[Yami no Matsuei] "Cain Arisen" (R)
Author's Note: Written for comment_fic's Any, any, I've been thinking 'bout old Cain and Able
Sittin' at a breakfast table
Talking 'bout the way things used to be
Able looked at Cain and said
"All that shit was in your head"
I'd like to think that Cain was hard to please. Alternate universe for the Kyoto arc. WARNING: General weirdness, implied Muraki/rebuilt!Saki, violence and just plain creepiness. This is a dark fic. Really.
Saki was almost healed: stem cells from the shinigami's body had helped to fuse the spine to the rest of the body, as a kind of neuronal "glue", now it was a matter of time and healing. He would have to keep Saki in the life support tank for some weeks further, and he would need to keep the young man in the same medically induced coma that his head had been kept under for so many years. Electro-stimulation would keep the muscles of the body from atrophying during the recovery period. But the time would come to revive him, and he knew just the setting in which to place the revival.
One of the few decent memories he had of Saki, from the earliest days when his half-brother had first come to live with the family. Saki had had a habit of bumping his elbow at the breakfast table, companionably at first, or so it seemed. But this gesture proved a harbinger of other intentions, far less benign and far from companionable.
* * * *
Saki felt his lungs draw in a breath on their own, and his eyelids start to flutter open. The last thing he could remember clearly, he was standing in the rear hallway of the family mansion, he standing over the prone form of the pale whelp his father had told him was his younger half-brother -- younger by a half a day, how did the old man pull it off?
He blinked several time, clearing his eyes, and he realized that he sat in a dim-lit room, across a well-appointed breakfast table from a tall, pale man in a white suit, peering at him through rimless eyeglasses. At first, he took the interloper for an old man, but his face looked too smooth, too young.
"You're conscious, that's good," the stranger said, smirking and sitting forward in his chair.
"Where am I? What is this place?" Saki demanded, trying to rise, but his legs wobbled beneath him and he sagged back into his chair. "What just happened? You're not one of those creeps who kidnap young guys and drug them so they can mess with them, are you?"
"You were shot in the back by the family butler: he mistook you for a burglar," the pale stranger replied. The voice sounded deeper, more mellow, far more mature and confident, but somehow it sounded like the voice of the pale freak. And the eyes: he could not see one through the man's dense mane of silvery hair, but the one eye that looked at him was silvery, the pupil narrowed like a cat's.
"Kazutaka...?" Saki asked.
The pale man smirked. "You recognized me? That's a good sign: you've just come out of a coma that's lasted nearly thirty years. Some memory loss or confusion is to be expected, but that doesn't seem to be affecting you."
"I was in a coma? Well, I hope I was in good hands," Saki replied. The other man held all the cards, and he hated this feeling, being at the mercy of the other.
"You were well-cared for, I can assure you that. You were in a bad state, but you're healing now," Kazutaka replied. He was hiding something, but he kept that bit of information close to his vest, whatever it was.
"I suppose that means you've been taking care of the family estate since then? Well, remember I get the inheritance: I hope you haven't wasted it all on me," he said, eyeing the other's neatly tailored suit.
"Mmm, when I wasn't busy with my studies or with tending the family practice and the clinic," Kazutaka replied.
"Sounds like you got the lot. How do we know the old man didn't stage the whole thing, got me injured and all," Saki retorted. "He always liked you best, though I can't see why."
"Legally, you were declared dead, Saki; my grandfather had you hidden away. I did not find that you were on life support till a few years ago," Kazutaka replied, sitting back in his chair.
"And so you came to my rescue and saved me from uncertain health and an uncertain fate. Well, you got to be the hero: you were able to make something of yourself after all, you pale freak," Saki said, reaching for a stack of toast that stood among the dishes on the table.
Light glinted on silver and Saki felt a pain burn through his hand. He looked down at the long-bladed, black-handled knife that pinned his hand to the table top, the point rammed through the cloth and into the wood.
"You may call me that in jest, you lovely little bastard. But only in jest," Kazutaka murmured, standing over him, another blade already in hand. The light in the room glinted off his right in ways that light should not glint.
Then he saw the row of blades beside his brother's plate, blades of several sizes and shapes...
Sittin' at a breakfast table
Talking 'bout the way things used to be
Able looked at Cain and said
"All that shit was in your head"
I'd like to think that Cain was hard to please. Alternate universe for the Kyoto arc. WARNING: General weirdness, implied Muraki/rebuilt!Saki, violence and just plain creepiness. This is a dark fic. Really.
Saki was almost healed: stem cells from the shinigami's body had helped to fuse the spine to the rest of the body, as a kind of neuronal "glue", now it was a matter of time and healing. He would have to keep Saki in the life support tank for some weeks further, and he would need to keep the young man in the same medically induced coma that his head had been kept under for so many years. Electro-stimulation would keep the muscles of the body from atrophying during the recovery period. But the time would come to revive him, and he knew just the setting in which to place the revival.
One of the few decent memories he had of Saki, from the earliest days when his half-brother had first come to live with the family. Saki had had a habit of bumping his elbow at the breakfast table, companionably at first, or so it seemed. But this gesture proved a harbinger of other intentions, far less benign and far from companionable.
* * * *
Saki felt his lungs draw in a breath on their own, and his eyelids start to flutter open. The last thing he could remember clearly, he was standing in the rear hallway of the family mansion, he standing over the prone form of the pale whelp his father had told him was his younger half-brother -- younger by a half a day, how did the old man pull it off?
He blinked several time, clearing his eyes, and he realized that he sat in a dim-lit room, across a well-appointed breakfast table from a tall, pale man in a white suit, peering at him through rimless eyeglasses. At first, he took the interloper for an old man, but his face looked too smooth, too young.
"You're conscious, that's good," the stranger said, smirking and sitting forward in his chair.
"Where am I? What is this place?" Saki demanded, trying to rise, but his legs wobbled beneath him and he sagged back into his chair. "What just happened? You're not one of those creeps who kidnap young guys and drug them so they can mess with them, are you?"
"You were shot in the back by the family butler: he mistook you for a burglar," the pale stranger replied. The voice sounded deeper, more mellow, far more mature and confident, but somehow it sounded like the voice of the pale freak. And the eyes: he could not see one through the man's dense mane of silvery hair, but the one eye that looked at him was silvery, the pupil narrowed like a cat's.
"Kazutaka...?" Saki asked.
The pale man smirked. "You recognized me? That's a good sign: you've just come out of a coma that's lasted nearly thirty years. Some memory loss or confusion is to be expected, but that doesn't seem to be affecting you."
"I was in a coma? Well, I hope I was in good hands," Saki replied. The other man held all the cards, and he hated this feeling, being at the mercy of the other.
"You were well-cared for, I can assure you that. You were in a bad state, but you're healing now," Kazutaka replied. He was hiding something, but he kept that bit of information close to his vest, whatever it was.
"I suppose that means you've been taking care of the family estate since then? Well, remember I get the inheritance: I hope you haven't wasted it all on me," he said, eyeing the other's neatly tailored suit.
"Mmm, when I wasn't busy with my studies or with tending the family practice and the clinic," Kazutaka replied.
"Sounds like you got the lot. How do we know the old man didn't stage the whole thing, got me injured and all," Saki retorted. "He always liked you best, though I can't see why."
"Legally, you were declared dead, Saki; my grandfather had you hidden away. I did not find that you were on life support till a few years ago," Kazutaka replied, sitting back in his chair.
"And so you came to my rescue and saved me from uncertain health and an uncertain fate. Well, you got to be the hero: you were able to make something of yourself after all, you pale freak," Saki said, reaching for a stack of toast that stood among the dishes on the table.
Light glinted on silver and Saki felt a pain burn through his hand. He looked down at the long-bladed, black-handled knife that pinned his hand to the table top, the point rammed through the cloth and into the wood.
"You may call me that in jest, you lovely little bastard. But only in jest," Kazutaka murmured, standing over him, another blade already in hand. The light in the room glinted off his right in ways that light should not glint.
Then he saw the row of blades beside his brother's plate, blades of several sizes and shapes...