - and so, he wants.
With a steadied hand, he reaches forth to clasp about Yao's face. He watches golden eyes widen, before realization dawns, and they blink once, before closing. Yao-hime's hands, steady as well - perhaps, could this be (oh, but no, reality will never be this good to you) - loosely hold onto his shoulders, and with the same force as the falling flakes of ice, he presses their equally-cold lips together.
Asahiko is the one to turn away first, cheeks unnaturally pink; twenty-four years old and still not entirely an adult.
They leave the inner gardens in silence, and Yao-hime is able to return without aid back to the watchful chambers of Kiku-sama.
The following day, Kiku-sama returns, swathed in praise and brimming with trinkets - bloodstained, but trinkets all the same - for Yao-hime, who sits quietly in the corner chair, while he smiles and sometimes hums some mad melody or another (this war is hard, you know? harsh and hard; harsh and hard), sticking one ornament out, dropping another two, and loosely entangling three or four more.
"Mine," Kiku whispers across smooth slick skin, shivering in distaste and delight as Yao arches in ecstasy, and the dozen-or-so decorations in his hair all tinkle softly on top of the overstuffed mattress.
Asahiko does not see this, although he knows that it is happening (it has always been happening), in much of the same way as he does not see the bombs - dropped by both German and American and Russian planes - being tossed, carelessly (as if each one does not weigh twenty or thirty lives at the least) over Japan's major cities.
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Despite the fact that Kiku-sama is around the palace, Asahiko continues his laughable mockery of a courtship, with hidden flowers and gifts, some that Yao-hime will find impossible to distinguish from Kiku-sama's, and others that only Yao-hime will be able to know.
There is a blooming red mark, like a blossom (like a bloodstain) in the area below Yao's right ear, right above the jawline - a mark which Asahiko made, quietly, possessively. He kisses every fingertip, drinking in the sensation like a man rescued from the desert dunes, dry lips grazing over Yao's knuckles, wrist, arm. Kisses, kisses, kisses, light - and yet they are prone to lingering nonetheless.
Yao-hime never says anything during these sessions, never looks perturbed or disturbed, sometimes amused, but most of the time, simply lenient. He will observe the emperor (already a quarter-way through life, and still, he is only a child in-comparison) most of the time, watching his reactions to his own actions, and cloth himself when it is over and never say a word to Kiku.
As with everyone and everything and all activities, Asahiko grows more confident with time - and as the weeks slip by (and more and more cities fall, to flames and starvation and invading armies - as Kyoto is under siege and rumors of cannibalism in Nara float around) - his hands eventually dare to skirt around the undersides of Yao-hime's robes, the marks from his kisses grow redder and redder, and he comes to Yao-hime's room, of his own volition, in a short amount of time.
This is how Kiku discovers the two of them: carnally entwined, Yao's face flushed, legs parted like a whore of the court, hair completely down and draped in thick black locks over his bare shoulders - bitten with kisses, flushed with exertion. And Asahiko - the emperor of the nation (the emperor of his nation) - whispering sentiments of affection, adoration - complete and utter and eternal devotion - while thrusting gently, fervently.
The icy rivers of winter find their fast way straight through his veins and he does not (will not, can not) mind them.
Kiku stands as still as a statue, even after Yao sees him - in a haze, through fluttering, if not fully-lidded, eyes - he still stands, waiting - almost patiently, for Asahiko to finish, for Asahiko to drag his trembling, sweat-soaked hands over Yao's body, clutching on, at the very end, to Yao's hair, and burrowing his face near Yao's shoulder - love, love, love.
There are many reasons for this sudden streak of twisted kindness, Kiku thinks. He is surprised, and uncertain of what to do. Yao has been, for years, hissing the wrong name - this will be the first and last time. Asahiko, after all, is still only a child - and only a sentimental human being, so he can be easily pardoned for his indiscretion.
But of everything -
There is resonance; the raw, burning, painful want that Asahiko has so clearly had for so long - Kiku can feel, Kiku can understand.
But if Asahiko will gain any inclination to take his - to take Kiku's - position in Yao's world...
It is with this in-mind that lets him calmly unsheathe his sword. Asahiko is the emperor, after all, (he has no wife, he has no heir, what will you do now?) it would not do to let him go with undue amounts of pain. And so, he stabs him, one time - quick and simple; short and sweet. Yao closes his eyes, most likely imagining the sword running him through as well.
And, he does not know why he is surprised - why he feels this sudden inconsolable sadness - but his vision shakes, quakes, and blurs altogether, as Asahiko mutters words that Kiku once, long ago, understood.
This is his emperor's dying wish (and yes, he is the only one who can listen to it, and no he is not without morals, not without honor) and he cannot muster the energy to make out the blood-choked syllables.
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Although Yao has not planned it to this extent, he has, within all reasonable doubts, always known it would come to this. Kiku kneeled over the naked corpse of his emperor, ankles and wrists literally drowned in blood (royal blood is blood is blood is blood though), and he himself sprawled mere inches away, breathing in the scent of death.
(Decay, corruption, you used to not be able to recognize these traits by smell.)
It surprises him, shakes a core within him that he did not know he still had, when he takes in Kiku's sharp inhales and ragged exhales (like an animal, like a beast), an alien contrast to the warm tears flowing down his cheeks (you are never to view him as 'human').
Kiku's entire uniform is stained; drenched and drowned in redredred, and his war-torn shoulders are shaking with the weight of the foreign sorrow. And it in this moment that Yao really looks at the other, for the first time in a quarter of a decade.
The years and years of endless fighting have been no kinder to Kiku; whereas Yao has feminine locks and flowing kimonos to show, Kiku, in turn, has inherited sunken eyes with a constantly death-ridden pallor. And of course, a population that has been reduced by half - these are the treasured spoils of the Second World War.
Were it not for his youthful frame, and the sheer pride that keeps his spine so stringently straight, Yao thinks he might mistake the other (who looks more and more like a demon with every shaking, shuddering breath) to be his elder. But the time for pity, for compassion, for any sort of humanity, has passed years ago. And so he clenches his fists and purses his lips, and waits for this disconcerting display to end.
Seconds ; minutes ; hours.
When Kiku finally regains control of himself, the wind and snow have momentarily stopped. But Asahiko's body has not stopped bleeding, and the room still wallows in the stench of dead flesh. He removes himself from the bed, with movements smooth and controlled, and regards the weapon he has embedded in the former emperor.
In that time period, Yao has dressed himself once more, and turns his head - eyes dull with war - to look at the other nation.
"Did you plan this?" Kiku asks, that same undercurrent of violence swimming in shallow waters in his tone.
Yao does not answer, simply turns his head.
(And in the wake of the winter's silence, the engines from the bombers start up once more and - like gunned birds - the explosives begin again to rain down.)
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