Wedding bells ain't going to chime, with both of us guilty of crime

[letsplaysurgeon]

Who: letsplaysurgeon and deathsdoctor 
What: Katas, cigarettes and copious amounts of banter. Muraki alone on a roof at daybreak with someone he's deeply smitten with.
When: The morning after this, so backdated to the fifteenth of February.
Where: On the roof of CH2.
Summary: A fortuitous meeting when Muraki has an early morning nic-fit and heads to the roof for some smoke

Comments

[letsplaysurgeon]

[It takes him a second to respond, because that's how long he needs to gather himself. Perhaps the lack of sleep slowed his brain down to the same steady pace that you were still moving the lightning around. Perhaps it was the fact that he hadn't planned for this.

He hadn't expected you to be living in the same building. The unexpected convenience was something that one could find in a sitcom, and he certainly wouldn't have planned to run into you when he looked a little more touseled than normal.

Muraki wasn't surprised often. He ran things like a chess board, moving his pawns and looking three steps ahead to get the results that he wanted--and it worked. It worked because he treated it like an art. He didn't like to be rushed.

But the hiccup couldn't seem to graduate to a higher level of irritation. He feels something else settle inside his lungs--was it relief?

He knows the faint stirring in his stomach when he recognizes that skin is bare. More than the first time he met you. But he won't let himself look that far.

Not yet.

His gaze remains lax, watching the curve of your neck without thinking. Then he shifts effortlessly into his typical poise: straightening and running a hand through his hair as he glances to the side with a brief 'hmph' in his throat.]

I hadn't planned on observing the view...then again, I also didn't expect to see you here. [His eyes dart a little bit over your face, collecting details. Now that the pieces had fallen together, he can appreciate the situation in full: and what bizarre magic you have, Doctor.

He smiles and jokes.] It seems I found out where you live after all, Mr. Law.

/Will stop editing this like a crazy person

[letsplaysurgeon]

I suppose it is.

[He holds your gaze for a few seconds, entirely casual. Even when it occurs to him what a look could suggest--even promise--and he wonders what might happen if he tested you. Would you shy away from him if his look became significant?

Instead he breaks the moment, flicking his eyes onto the scenery past your shoulder. It seems almost darker without the strokes of lightning, and he sees the random scattering of stars in the sky. Pretty.

But no, he doesn't give a damn about the view. Especially in this world. Perhaps he's just biased--have you ever seen Kyoto, Law?]

You have a very respectable morning routine. Fitting for a man who carries a sword. [A slight laugh.] Unfortunately my motives for being here are not as healthy as yours.

[He emphasizes this point by opening his trench coat and reaching into one of the interior pockets, pulling out a zippo and a pack of Mild Sevens after fumbling for a moment. Once he picks one out of the pack, he seems to forget you for a moment as he concentrates on the ritual of lighting his cigarette. His movements are well-practiced, like getting dressed in the morning: he bites down on the filter and cups one hand above the lighter, using his opposite thumb to flick the wheel. A weak flame ignites, flapping in the wind and charring the edge of his cigarette. So he has to brace himself against the wind, strike the lighter again and suck until it's fully lit.

He snaps the lighter shut with a metallic click and returns it to his pocket. Then Muraki pinches the cigarette between two fingers and exhales a stream of smoke into the air, taking care to direct it away from you.]

...That is correct. And now it would be proper etiquette for you to answer me, wouldn't it? [He looks amused.] If I'm not mistaken, we are in person.

[letsplaysurgeon]

[Meanwhile Muraki hasn't figured out your sexual preferences yet--if you like men or women exclusively--but that didn't interest him, either. It wasn't a question of how you felt about men, or even if you've been with one before, but if you'll be attracted to him. No, they did not occur to him as one and the same. It goes without saying that his attitude wouldn't change even if you were the most blatant specimen of heterosexuality to appear in front of him and profess a passionate love for sweater kittens.

But it would be an unbelievable shame if you didn't have an open mind.

...Of course, he has to wonder if a straight man would've allowed the journal conversation to carry on the way it did, with all its implications. He doubts you're dense enough to miss that.

And he's already decided you will like it--Kyoto, that is. Your apparent patience and calm manner would compliment the old architecture and zen gardens. As far as he's seen...though he stops and finds it a bit odd that he's associating you with something almost personal to him.]

It's not a question of what building you live in, Mr. Law. That much is clear. [Unless you make a habit of hanging out on random rooftops like a superhero.] But there are several floors. And more than a few apartments on those floors, making it rather difficult to just "drop by," as you put it before. [His lips quirk around his cigarette.] Unless of course, that is your intention.

[Because you still suspect something from him, don't you?]

[letsplaysurgeon]

[He watches the casual shift of your shoulder and glances down, following the direction of your point to the ground. But he doesn't examine the gritty surface for very long before his eyes trace back up the length of your arm. In the anemic sunlight, he can still see the flash of black that was not shadow or human flesh--or even fabric, as he finds the lip of your sleeve. By his world's standards, there was only one explanation.

He hums inside his throat once he belatedly remembers you said something and moves, gravitating first to the center of the roof, and then a little bit closer until the marks on your skin comes into sharper focus.

Not scars, or bruises. Ink. And a lot of it. A splotch on the back of your hand that was still hard to make out in the dim lighting, and across on your forearm, what looks like an old-fashioned ship helm (that was the closest item in his mental files that Muraki could connect to the shape--though he wasn't sure what that meant in regards to what he thinks he knows about you) inside a larger, spiked circle.

He tilts his head, not even attempting to be discreet about his staring.]

You're tattooed. [He puts it simply and without emotion, almost as if he were commenting on the weather.]

[letsplaysurgeon]

[That almost seems like the end to the conversation, as Muraki takes another slow drag from his cigarette, holding it in his lungs for a few seconds before he exhales towards the sky. He curls his thumb underneath the filter and flicks ash onto the ground like a tiny spray of carcinogenic fairy dust; then a gentle smile appears on his face.]

Might I take a closer look? [He holds his free palm out before he even finishes his question, relaxed and open with his body language, which opposes how much he anticipates...wants your compliance. You might also notice he's reaching for your left arm more than the right.

Not him. Or anyone else he knows very well. In his country there is an indelible link between tattoos and the mafia--especially large ones. The cultural part of him is a little shocked to see a doctor--even a foreign one--with such bold markings. But another part is thrilled by the disagreement between your appearance and status. It suggests there's more to you than that. You're not just a pretty face, are you, Law?]

[letsplaysurgeon]

[His face brightens, pleased that you agreed to what he wanted--and you were very cute just now.] Of course. [What else was he going to do?

...Of course he was more than capable of forcing himself on others. He did it once in the past, and he didn't lose sleep over that fact. But that's not how he wants this to happen. It would be a mockery to his feelings: the curiosity, respect and visceral attraction.

He wasn't all sharp edges and dark intentions: he was a gentleman. A romantic. He meant what he said about seducing you.

If given half the chance--the consent--he would do more than just grab.

But for now, he very politely lifts his hand to fit your palm, sliding his fingers over your pulse point and uses that to pull himself closer. There's a slight rush in making contact for the first time that makes his breath hitch, and he hides it well.

He marvels at the contrast in skin tone before he tilts his head and speaks.] They're very beautiful. ...Any significance?

[letsplaysurgeon]

[Don't be a drag, just be a queen, Law. That's all I'm going to say to that.

The calluses don't come as a surprise to Muraki when he already knows that you're a swordsman. It's yet another point of contrast between your hands and his, which are a bit softer and treated frequently with lotion. He keeps his touch innocent, two fingers hooked around your radiocarpal joint for the sole purpose of holding onto you as he skims your tattoos.]

I'm only a doctor, Mr. Law. I wouldn’t have any idea what fighters say to one another. [Of course he catches the first part of that statement as well, and one of his eyebrows quirks with interest.] Are you fond of the sea?

[It doesn't faze him in the slightest to think of another man as beautiful, let alone address him as such. It was a unisex state of being, as far as he was concerned. Anything could be beautiful. Even warnings.

He chuckles at the question.] Aside from the uproar it would cause at home, I'm afraid it's not really my cup of tea. I'll leave it to you to be artistic.

[He lets go--but he can't without being a little daring. He slides his hand back just as gentle as he touched you, but curls his fingertips before the contact breaks, brushing your palm for a brief fraction of a second. It could've been an accident, or a last minute distraction--if that's what you want them to be. But if you understand his suggestion...

Of course there's a risk. His eyes flick onto the nodachi on the side: he wonders vaguely if he'll be injured for attempting to gauge your interest in him (and he won't move again until he knows). Not that he appears threatened as he turns to observe the skyline, tapping his cigarette again before putting it between his lips.]

[letsplaysurgeon]

Would that be terrible? [He tilts his head towards the sky.] If I become exposed to your language, I'll be better suited to compliment you, won't I? "Beautiful" doesn't seem to do it for you, after all.

[Not an outrageous public scandal, but it would be shocking, and unheard of among his generation. He was already in a minority for wearing earrings at his age: he can't imagine how his dear, sweet Ukyou would feel about him coming home with sleeves. Oriya would either be exhausted and accepting or demand what kind of drugs he was on. And that almost made him consider it--almost. He inhales smoke.] In a sense. [Exhales.] It's true, being tattooed carries a certain stigma there, and even makes it difficult to enter certain places. More often than not, it's considered the mark of a criminal...

...But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Mr. Law?

[His tone softens to a level that's almost warm, rolling the last few syllables off his tongue like something valuable he was admiring. It was rhetorical because he knows you wouldn't when you're not from the same world (but your home is the sea--that might explain the ship helms on your forearms). He's just playing with your last name. Law and lawbreaking. It's all quite funny to him.

Perhaps it is a challenge. Or a statement. In this environment, it's sometimes necessary to use a secret language to convey unconventional desires and seek out the interested parties. Those who will find meaning in something small.

But other than that, he just wants to touch you. Plain and simple. Your tattoos gave him his first excuse to do so, and it still lingers with him, the burning sense that this wasn't enough. Touching your wrist just opens a threshold of other possibilities. Other places to touch.

When he feels your attention drift off of him, he shifts to size you up again with absolute discretion. He laughs again, voice returning to its usual guarded amusement as he shrugs his shoulders.] I'm afraid you just pegged it. But I'm much more of a coffee person.

And you? Any other fancies besides marking your body with a needle? [That shouldn't have made a faint shiver run down his spine.]