Those Forsaken Ch. 5
Author: Leeayre
Title: Those Forsaken
Rating: M
Genre: Angst/Horror
Characters: Subaru, Seishirou, Kamui, Fuuma
Summary: It all started when Subaru accidentally brought one home. Now Kamui and Subaru find themselves running for their lives, wrapped up in a fight neither could have foreseen.
Warnings: Vampirism, blood, physical abuse, nondescript nudity, etc.
Word Count: 3,557 approx.
Warning: This fic has officially been upgraded from a T rating to an M rating for a scene at the end that startled my Chara-Beta…The line between M and T can be rather fuzzy sometimes, and while some of you may think it’s not that bad, I’d rather be safe than sorry, so to speak. Having never written a fic for the M category before, I’m rather twitchy about the whole thing, so we’ll see how it goes… I may decide at a later date that this is just not working and then take out whatever lines are necessary to bring it back down into T. *twitch*
Chapter 5
Revenge
Fuuma was in Kamui’s bedroom again, back propped up against the headboard, legs sprawled out across the thick blankets, one hand holding up yet another book on illusions turned just so the moonlight pouring in through the double windows would illuminate the pages. With his other hand he was absently sifting wisps of silken black hair between his fingers. Kamui was curled up sound asleep at his side. It was fast becoming a habit to spend long hours studying side by side with the sleeping boy-much more satisfying at least than holing up in some dusty corner. He paused in his reading as one small hand fisted cutely in the hem of his silk shirt. He thought at first Kamui had woken up, but the boy was still asleep, blissfully unaware of what he’d done. Absently, Fuuma wondered if the boy would still reach for him in his sleep if he knew what he did to him every night.
It was a shame really. Kamui had such lovely eyes-a deep amethyst color that glittered like distant stars in direct moonlight. It was a shame to keep those eyes permanently closed, but necessary. The bruises that had once marred Kamui’s arms and legs and abdomen had faded to faint brown smudges. The boy’s feet were also healing remarkably well, and he persisted in wanting to look for his brother once he could walk again. Fuuma couldn’t have that. No, the boy was going to stay right where he was, firmly within Fuuma’s grasp, even if he had to… ensure the boy’s continued docility.
Thoughtfully, Fuuma leaned down and kissed the two little marks on Kamui’s neck. A promise. But not tonight at least. Kamui was almost painfully pale now, his heart thumping desperately loud but resolutely in Fuuma’s ears, struggling against the blood loss. As a result, the boy was practically catatonic-drowning in sleep, unable to gather even the simple strength to get up. Which was exactly how Fuuma wanted it.
Gently, he brushed strands of hair away from those ever-lidded eyes. A shame.
Every time Kamui managed to drift awake for a few minutes, it was to find that increasingly larger chunks of time were slipping away from him. It was frightening to wake up and realize he didn’t know how much time had passed: minutes or hours or days. And even during those rare moments when he was awake, his body felt sluggish, unresponsive. He spent most of his rare minutes of consciousness lying curled under the sheets, shivering, watching the curtains flutter in the faint wind, unable to find the will to move. He knew there were important things he should be doing, but he could hardly remember what they were anymore. Some days he would feel a little better, only to wake up the day after feeling weak and miserable again.
The maids at least tried to make sure he got regular meals, usually shaking him from slumber and staying to make sure he ate it all, all the while watching him with pitying eyes. Kamui hated it.
At least the lacerations on his feet no longer bled regularly. The bandages had finally been taken off permanently, and Kamui thought vaguely that if he could just find the strength to get up, he might be able to walk soon. Likewise, his arm hadn’t quite completely healed, but he could move it a bit without getting painful reminders of its broken state. Inevitably though, before being able to do anything about it, he’d drift back off to sleep again …
Fuuma set his book aside with a sigh. Another week had passed, and he was tired of words that scrolled on for page after page-little black letters glaring balefully up at him. If he stared at them a second longer, he thought his brain might be permanently sucked into the parchment. Frustrated, he decided he needed a little distraction and flopped unceremoniously on the boy sprawled out beside him, resting his weight easily on his elbows. Kamui remained fast asleep, eyelids frozen shut. With sudden resolve, Fuuma realized he wanted to see the amethyst eyes those lids hid. He wanted to hear a voice. He wanted to talk to someone. In particular, he wanted to hear the boy say his name again with that pleasant voice of his. And trying to get a response from the comatose Kamui seemed like a fun challenge.
“Wake up,” he whispered, grabbing a fistful of the boy’s hair and yanking hard. The boy muttered something incomprehensible, moaning a little in his sleep. Fuuma glared at this response and yanked harder. “Kamui, wake up. Say something. Talk to me.”
“Nng-Fuuma?” Kamui woke slowly, clouded amethyst eyes half covered by sleep-heavy eyelids. “What time is it?”
“Around midnight.” Fuuma chuckled, amused by the cute frown the kid turned on him.
“Tired,” Kamui mumbled, yawning for emphasis.
“I know. Stay with me. Talk to me. Ask me something.” Anything to hear that voice some more.
Kamui stared up at him contemplatively for a long time, and for a few minutes Fuuma thought maybe he would fall asleep again, beyond the ability to hold the thread of rational conversations. Really, waking the boy up and then demanding he stay awake after draining him of so much energy wasn’t really fair. He started to jerk on the boy’s hair again, but Kamui swatted at him.
“Stop that!” The boy glowered, an adorably disgruntled look, which was broken by another huge yawn. He sighed. “Who was it? The one Seishirou-san took from you-who was it?” Kamui’s voice was quiet, gentle. Fuuma tensed anyway and started to pull away, but one weak, pale hand rose to brush his cheek and something made him stay.
“My sister,” he said.
“He killed her?”
“Yes.”
Kamui stared up at him, trying to understand. It was taking a lot of concentration and effort to stay awake, and it didn’t help that his view was partially blocked by… With his good hand, he reached up and slowly pulled the small, round shades from Fuuma’s face, letting them drop to the blankets.
“You look better without them,” he said by way of explanation. It was true. Without the glasses, Fuuma’s eyes were a molten gold. Kamui thought it looked a bit like someone had liquefied the sunlight Fuuma would never see and trapped it forever in his eyes. It was most unfair. Kamui sighed, feeling the constant drowsiness start to pull him back down again.
“How did she die?” he asked suddenly, more to keep himself awake.
Fuuma was silent for a few minutes, contemplating the past. Part of him shied away from those memories-from images of blood-soaked villages that he could still see when he closed his eyes. He’d never told anyone before-in all those years, he’d never told a soul, and he certainly wasn’t going to suddenly tell a… He looked down into wide purple eyes tilted quizzically at him, and words tumbled from his lips.
“It was a long time ago.” He had no idea why he said it. It certainly wasn’t for a pair of pretty eyes. And there really wasn’t any point telling a boy who would have to die in a few days. Maybe because it was pointless… Slowly, he told the boy of life decades ago, of living with his sister after their parents died, promising to keep her safe-told Kamui how he’d woken up to his sister’s screams, to a strange woman with long black hair dragging him out of bed, clamping a hand over his mouth so tight he was practically suffocating. He could still remember her pale, tiny fingers, far too fragile for such a powerful grip. In his mind he heard her calling out “Seishirou!” Saw his sister, lying limply in another stranger’s arms. Heard them whispering something urgently. Felt the total helplessness as it consumed him, because he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe!
And then… nothing.
He’d woken up the night after, buried under bits and pieces of what had been their village, surrounded by a field of corpses-neighbors, friends, enemies. His sister… she’d been one of them, lying there brokenly like so much garbage. He’d been so distraught, he hadn’t at first realized there was anything wrong with him, anything different…
Fuuma trailed off, blinking the present back into focus, half startled to find himself lying on a soft bed in the moonlight with a sleeping black-haired boy beneath him. Kamui… Kamui had fallen asleep. Fuuma smiled a bit exasperatedly, but he really couldn’t fault the boy. He rolled over onto his side and for the longest time laid there staring at the ceiling.
Everything he knew about Seishirou was one disaster after another, starting with the slaughtering of his own home village and ending with the massacre of the village in which a certain pair of brothers had taken refuge. Fuuma had never figured out the identity of the woman who had been with Seishirou that first time. He’d never seen her again. Maybe Seishirou had killed her too. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. The only one he cared about was the one holding the limp body of his sister that night.
It was about time someone teach Seishirou what it meant to lose someone.
By the end of the second week, Fuuma had finally found the information he needed. Piles of displaced books standing on tables and shelves and even a few scattered around Kamui’s bedroom attested to the thoroughness of his search. He wondered absently whether the boy ever noticed the books that often got left on his blankets the few times he was conscious and what he thought about their strange content.
He hadn’t touched Kamui for several nights. The boy had been awfully thin and weak, and Fuuma had left him alone for fear his frail body wouldn’t be able to sustain itself much longer. But that night he went to Kamui again, needing to renew the pull of the bond with the other brother that had dissipated with time. He was careful, feeling the fluttering of the boy’s heart in his chest under the palm of one hand, and a little hasty, impatient to be off now that he had what he needed. Kamui woke as he was laid back down, staring up at him with blurry amethyst eyes.
“Go back to sleep,” Fuuma whispered. “Everything’s all right. Go back to sleep.” He waited for Kamui to nod tiredly, then turned and glided out the door, out into the night, and onto the street. Navigating through the city was a slow process. There were just enough people still out in the city after dark that running would have attracted unwanted attention. Other things besides vampires prowled the streets at night. In particular, Fuuma didn’t want to deal with any hunters. Careless use of inhuman speed would attract unwanted attention. So he slowed his walk to that of other shoppers, painstakingly making his way through the streets, passing fruit stands and butcher shops and, in the very center of the city, the temple. Fuuma had never paid the temple much attention-some occult religion about the end of the world and a vessel that would be the bearer of God’s will. Ridiculous.
Once he reached the forest, he was finally free to run openly, flitting from tree to tree with unnatural speed, gracefully avoiding rocks and roots and treacherous footing. Finally, he found himself back at that large, empty house that seemed to loom out of the forest. Fuuma wasn’t fooled this time. Calling upon the words from the books he’d studied, he broke the illusion, watching as it seemed to dissolve into thousands of petals before fading completely. Reality settled into the hole where the illusion had been. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the sakura trees at least had been real. They weren’t near as tame or as perfect as in the illusion, but they were real-wild, twisted branches reaching for the sky. The house, on the other hand… At one time there had been a house, but it was long gone. Where once proud walls had stood, now only crumbling pieces of foundation remained.
Fuuma made his way through the bits of rock and rubble, jumping gracefully from one unsteady stone to another. He could still feel the pull of the boy coming from somewhere beneath him, somewhere in the ground. It was an odd feeling at first-if he hadn’t known better, he would have said the boy had been buried alive. But no, there would have been no pull if the boy had been dead-not to mention no reason to guard the body so well. That meant he was simply underground, and there had to be some way to get in around there somewhere…
Bits of rusty metal stuck out of the foundation at odd angles and moss-covered mulch that had once been doors and posts littered the ground. Finally, Fuuma came to the remnants of a door-twisted and decaying and really beyond repair, but remarkably intact considering what was left of the rest of the building. He pried it back easily, revealing stone steps descending into what at one time might have been a basement but was now quite thoroughly blocked by huge fragments of the solid foundation. Fuuma sighed. It was impassible. No good. He started to turn away… then stopped. This was Seishirou he was dealing with after all. What if… Upon further inspection, Fuuma realized that the floor above the passageway was littered with debris, but still quite firm. Where then had all that rubble come from that had fallen down inside? An illusion inside an illusion.
Resting one hand against what felt like a pile of solid, unyielding rocks, he again called out the words of the books he’d studied and watched as the rocks dissolved like the first illusion. In their place, a series of well-maintained doors appeared, the first of which was locked and had to be forced. Then he was standing in a dark hallway.
He realized pretty quickly that Seishirou wasn’t there. It smelled of Seishirou-that old Power smell again-but there was only one other presence, one faint heartbeat, amid all the empty rooms around him, and it came from the same direction as the pull that was echoing in his blood. The brother. It was a bit annoying to have done all that work only to find that the man wasn’t even there. But the boy…
He followed the slight whisk sound of pages being turned and found the boy curled up on a bed, book in hand. For being brothers, Fuuma decided, there wasn’t much resemblance. This boy’s hair was black, it was true, but straighter and finer, not so unruly as Kamui’s. He was also small, but not so tiny, and of course, there were the eyes. When he looked up as Fuuma entered the room he flashed brilliant emerald eyes, so different from the sad amethyst ones of the boy back on Fuuma’s bed. And when he spoke…
“Oh! Hello! I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Are you one of Seishirou-san’s friends?” So innocent. So polite.
“I’m afraid I’m not.” Fuuma smirked and closed the distance between them, slipping up onto the bed too quickly for human eyes to register, knees coming up on either side of the boy’s hips to keep him pinned. Subaru gasped at the sudden closeness, instinctively jerking back. Fuuma followed, not letting him escape, shoving him down the rest of the way onto the bed.
“O-Oh, I… Ah…” the boy started stuttering. Fuuma ignored it, catching the boy’s chin in a bruising grip and staring down into those large, green eyes.
“Does Seishirou care so much about you?” he whispered, almost crushing the boy’s face. Those large, green eyes filled with pain, but he didn’t say anything. “Are you so precious to him? Does he think he can keep you safe down here?” Fuuma released the boy, only to reach down and rake one nail slowly through the thin fabric of his shirt, shredding it easily, revealing all that smooth, unblemished skin. Not as pretty as Kamui’s, an annoying voice noticed matter-of-factly in the back of his mind-a voice he steadfastly ignored. Besides, that skin wouldn’t remain unblemished for long…
Cruelly, he increased his grip on the boy’s thin arms, digging his nails into the soft skin and feeling the sticky blood coat his fingers, warm and wonderful. Smiling pleasantly, he slowly slid one red-coated hand down the boy’s arm, leaving finger-paint trails, until he found one small hand and laced their fingers together, smearing the boy’s blood further. Then he lifted their joined hands to his lips and licked the blood from the boy’s delicate fingers, sucking gently, staring down at the helpless boy beneath him thoughtfully. Subaru made no sound of pain or pleasure, simply staring in quiet distress, powerless against the stronger man.
Once one hand had been licked clean satisfactorily, Fuuma’s eyes flicked open. Slowly, he leaned down and lapped at the boy’s exposed, smooth abdomen. Then, with sudden brutality, he bit down, piercing pale skin. The boy jerked a bit into Fuuma’s hold, an involuntary response, but remained silent. Fuuma bit deeper, harder, ignoring the blood his attentions drew. He wanted the boy to scream-scream the way he’d heard his sister screaming, the way he could still hear that scream ringing in his skull.
Still no sound.
Frustrated, he raked at the boy’s pants, hard enough to tear through the fabric… and the skin beneath. But biting hard into the boy’s inner thigh didn’t produce a sound either. He growled softly, irritated.
Subaru remained still. He didn’t understand the strange man who’d suddenly shown up in his doorway or why he was doing this. But he understood that something in the stranger was hurt and that hurting him in turn somehow made the pain a little easier for the man to bear. He didn’t hate the stranger. If taking the abuse was the only thing he could do to help, then so be it, he would gladly take it. So he lay still, biting his lip to keep from crying out, and waited for whatever would come next…
Fuuma sat up to glare down at those blank, green eyes. The blood that was slowly trickling down the boy’s inner thigh and stomach and slowly drying on thin arms didn’t make him happy. Neither did seeing his marks, the little indentations of his fangs, on the otherwise unmarred skin of Seishirou’s precious pet. He didn’t understand. This was supposed to make things better-this was supposed to make up for the years of pain and anger Kotori’s death had caused. He had what he wanted. So why did he still hurt?
In the end, he slid one hand clean through the boy’s abdomen, licked the blood fastidiously from his hand and left him to bleed to death…
After Fuuma left, Subaru’s shock-saturated mind could only think one thing: Seishirou-san would be upset about the mess he was making all over the pretty, white sheets. Like a loop, endlessly repeating itself, the thought that terrified him more than anything else. Seishirou-san would be upset about the mess.
Curled into a helpless, bloody ball, Subaru began to shake. Seishirou-san would be upset. He had to get off the bed. He had to… the bathroom… Subaru got jerkily to his feet. Black spots erupted before his vision and then died down briefly as he stumbled forward, clinging feebly to the doorframe with shaking fingers. He forced himself to continue, pushing into the dark corridor, hand sliding weakly along the wall… shaking, he was shaking so badly. Seishirou-san would be… He collapsed with a sob, frustrated that his legs didn’t seem to be working properly, and then he couldn’t seem to stop sobbing. Seishirou-san was going to be sooo mad.
He tried to crawl, to force stiff arms to jerk him forward, but it was no good. He was bleeding all over the place and his hands slid in the sticky wetness of it and it was no good, no good, no good!
Seishirou-san...
One hand, scrabbling in the blood. Desperate. Panicked.
…would be…
The floor, rushing up.
Seishirou-san...
Fuuma walked through the doors of his own home, strangely desperate to see a pair of amethyst eyes framed by dark, unruly hair-to hear a soft voice whisper his name, cry out the way the green-eyed one hadn’t. However, when he opened the bedroom door, the room was empty. Double-checking, he crossed to the bed, but no… Probably just in a different room. Then maybe the bathroom… No again. Steps increasing in speed as desperation grew, he flew from room to empty room, finally coming to a halt in the entranceway with deadly calm. Something was pinched painfully tight inside him, something cold and sickening, and he didn’t know what it was. Slowly, he examined the house with his senses, listening for a heartbeat, the vibrations of footsteps, a smell… but all his senses told him the same thing…
Kamui was gone.
Author Note: Dual cliffhangers. Could I be more evil? ^_^ And finally, the first switch point. Up till now, Fuuma and Kamui have been dominating the action (with the exception of ch. 4). Now it’s Subaru and Sei who will get longer scenes as they try to deal with the repercussions of this little disaster. As for Kamui… well, let’s just say Fuuma isn’t going to be happy when he finally finds him. ^_~
And with that… I have a 4-digit hit count, finally crossed into the 20k word count mark (length-wise, that means I’m now grouped among the top 50 stories or 3.75%), and completed chapters 8, 9 and part of 10… *huff, pant, wheeze* From the vantage point of ch. 10, let me tell you, it doesn’t feel any closer to the end. Heaven forbid, if I should manage to get this finished… we should celebrate. o_o
A note from Fuuma:
Q) Could I have simply used compulsion to make Kamui stay?
A) Yes, but where would the fun have been in that? More importantly, some humans can resist it, and even if they can't, other times a traumatic experience will break the mental command anyway. 'Physical' restraints are much more 'certain' than mental ones.
P.S.: Special thanks to Sute and JJ for clarifying some canon questions for me... even if I didn't exactly use their answers the way they thought. ^^
Chapter: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen
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Title: Those Forsaken
Rating: M
Genre: Angst/Horror
Characters: Subaru, Seishirou, Kamui, Fuuma
Summary: It all started when Subaru accidentally brought one home. Now Kamui and Subaru find themselves running for their lives, wrapped up in a fight neither could have foreseen.
Warnings: Vampirism, blood, physical abuse, nondescript nudity, etc.
Word Count: 3,557 approx.
Warning: This fic has officially been upgraded from a T rating to an M rating for a scene at the end that startled my Chara-Beta…The line between M and T can be rather fuzzy sometimes, and while some of you may think it’s not that bad, I’d rather be safe than sorry, so to speak. Having never written a fic for the M category before, I’m rather twitchy about the whole thing, so we’ll see how it goes… I may decide at a later date that this is just not working and then take out whatever lines are necessary to bring it back down into T. *twitch*
Chapter 5
Revenge
Fuuma was in Kamui’s bedroom again, back propped up against the headboard, legs sprawled out across the thick blankets, one hand holding up yet another book on illusions turned just so the moonlight pouring in through the double windows would illuminate the pages. With his other hand he was absently sifting wisps of silken black hair between his fingers. Kamui was curled up sound asleep at his side. It was fast becoming a habit to spend long hours studying side by side with the sleeping boy-much more satisfying at least than holing up in some dusty corner. He paused in his reading as one small hand fisted cutely in the hem of his silk shirt. He thought at first Kamui had woken up, but the boy was still asleep, blissfully unaware of what he’d done. Absently, Fuuma wondered if the boy would still reach for him in his sleep if he knew what he did to him every night.
It was a shame really. Kamui had such lovely eyes-a deep amethyst color that glittered like distant stars in direct moonlight. It was a shame to keep those eyes permanently closed, but necessary. The bruises that had once marred Kamui’s arms and legs and abdomen had faded to faint brown smudges. The boy’s feet were also healing remarkably well, and he persisted in wanting to look for his brother once he could walk again. Fuuma couldn’t have that. No, the boy was going to stay right where he was, firmly within Fuuma’s grasp, even if he had to… ensure the boy’s continued docility.
Thoughtfully, Fuuma leaned down and kissed the two little marks on Kamui’s neck. A promise. But not tonight at least. Kamui was almost painfully pale now, his heart thumping desperately loud but resolutely in Fuuma’s ears, struggling against the blood loss. As a result, the boy was practically catatonic-drowning in sleep, unable to gather even the simple strength to get up. Which was exactly how Fuuma wanted it.
Gently, he brushed strands of hair away from those ever-lidded eyes. A shame.
Every time Kamui managed to drift awake for a few minutes, it was to find that increasingly larger chunks of time were slipping away from him. It was frightening to wake up and realize he didn’t know how much time had passed: minutes or hours or days. And even during those rare moments when he was awake, his body felt sluggish, unresponsive. He spent most of his rare minutes of consciousness lying curled under the sheets, shivering, watching the curtains flutter in the faint wind, unable to find the will to move. He knew there were important things he should be doing, but he could hardly remember what they were anymore. Some days he would feel a little better, only to wake up the day after feeling weak and miserable again.
The maids at least tried to make sure he got regular meals, usually shaking him from slumber and staying to make sure he ate it all, all the while watching him with pitying eyes. Kamui hated it.
At least the lacerations on his feet no longer bled regularly. The bandages had finally been taken off permanently, and Kamui thought vaguely that if he could just find the strength to get up, he might be able to walk soon. Likewise, his arm hadn’t quite completely healed, but he could move it a bit without getting painful reminders of its broken state. Inevitably though, before being able to do anything about it, he’d drift back off to sleep again …
Fuuma set his book aside with a sigh. Another week had passed, and he was tired of words that scrolled on for page after page-little black letters glaring balefully up at him. If he stared at them a second longer, he thought his brain might be permanently sucked into the parchment. Frustrated, he decided he needed a little distraction and flopped unceremoniously on the boy sprawled out beside him, resting his weight easily on his elbows. Kamui remained fast asleep, eyelids frozen shut. With sudden resolve, Fuuma realized he wanted to see the amethyst eyes those lids hid. He wanted to hear a voice. He wanted to talk to someone. In particular, he wanted to hear the boy say his name again with that pleasant voice of his. And trying to get a response from the comatose Kamui seemed like a fun challenge.
“Wake up,” he whispered, grabbing a fistful of the boy’s hair and yanking hard. The boy muttered something incomprehensible, moaning a little in his sleep. Fuuma glared at this response and yanked harder. “Kamui, wake up. Say something. Talk to me.”
“Nng-Fuuma?” Kamui woke slowly, clouded amethyst eyes half covered by sleep-heavy eyelids. “What time is it?”
“Around midnight.” Fuuma chuckled, amused by the cute frown the kid turned on him.
“Tired,” Kamui mumbled, yawning for emphasis.
“I know. Stay with me. Talk to me. Ask me something.” Anything to hear that voice some more.
Kamui stared up at him contemplatively for a long time, and for a few minutes Fuuma thought maybe he would fall asleep again, beyond the ability to hold the thread of rational conversations. Really, waking the boy up and then demanding he stay awake after draining him of so much energy wasn’t really fair. He started to jerk on the boy’s hair again, but Kamui swatted at him.
“Stop that!” The boy glowered, an adorably disgruntled look, which was broken by another huge yawn. He sighed. “Who was it? The one Seishirou-san took from you-who was it?” Kamui’s voice was quiet, gentle. Fuuma tensed anyway and started to pull away, but one weak, pale hand rose to brush his cheek and something made him stay.
“My sister,” he said.
“He killed her?”
“Yes.”
Kamui stared up at him, trying to understand. It was taking a lot of concentration and effort to stay awake, and it didn’t help that his view was partially blocked by… With his good hand, he reached up and slowly pulled the small, round shades from Fuuma’s face, letting them drop to the blankets.
“You look better without them,” he said by way of explanation. It was true. Without the glasses, Fuuma’s eyes were a molten gold. Kamui thought it looked a bit like someone had liquefied the sunlight Fuuma would never see and trapped it forever in his eyes. It was most unfair. Kamui sighed, feeling the constant drowsiness start to pull him back down again.
“How did she die?” he asked suddenly, more to keep himself awake.
Fuuma was silent for a few minutes, contemplating the past. Part of him shied away from those memories-from images of blood-soaked villages that he could still see when he closed his eyes. He’d never told anyone before-in all those years, he’d never told a soul, and he certainly wasn’t going to suddenly tell a… He looked down into wide purple eyes tilted quizzically at him, and words tumbled from his lips.
“It was a long time ago.” He had no idea why he said it. It certainly wasn’t for a pair of pretty eyes. And there really wasn’t any point telling a boy who would have to die in a few days. Maybe because it was pointless… Slowly, he told the boy of life decades ago, of living with his sister after their parents died, promising to keep her safe-told Kamui how he’d woken up to his sister’s screams, to a strange woman with long black hair dragging him out of bed, clamping a hand over his mouth so tight he was practically suffocating. He could still remember her pale, tiny fingers, far too fragile for such a powerful grip. In his mind he heard her calling out “Seishirou!” Saw his sister, lying limply in another stranger’s arms. Heard them whispering something urgently. Felt the total helplessness as it consumed him, because he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe!
And then… nothing.
He’d woken up the night after, buried under bits and pieces of what had been their village, surrounded by a field of corpses-neighbors, friends, enemies. His sister… she’d been one of them, lying there brokenly like so much garbage. He’d been so distraught, he hadn’t at first realized there was anything wrong with him, anything different…
Fuuma trailed off, blinking the present back into focus, half startled to find himself lying on a soft bed in the moonlight with a sleeping black-haired boy beneath him. Kamui… Kamui had fallen asleep. Fuuma smiled a bit exasperatedly, but he really couldn’t fault the boy. He rolled over onto his side and for the longest time laid there staring at the ceiling.
Everything he knew about Seishirou was one disaster after another, starting with the slaughtering of his own home village and ending with the massacre of the village in which a certain pair of brothers had taken refuge. Fuuma had never figured out the identity of the woman who had been with Seishirou that first time. He’d never seen her again. Maybe Seishirou had killed her too. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. The only one he cared about was the one holding the limp body of his sister that night.
It was about time someone teach Seishirou what it meant to lose someone.
By the end of the second week, Fuuma had finally found the information he needed. Piles of displaced books standing on tables and shelves and even a few scattered around Kamui’s bedroom attested to the thoroughness of his search. He wondered absently whether the boy ever noticed the books that often got left on his blankets the few times he was conscious and what he thought about their strange content.
He hadn’t touched Kamui for several nights. The boy had been awfully thin and weak, and Fuuma had left him alone for fear his frail body wouldn’t be able to sustain itself much longer. But that night he went to Kamui again, needing to renew the pull of the bond with the other brother that had dissipated with time. He was careful, feeling the fluttering of the boy’s heart in his chest under the palm of one hand, and a little hasty, impatient to be off now that he had what he needed. Kamui woke as he was laid back down, staring up at him with blurry amethyst eyes.
“Go back to sleep,” Fuuma whispered. “Everything’s all right. Go back to sleep.” He waited for Kamui to nod tiredly, then turned and glided out the door, out into the night, and onto the street. Navigating through the city was a slow process. There were just enough people still out in the city after dark that running would have attracted unwanted attention. Other things besides vampires prowled the streets at night. In particular, Fuuma didn’t want to deal with any hunters. Careless use of inhuman speed would attract unwanted attention. So he slowed his walk to that of other shoppers, painstakingly making his way through the streets, passing fruit stands and butcher shops and, in the very center of the city, the temple. Fuuma had never paid the temple much attention-some occult religion about the end of the world and a vessel that would be the bearer of God’s will. Ridiculous.
Once he reached the forest, he was finally free to run openly, flitting from tree to tree with unnatural speed, gracefully avoiding rocks and roots and treacherous footing. Finally, he found himself back at that large, empty house that seemed to loom out of the forest. Fuuma wasn’t fooled this time. Calling upon the words from the books he’d studied, he broke the illusion, watching as it seemed to dissolve into thousands of petals before fading completely. Reality settled into the hole where the illusion had been. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the sakura trees at least had been real. They weren’t near as tame or as perfect as in the illusion, but they were real-wild, twisted branches reaching for the sky. The house, on the other hand… At one time there had been a house, but it was long gone. Where once proud walls had stood, now only crumbling pieces of foundation remained.
Fuuma made his way through the bits of rock and rubble, jumping gracefully from one unsteady stone to another. He could still feel the pull of the boy coming from somewhere beneath him, somewhere in the ground. It was an odd feeling at first-if he hadn’t known better, he would have said the boy had been buried alive. But no, there would have been no pull if the boy had been dead-not to mention no reason to guard the body so well. That meant he was simply underground, and there had to be some way to get in around there somewhere…
Bits of rusty metal stuck out of the foundation at odd angles and moss-covered mulch that had once been doors and posts littered the ground. Finally, Fuuma came to the remnants of a door-twisted and decaying and really beyond repair, but remarkably intact considering what was left of the rest of the building. He pried it back easily, revealing stone steps descending into what at one time might have been a basement but was now quite thoroughly blocked by huge fragments of the solid foundation. Fuuma sighed. It was impassible. No good. He started to turn away… then stopped. This was Seishirou he was dealing with after all. What if… Upon further inspection, Fuuma realized that the floor above the passageway was littered with debris, but still quite firm. Where then had all that rubble come from that had fallen down inside? An illusion inside an illusion.
Resting one hand against what felt like a pile of solid, unyielding rocks, he again called out the words of the books he’d studied and watched as the rocks dissolved like the first illusion. In their place, a series of well-maintained doors appeared, the first of which was locked and had to be forced. Then he was standing in a dark hallway.
He realized pretty quickly that Seishirou wasn’t there. It smelled of Seishirou-that old Power smell again-but there was only one other presence, one faint heartbeat, amid all the empty rooms around him, and it came from the same direction as the pull that was echoing in his blood. The brother. It was a bit annoying to have done all that work only to find that the man wasn’t even there. But the boy…
He followed the slight whisk sound of pages being turned and found the boy curled up on a bed, book in hand. For being brothers, Fuuma decided, there wasn’t much resemblance. This boy’s hair was black, it was true, but straighter and finer, not so unruly as Kamui’s. He was also small, but not so tiny, and of course, there were the eyes. When he looked up as Fuuma entered the room he flashed brilliant emerald eyes, so different from the sad amethyst ones of the boy back on Fuuma’s bed. And when he spoke…
“Oh! Hello! I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Are you one of Seishirou-san’s friends?” So innocent. So polite.
“I’m afraid I’m not.” Fuuma smirked and closed the distance between them, slipping up onto the bed too quickly for human eyes to register, knees coming up on either side of the boy’s hips to keep him pinned. Subaru gasped at the sudden closeness, instinctively jerking back. Fuuma followed, not letting him escape, shoving him down the rest of the way onto the bed.
“O-Oh, I… Ah…” the boy started stuttering. Fuuma ignored it, catching the boy’s chin in a bruising grip and staring down into those large, green eyes.
“Does Seishirou care so much about you?” he whispered, almost crushing the boy’s face. Those large, green eyes filled with pain, but he didn’t say anything. “Are you so precious to him? Does he think he can keep you safe down here?” Fuuma released the boy, only to reach down and rake one nail slowly through the thin fabric of his shirt, shredding it easily, revealing all that smooth, unblemished skin. Not as pretty as Kamui’s, an annoying voice noticed matter-of-factly in the back of his mind-a voice he steadfastly ignored. Besides, that skin wouldn’t remain unblemished for long…
Cruelly, he increased his grip on the boy’s thin arms, digging his nails into the soft skin and feeling the sticky blood coat his fingers, warm and wonderful. Smiling pleasantly, he slowly slid one red-coated hand down the boy’s arm, leaving finger-paint trails, until he found one small hand and laced their fingers together, smearing the boy’s blood further. Then he lifted their joined hands to his lips and licked the blood from the boy’s delicate fingers, sucking gently, staring down at the helpless boy beneath him thoughtfully. Subaru made no sound of pain or pleasure, simply staring in quiet distress, powerless against the stronger man.
Once one hand had been licked clean satisfactorily, Fuuma’s eyes flicked open. Slowly, he leaned down and lapped at the boy’s exposed, smooth abdomen. Then, with sudden brutality, he bit down, piercing pale skin. The boy jerked a bit into Fuuma’s hold, an involuntary response, but remained silent. Fuuma bit deeper, harder, ignoring the blood his attentions drew. He wanted the boy to scream-scream the way he’d heard his sister screaming, the way he could still hear that scream ringing in his skull.
Still no sound.
Frustrated, he raked at the boy’s pants, hard enough to tear through the fabric… and the skin beneath. But biting hard into the boy’s inner thigh didn’t produce a sound either. He growled softly, irritated.
Subaru remained still. He didn’t understand the strange man who’d suddenly shown up in his doorway or why he was doing this. But he understood that something in the stranger was hurt and that hurting him in turn somehow made the pain a little easier for the man to bear. He didn’t hate the stranger. If taking the abuse was the only thing he could do to help, then so be it, he would gladly take it. So he lay still, biting his lip to keep from crying out, and waited for whatever would come next…
Fuuma sat up to glare down at those blank, green eyes. The blood that was slowly trickling down the boy’s inner thigh and stomach and slowly drying on thin arms didn’t make him happy. Neither did seeing his marks, the little indentations of his fangs, on the otherwise unmarred skin of Seishirou’s precious pet. He didn’t understand. This was supposed to make things better-this was supposed to make up for the years of pain and anger Kotori’s death had caused. He had what he wanted. So why did he still hurt?
In the end, he slid one hand clean through the boy’s abdomen, licked the blood fastidiously from his hand and left him to bleed to death…
After Fuuma left, Subaru’s shock-saturated mind could only think one thing: Seishirou-san would be upset about the mess he was making all over the pretty, white sheets. Like a loop, endlessly repeating itself, the thought that terrified him more than anything else. Seishirou-san would be upset about the mess.
Curled into a helpless, bloody ball, Subaru began to shake. Seishirou-san would be upset. He had to get off the bed. He had to… the bathroom… Subaru got jerkily to his feet. Black spots erupted before his vision and then died down briefly as he stumbled forward, clinging feebly to the doorframe with shaking fingers. He forced himself to continue, pushing into the dark corridor, hand sliding weakly along the wall… shaking, he was shaking so badly. Seishirou-san would be… He collapsed with a sob, frustrated that his legs didn’t seem to be working properly, and then he couldn’t seem to stop sobbing. Seishirou-san was going to be sooo mad.
He tried to crawl, to force stiff arms to jerk him forward, but it was no good. He was bleeding all over the place and his hands slid in the sticky wetness of it and it was no good, no good, no good!
Seishirou-san...
One hand, scrabbling in the blood. Desperate. Panicked.
…would be…
The floor, rushing up.
Seishirou-san...
Fuuma walked through the doors of his own home, strangely desperate to see a pair of amethyst eyes framed by dark, unruly hair-to hear a soft voice whisper his name, cry out the way the green-eyed one hadn’t. However, when he opened the bedroom door, the room was empty. Double-checking, he crossed to the bed, but no… Probably just in a different room. Then maybe the bathroom… No again. Steps increasing in speed as desperation grew, he flew from room to empty room, finally coming to a halt in the entranceway with deadly calm. Something was pinched painfully tight inside him, something cold and sickening, and he didn’t know what it was. Slowly, he examined the house with his senses, listening for a heartbeat, the vibrations of footsteps, a smell… but all his senses told him the same thing…
Kamui was gone.
Author Note: Dual cliffhangers. Could I be more evil? ^_^ And finally, the first switch point. Up till now, Fuuma and Kamui have been dominating the action (with the exception of ch. 4). Now it’s Subaru and Sei who will get longer scenes as they try to deal with the repercussions of this little disaster. As for Kamui… well, let’s just say Fuuma isn’t going to be happy when he finally finds him. ^_~
And with that… I have a 4-digit hit count, finally crossed into the 20k word count mark (length-wise, that means I’m now grouped among the top 50 stories or 3.75%), and completed chapters 8, 9 and part of 10… *huff, pant, wheeze* From the vantage point of ch. 10, let me tell you, it doesn’t feel any closer to the end. Heaven forbid, if I should manage to get this finished… we should celebrate. o_o
A note from Fuuma:
Q) Could I have simply used compulsion to make Kamui stay?
A) Yes, but where would the fun have been in that? More importantly, some humans can resist it, and even if they can't, other times a traumatic experience will break the mental command anyway. 'Physical' restraints are much more 'certain' than mental ones.
P.S.: Special thanks to Sute and JJ for clarifying some canon questions for me... even if I didn't exactly use their answers the way they thought. ^^
Chapter: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen
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