[X] Finger
Title: Finger
Author: Elf Asato
Written: 03/12/05 - 09/10/05
Summary: Post-X17 Fuuma/Subaru smut (or is it Subaru/Fuuma?).
Disclaimer: Not mine whatsoever.
Notes: Way back when I started this, I knew why it was called Finger, but now I've forgotten, really.... Thanks to denpagirl for being there from the beginning and being online while I finished it so I could bug her about the ending (haha).
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Finger
By Elf Asato
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In the lonely silence of his apartment, the noise his finger made when it tapped the side of his ceramic mug of tea was nearly deafening. He stopped after the first time, and thought he might prefer the absolute silence, but then even that became too much and he tapped his finger against it once again. The liquid inside the mug rippled in response. It was then that he noticed the caked, dried blood on his fingers, the reddish stain to his cuticles, how the color of his fingers wasn't quite natural or consistent with his other hand. Cigarettes and blood had done that, and cigarettes and blood were Seishirou.
He didn't like to think of what happened on the bridge, though he did so at least once a day. Such thoughts and memories couldn't stop with constant reminders around him, and the eye he had accepted from Fuuma had made things worse. It had gotten to the point where he couldn't even stand to look in the mirror anymore, couldn't look at his own face and see the marriage of yin and yang, of amber and green, of the Sakurazukamori within the Sumeragi clan head. So he took down all the mirrors in the apartment, keeping only one for his work, and every morning hoped that he looked at least somewhat presentable while he got ready, especially if he had a job.
As he took a sip, he found that the tea had gone cold and tried to remember when he had first poured it, finally realizing that it had been early morning when he fixed the mug in an attempt to soothe his insomnia. It was late afternoon now. To his kitchenette he moved with the intent on re-heating it in the microwave, but on the way he happened to see his reflection in the cold, dark liquid swirling about languidly as if in a lazy and half-hearted attempt to form a whirlpool, and poured the tainted substance into the sink instead.
That was when he noticed for the first time that he wasn't alone, but the very thought and knowledge of it did nothing to alarm or even concern him. The energy and presence he noticed came and went as it pleased, so it didn't matter whether or not he knew it was there. He might as well be polite, though. "Tea, Fuuma?"
"Some onmyouji you are," Fuuma criticized with a slow drawl and yawn from his place on the couch where he was sprawled out casually, looking sluggish and very comfortable. "I walked in over ten minutes ago while you were at the table, staring at who-knows-what, and you don't even notice me until now? Shouldn't the Sakurazukamori be more alert than that?"
In response he shrugged and turned on the faucet to rinse out his mug. Before, yes, he would have noticed an intruder, any intruder, because of the heavy wards he used to fortify his apartment with, but...well, that was before, when a sadist who he could allow to hurt his heart further and damage his work was alive, when he actually gave some semblance of a damn if the earth was destroyed. He wasn't at all concerned about himself or anything else now, and couldn't care less if someone, enemy or not, entered the place. The spiritual work he performed was tainted now anyway, and he supposed he was only alive to remain physically near the one-no-longer that his heart deemed as special. It was weighty reason considering the cost to humanity, his clan, and himself by his livelihood; he had cut off contact with his grandmother shortly after accepting the Sakurazukamori's eye to protect her and the others from finding out what he had agreed to become. It would be embarrassing for him if they were to know, anyway. "I asked if you wanted tea," he finally remembered.
"And I'm asking you to take Prozac -- you're my Dragon now, so get a clue about your responsibilities and act like it," Fuuma retorted with a familiar tone he had grown used to employing when dealing with the Sumeragi, a tone of irksome fondness for the man who reminded him of two former friends. When Subaru gave him a pointed stare with a thin, arched brow, he finally resigned to answering, "...Fine, pour me a cup."
With utter compliancy, he ignored Fuuma's earlier remark and instead retrieved a clean mug, pouring the greenish brown liquid that swirled carelessly about from the kettle inside until it nearly reached the rim. Silently he closed the distance between him and his Kamui and placed the drink into his hand as the other shifted on the couch to a less casual position, then the onmyouji sat quietly in a drab, matching recliner nearby.
Quietly and without thanks Fuuma watched his dull and aimless Dragon as he took a drink of the cup given to him. He sputtered almost immediately and made a noise of disgust. "The hell? This is cold; it's disgusting. When did you make this?"
The Sakurazukamori shrugged elegantly and made no signal to show that he in the slightest cared at all whether or not Fuuma was pleased with the temperature of his tea. "A few hours ago. I was going to reheat it. Cold tea isn't that bad, anyway."
"It is when it's supposed to be hot," he retorted crossly and held out the cup for the Sumeragi to whisk away for him. No such thing happened, however, as he stared at him blankly, and finally Fuuma was forced to get up from his spot on the couch himself and pour the tepid liquid down the drain. He added, "And it wouldn't kill you to be a better host, you know," but again, the Sumeragi didn't seem to care at all.
He settled into the recliner further, folding his legs underneath him and resting his elbow on its arm, as Fuuma returned to his place on the couch but did not resume his casual, languid position from before. "I never exactly invited you in, though, so it hardly matters. And I brought you tea, anyway, so what are you complaining for?" His words held only the mildest interest in what he was saying, but even had the Sakurazukamori been genuinely into the conversation, his voice still would have held that monotonous, unfeeling and uncaring tone, the tone of a weary and jaded man whose heart has frozen over, and his words still would have been bored and turned to stone.
"Cold tea," murmured Fuuma, like a man deeply wronged, as he assessed the Sumeragi for the first time that day. It was something he did mentally every time he saw him. Subaru's condition and behavior varied from day to day depending on how he felt when he woke up that morning or afternoon, and in the Kamui's eyes, he was like Libra's scales; sometimes he reminded him of that cute, sweet, and terribly sensitive childhood friend he had that his sister loved with his broken innocence and the air of tragedy, and sometimes he reminded him of his more recent-but-deceased-chain-smoking-assassin friend with the cold, sharp, yet playful manner. The scales tipped in favor of the latter with increasing frequency ever since Fuuma lost that fun and gained a headache.
Today he saw a chain-smoking assassin dripping with the air of tragedy and broken innocence before him.
He just shrugged and gazed at his fingernails, trying to ignore Fuuma's penetrating stare, yet trying to ignore the blood stains that he saw on his fingers - real and imagined; in actuality it was only his cuticles and fingernails that were tinted a strange red, slightly, but in his mind he always saw his hand dripping with fresh, warm blood, and no matter how many times he tried to wash his hands, to rid himself of everything he hated himself for, to purify his soul, it would never be clean. His hands were eternally stained by the blood of the hearts he'd held in them, and no amount of scrubbing or manicures could ever remedy that. He wondered if Fuuma ever noticed the red guilt on his hands and how everything he touched turned that hateful, awful color.
"Not a good day so far?" Fuuma inquired mildly as the older man patted around his jeans pockets for something before pulling a crushed pack of cigarettes out, like he had haphazardly shoved them in there and then had went about his day, forgetting about them entirely until just now. Half the cigarettes were crushed, broken, or otherwise mutilated, but he managed to find a whole one and searched in his pockets for a lighter. "Here," the dark Kamui offered as he reached into a pocket, pulling out a plastic one with the image of a sunset on it, and offered it to him.
The Sakurazukamori never uttered a word of thanks, no, not anymore, but accepted and used the lighter all the same, wordlessly handing it back to him when he was done. "I killed a little girl this morning," he said finally, albeit distantly, after he took one drag from his cigarette and let it rest comfortably between his two fingers, occasionally reaching over to tap the burning ash accumulating on the end of it into the ashtray on the coffee table nearby. "She was so cheerful and energetic and young and sweet -- I had to kill her...somewhat botched the job I had last night. Accidentally saw me kill her father, but I hadn't realized there was a witness until the Tree let me know later. She was too young, though, to understand what she saw. Doubt she understood the concept of death or murder or what blood was."
"Hm, but children, even young ones, can be remarkably observant when it comes to things they don't quite understand," Fuuma countered quietly as he propped his elbow up on the couch arm and rest his chin in his hand, "so it was probably for the best. She would have eventually grown to be scarred or traumatized from the experience, and then her cheerful livelihood would have been for nothing, right?"
The Sumeragi shrugged again and muttered softly, "Whatever. She's with the sakura now -- I kept telling her as she died how pretty its blossoms were and how nice they smelled so she wouldn't be afraid; but since it was instant death for her, it probably didn't matter. ...He would never have made such a mistake though."
"No, I doubt he would have," he replied blandly as his tone purposefully softened because he knew, they both knew, that he had once, so many years ago, made exactly that mistake. It wasn't something he was going to point out to the Sakurazukamori, anyway, though.
And the silence that immediately followed was heavy and full of things that they would traditionally and automatically cast aside.
"So no," Subaru said at last, his already thin and faded voice just barely above a whisper, as he let his cigarette rest on the side of the ashtray and somewhat curled into himself on the chair, "it hasn't been a good day so far at all. ...You see, the blood's still there...and it won't come off."
Fuuma cast a quick glance at the Sakurazukamori's hands and saw nothing but pale skin covering what seemed to be a frame of merely bones, like any fat or muscle was non-existent and if it was there, it was hiding. When he spoke to his Dragon, he did so smoothly and gently because he knew the fickleness of the Scales, "...Your hands look clean to me."
He looked at him in surprise, as if Fuuma were the one out of his right mind, but his eyes still remained hollow and empty, though...there was an odd brightness to them that sparked a sense of familiar apprehension within the younger man. "You...don't see it?" he asked in a soft murmur as he held out a hand for him to see, to decide on further inspection that he was right and there really were blood stains on his hands. "Not any of it? Well, what about the red right there, and the blood underneath...?" He reached out his hand further until Fuuma, after a strange gaze into his eyes, took it and gave his fingers a mock-inspection.
"If you scrubbed the tips of your fingers well with a sponge instead of staring at it and freaking out about it, I bet that the blood caked underneath your fingernails will go away, but other than that, your hands are absolutely...fine," Fuuma said with his eyes cast downward, and it was true, the blood would be gone with a good scrub, but he didn't mention how the previous Sakurazukamori's fingers looked like that, discolored slightly from cigarettes and blood, only with more meat to them; this one was just skin and bones, which was another issue unto itself. "Though, they're so bony that--"
"I don't feel like eating," Subaru nearly snapped as he attempted to pull his hand back, but Fuuma held onto his fingers for a few seconds as he noted how his eyes had returned to their usual lackluster green and amber before letting go. He also noted the faint ghost of a blush that had risen up into the Sumeragi's cheeks, and he smirked, aiming to provoke, as the mild apprehension that he had felt before receded and vanished all together.
After all, he never needed to be on his toes with Subaru.
Fuuma's poise relaxed as he casually leaned forward against the couch arm, closer towards the other, and kept his smirk as he added, "Actually, without that extra, healthy fat, you kind of look like you could be one of those high fashion, anorexic supermodels. And, of course, your pretty face doesn't detract from this. You ever think of giving up the spiritual business to go into fashion?"
A thin eyebrow arched skeptically above Subaru's amber eye as he muttered in a monotonous, yet clear tone, "...Are you wanting me to give up being your Dragon to be on the cover of Smart?"
"I'm just asking if you've ever thought about it."
The Sumeragi took a few seconds to answer, but he finally replied in that same flat voice, this time tinged with sarcasm and a hint of bitterness, "Well let me just drop everything and get right on that." And Fuuma gathered from his timbre as his upward-turned lips eventually came to a nearly flat line that while it may not have been his dream, the fashion industry definitely had been someone else's dream for him. "Besides," he continued, trying to come off as nonchalant as he took a drag from his cigarette, "eating disorders are a serious problem for women in that line of work. They're desperate to stay beautiful, but..."
Fuuma couldn't resist; he knew why that man had loved to tease him - if only to see that blush once more... "Well, are you a woman?"
The question had the desired effect as Subaru blushed almost immediately upon its asking and retorted almost forcefully in agitation, "Do I look like woman?"
A slow, languid smile crossed Fuuma's slightly parted lips and spread up into his eyes as he deliberately never gave an answer.
"Don't smile at me like that," he murmured softly with a growing reddish hue to his face as he turned his head minutely to gaze with his dull eyes somewhere else - at anything but Fuuma - and curled up into the chair slightly. "You look like the Cheshire cat when you do that. ...In...any case, I - I have no intention of pursuing anything else at the moment...if that's what you were wondering..."
Fuuma hadn't really been genuinely interested or concerned in the first place, but his smile stayed out of politeness and overall contentment with his situation and the man before him. Instead he decided to pursue a stray thought that had recently crossed his mind during his conversation with the Sumeragi, "Are you really done with him?"
For the briefest of seconds, Subaru's eyes flashed in confusion, but then, practically in shock, he registered what Fuuma had meant and with bright but deeply disturbed eyes he asked, almost in a sudden but controlled panic as he stubbed out his cigarette, "Well he's dead isn't he?"
A short laugh escaped Fuuma's lips and he watched the other with morbid curiosity, "Of course he's dead. You killed him, didn't you?" He watched his eyes go through several shades of green before continuing, "But I meant that...while physically he is no more, you aren't letting him die in spirit, are you? That's what I meant by 'done with'."
"No...of course not," came the Sumeragi's sullen and dark reply as he focused his attentions elsewhere, away from Fuuma's penetrating gaze.
Almost on a whim, as if on a dare from himself, Fuuma rose from his spot on the couch and perched himself on the arm of the chair Subaru was sitting in, much to his surprise and discomfort. "Good," he went on, "because there's nothing wrong with letting the spirit and memory of someone passed live on, but...it becomes a problem when you're consumed by it." As Subaru looked up at him, thinking over his words combined with their close proximity, Fuuma gazed into his mismatched eyes deeply, further driving his point home. "It's probably hard to consider, considering how you've spent the majority of your life, but," he added softly as he touched the underside of the onmyouji's chin fondly, and with the other hand he ran a thumb over the back of his formerly marked hands, "...you are not his property anymore."
Something inside the previously still man awoke violently at his words and the Sakurazukamori grabbed the hand stroking his almost angrily but allowed the one touching his chin to stay.
Fuuma felt adrenaline course through his veins as he noticed his curiously bright eyes.
For a while, neither said a word as the sudden tension between them buzzed tightly, but then at once it both exploded in climax and faded anti-climactically by a single daring and reckless action carried out not in any real desire, no, but in that same sort of feeling that had fueled so many of their actions before.
Morbid curiosity had been the reason why Fuuma kissed the Sakurazukamori.
Red tinted the Sumeragi's cheeks furiously, and it only served to accent his bright eyes; amber served as a bridge between green and red. He jerked away suddenly, pupils somewhat dilated, as he glared at the dark Kamui sharply, his breath catching every so often, and he managed in a strained voice, "What the hell."
Fuuma only returned his stare evenly and expertly without expression, though inwardly his heart was beating more quickly than normal. He couldn't recall a time when the air of a dangerously unstable man was ever stronger, and for a moment he regretted planting that kiss on his pale lips. But any doubt that lingered in his mind was pushed away forcefully by the exquisite blush that painted the onmyouji's cheeks; he knew what he was after then. He gave no indication of the thoughts within him, though, and instead provoked, "What, haven't you ever been kissed before?"
The Sakurazukamori's speed was accented by Fuuma's non-responsiveness and he pulled the teenager down, pinning him to the recliner with both hands and straddling his legs not in sensuality but entrapment. "How dare you..." he whispered, almost exhaustedly; the sudden motion had served as a brief outlet to Subaru's flash of anger, and he sat on Fuuma's legs, still upset but not sure of what course of action to take.
And Fuuma saw this in his eyes, saw the familiar confusion tinged with despair, saw the flicker in a search for something. He stood something to gain by provoking the Sumeragi, even if he wasn't sure at the time what it was, and the prospect of something gained obliterated any reservations he might have had about picking on his newest Angel. "Subaru," he said coolly with intentions marked as both innocent and cruel, "...you're getting blood on me." He gestured with his chin to the hands that still had his shoulders pinned.
"I'm sorry!" he said instantly and released his hands from Fuuma's shoulders, withdrawing them against his chest. But although he continued to apologize profusely for dirtying his Kamui with imaginary blood, his eyes kept strangely bright. "I'm sorry, I really am, but no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to..."
Cupping a hand to the Sakurazukamori's cheek, Fuuma quieted him as he smiled gently, though his brown eyes held the impression of something else, and pulled him down to kiss his lips in a feather-light touch. This time he was no longer reactionary and seemed rather pleasantly resigned to kissing the dark Kamui. "What," Fuuma asked wryly as he took up a softer tone and his hand stayed, "you've suddenly decided that this is okay?"
After a brief moment of going over things in his mind, he answered simply and airily, his bright eyes stark against the recent absence of a blush, "I can kiss anyone I want."
A genuine smile crossed Fuuma's lips. The Sakurazukamori had just gotten interesting.
"Can you now...?" he asked softly as his voice barely rose at the end, all the while locked in a steady gaze with the other.
Subaru visibly swallowed but after a brief hesitation, he answered in a soft and surprisingly sure voice, "...I can." And then he leaned forward, pressing his lips against Fuuma's awkwardly, almost, and the teenager accepted the kiss as if it were simply the next thing in the natural flow of events; he felt his lips curve up into a smile. Subaru was an inexperienced kisser, and in the end it was up to Fuuma to direct their movements, though he wasn't much more experienced than the Sumeragi. He was simply able to fool with his confidence more.
Fuuma's hands rest on the small of Subaru's back, and as their lips moved against each other's - he slipped a little tongue into the older man's mouth, slightly startling him - one hand would slide up his band and the other would trail downward to cup his buttocks. Even through his lips, Fuuma could have sworn he felt Subaru blush.
With his mind racing in several chaotic directions, Subaru clutched the fabric over the Angel's chest, as if he were steadying himself or making sure that he had a firm an anchor so he didn't go floating off into space because the laws of gravity had no application to him. He wasn't falling this time in anything, no, he was floating, floating high above Tokyo, above Japan, above the world - light as a feather in contrast to usually being stiff as a board.
Even without his tongue probing thoroughly, Fuuma knew what the Sakurazukamori tasted like: coffee, cigarettes, and the metallic hint of blood. Vaguely he wondered what Subaru tasted like, but he didn't want to disrupt the flow. And flow dictated that he press the man against himself, tightly, fully, to feel every part of themselves against each other; in that moment he felt the need to validate his own existence, to forcefully show the onmyouji that he was real and there, no matter how much anyone said otherwise. He had a crazy notion, as he kissed the man, that somehow they could repair their fractured souls and be who they really were - not what they naturally should have been, but what experience and environment forced them to be. That was the difference between a dream and reality, heaven and earth, Subaru and Fuuma.
And Fuuma wanted to find out who Subaru really was.
The Sakurazukamori tapered the kiss off into languidness, sensually sucking on and licking their lips, as if having nothing else worthwhile to do. His mind was filled with a buzzing noise, and Fuuma's hands on him were making strange things happen all over his body and inside his head; they made the buzzing chaotic and blood coursed throughout him rapidly. This he was used to, from a kill, but Fuuma's hands also made odd thoughts of irrational rationality spring into mind.
What was he doing?, was he honestly enjoying this?, the other thoughts he had were sick and wrong, what would he think? - each thought louder than the other, but the buzzing sought to drown it all out until there was nothing left to think about. Nothing but the skin beneath his flesh, pounding and pulsating in time with his head. His fingers drew an imaginary trail of blood from Fuuma's collarbone down to the waist of his pants.
Where the Sakurazukamori's fingers had been, the touch burned, not like a flame, but acid - as if there was something wrong with his very chemical makeup itself. The thought crossed Fuuma's mind that this was truer than he would ever have the opportunity to realize, but such thoughts were shortlived as the older man pressed himself closer, detaching their lips to suck on his earlobe. As a natural observer, it wasn't so much physical sensation that interested Fuuma but simple behavior, which had initially drawn him to the former Dragon of Heaven. He always seemed to be acting under the shadow of something, whether it be an old love or expectant family, but Fuuma had the hazy, indistinct impression, as he felt the hands between them move delightfully, that Subaru was acting on his own - only under the influence of his own body, which was the most independent he supposed the onmyouji had ever been.
At least, Subaru's fingers, drumming lightly on the fabric of Fuuma's growing bulge, were acting on their own.
Fuuma gripped at the chair's arms, and his knuckles whitened as he arched himself against the Sakurazukamori. Hearing a fakely innocent and almost giddy chuckle escape the other's lips did nothing to calm his erection. It only served to further intensify a little burning he felt in the pit of his stomach. A dull, deep ache that was not at all unpleasant, and it was nothing compared to the very different yet still not unpleasant ache in his groin. Anything, anyone, the ache there was easily brought on by something as trivial as arousal, but this...this was special to Fuuma. Something he had little experience with. Something new. And the fact that it was brought on by this tragic and desperate soul before him interested him greatly.
What was it? Was it how this man was stuck in a limbo between the memory of two old friends? Or was it how he completely ignored what he was in favor of what he should have been? Perhaps it was the man's hands prying Fuuma's shirt off his torso, bending down and flicking a tongue across his nipples, and running his hands everywhere - everywhere - smoking a cigarette with an air of unusual self-satisfaction and validation?
...Wait, where were his hands again?
He groaned in response to the Sakurazukamori's touch, breathing in deeply - air mixed with smoke mixed with lust - and gripping at his shoulder tightly, fingers digging into bone. He exhaled sharply in time with a moan and leaned forward to kiss at his neck on a whim, sucking, biting, licking.
Subaru's breath was becoming sharp and ragged. Whether it was from internal or external stimulation, it hardly mattered, but thought itself as an abstract and not quite tangible or decipherable form buzzed around in his head almost wildly. He had lost track of his body but was vaguely aware of smoking and directly stroking the firm bulge inside Fuuma's pants, his fingers semi-wrapped around it, moving. Everything was moving. Fast, slow, he didn't care as long as there was motion, heavenly and hellish at the same time.
He crushed a cigarette against Fuuma's nipple, and the Angel let out a shocked and strangled cry as his body arched sharply and pulled away. The Sakurazukamori leaned forward and licked the blistering flesh, nipping it lightly as he ran a hand down his Kamui's chest and came.
Perhaps it was a sensory overload, he didn't know, but a few moments passed before Fuuma finally regained his hold on the world. He registered the sense of awful pain in his nipple, something he hadn't truly felt in a while, and his entire body seemed drained. He wasn't sure when he had come, but he was immediately disappointed because something had escaped him on his watch. Before, they had been moving against each other in a sort of euphoric haze, but now...Subaru lay against him, his ear on his blistering nipple.
"I can hear it pulsating," the Sakurazukamori murmured almost indistinctly.
Fuuma lazily raised an eyebrow at him. "You can not," he countered softly, and his brain thought that he should reach out and stroke the man's raven-black hair, but his actual muscles refused to listen; they were trying to think.
Something had happened, and he had missed it. It was driving him crazy. He usually knew everything that was happening - knew everything about everyone; there was nothing that escaped him. ...Yet this had.
Above all else, Subaru had.
Maybe he wasn't as caught in the limbo between his environment and expectations as Fuuma had originally thought. He knew, from both former friends, that Subaru had always been a little lacking in sanity; the assassin said it was his family, but his twin star said it was his past. His twin star also said that he was evil; the assassin simply called him fun. Like he was two separate people. Fuuma was beginning to understand his interest in this Subaru: they were parallel beings. It was like Subaru was on the outside what he always felt like on the inside: fractured. ...Two separate minds that could never come to a whole.
No wonder they had to attach themselves to the identity of those they gave everything to; it was to simply exist. But maybe they weren't trapped after all. He wasn't used to second-guessing himself, to the possibility of being wrong, but Fuuma was beginning to know what he perceived as the truth about both of them: their pasts and families may have screwed them over, but it was possible that they were simply born that way.
Fuuma was about to ask if it was possible to exist without attachments to the past when he noticed that the gentle rise and fall of his chest appeared to have lulled Subaru, with a bloody finger in between his teeth, to sleep.
End
Author: Elf Asato
Written: 03/12/05 - 09/10/05
Summary: Post-X17 Fuuma/Subaru smut (or is it Subaru/Fuuma?).
Disclaimer: Not mine whatsoever.
Notes: Way back when I started this, I knew why it was called Finger, but now I've forgotten, really.... Thanks to denpagirl for being there from the beginning and being online while I finished it so I could bug her about the ending (haha).
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Finger
By Elf Asato
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In the lonely silence of his apartment, the noise his finger made when it tapped the side of his ceramic mug of tea was nearly deafening. He stopped after the first time, and thought he might prefer the absolute silence, but then even that became too much and he tapped his finger against it once again. The liquid inside the mug rippled in response. It was then that he noticed the caked, dried blood on his fingers, the reddish stain to his cuticles, how the color of his fingers wasn't quite natural or consistent with his other hand. Cigarettes and blood had done that, and cigarettes and blood were Seishirou.
He didn't like to think of what happened on the bridge, though he did so at least once a day. Such thoughts and memories couldn't stop with constant reminders around him, and the eye he had accepted from Fuuma had made things worse. It had gotten to the point where he couldn't even stand to look in the mirror anymore, couldn't look at his own face and see the marriage of yin and yang, of amber and green, of the Sakurazukamori within the Sumeragi clan head. So he took down all the mirrors in the apartment, keeping only one for his work, and every morning hoped that he looked at least somewhat presentable while he got ready, especially if he had a job.
As he took a sip, he found that the tea had gone cold and tried to remember when he had first poured it, finally realizing that it had been early morning when he fixed the mug in an attempt to soothe his insomnia. It was late afternoon now. To his kitchenette he moved with the intent on re-heating it in the microwave, but on the way he happened to see his reflection in the cold, dark liquid swirling about languidly as if in a lazy and half-hearted attempt to form a whirlpool, and poured the tainted substance into the sink instead.
That was when he noticed for the first time that he wasn't alone, but the very thought and knowledge of it did nothing to alarm or even concern him. The energy and presence he noticed came and went as it pleased, so it didn't matter whether or not he knew it was there. He might as well be polite, though. "Tea, Fuuma?"
"Some onmyouji you are," Fuuma criticized with a slow drawl and yawn from his place on the couch where he was sprawled out casually, looking sluggish and very comfortable. "I walked in over ten minutes ago while you were at the table, staring at who-knows-what, and you don't even notice me until now? Shouldn't the Sakurazukamori be more alert than that?"
In response he shrugged and turned on the faucet to rinse out his mug. Before, yes, he would have noticed an intruder, any intruder, because of the heavy wards he used to fortify his apartment with, but...well, that was before, when a sadist who he could allow to hurt his heart further and damage his work was alive, when he actually gave some semblance of a damn if the earth was destroyed. He wasn't at all concerned about himself or anything else now, and couldn't care less if someone, enemy or not, entered the place. The spiritual work he performed was tainted now anyway, and he supposed he was only alive to remain physically near the one-no-longer that his heart deemed as special. It was weighty reason considering the cost to humanity, his clan, and himself by his livelihood; he had cut off contact with his grandmother shortly after accepting the Sakurazukamori's eye to protect her and the others from finding out what he had agreed to become. It would be embarrassing for him if they were to know, anyway. "I asked if you wanted tea," he finally remembered.
"And I'm asking you to take Prozac -- you're my Dragon now, so get a clue about your responsibilities and act like it," Fuuma retorted with a familiar tone he had grown used to employing when dealing with the Sumeragi, a tone of irksome fondness for the man who reminded him of two former friends. When Subaru gave him a pointed stare with a thin, arched brow, he finally resigned to answering, "...Fine, pour me a cup."
With utter compliancy, he ignored Fuuma's earlier remark and instead retrieved a clean mug, pouring the greenish brown liquid that swirled carelessly about from the kettle inside until it nearly reached the rim. Silently he closed the distance between him and his Kamui and placed the drink into his hand as the other shifted on the couch to a less casual position, then the onmyouji sat quietly in a drab, matching recliner nearby.
Quietly and without thanks Fuuma watched his dull and aimless Dragon as he took a drink of the cup given to him. He sputtered almost immediately and made a noise of disgust. "The hell? This is cold; it's disgusting. When did you make this?"
The Sakurazukamori shrugged elegantly and made no signal to show that he in the slightest cared at all whether or not Fuuma was pleased with the temperature of his tea. "A few hours ago. I was going to reheat it. Cold tea isn't that bad, anyway."
"It is when it's supposed to be hot," he retorted crossly and held out the cup for the Sumeragi to whisk away for him. No such thing happened, however, as he stared at him blankly, and finally Fuuma was forced to get up from his spot on the couch himself and pour the tepid liquid down the drain. He added, "And it wouldn't kill you to be a better host, you know," but again, the Sumeragi didn't seem to care at all.
He settled into the recliner further, folding his legs underneath him and resting his elbow on its arm, as Fuuma returned to his place on the couch but did not resume his casual, languid position from before. "I never exactly invited you in, though, so it hardly matters. And I brought you tea, anyway, so what are you complaining for?" His words held only the mildest interest in what he was saying, but even had the Sakurazukamori been genuinely into the conversation, his voice still would have held that monotonous, unfeeling and uncaring tone, the tone of a weary and jaded man whose heart has frozen over, and his words still would have been bored and turned to stone.
"Cold tea," murmured Fuuma, like a man deeply wronged, as he assessed the Sumeragi for the first time that day. It was something he did mentally every time he saw him. Subaru's condition and behavior varied from day to day depending on how he felt when he woke up that morning or afternoon, and in the Kamui's eyes, he was like Libra's scales; sometimes he reminded him of that cute, sweet, and terribly sensitive childhood friend he had that his sister loved with his broken innocence and the air of tragedy, and sometimes he reminded him of his more recent-but-deceased-chain-smoking-assassin friend with the cold, sharp, yet playful manner. The scales tipped in favor of the latter with increasing frequency ever since Fuuma lost that fun and gained a headache.
Today he saw a chain-smoking assassin dripping with the air of tragedy and broken innocence before him.
He just shrugged and gazed at his fingernails, trying to ignore Fuuma's penetrating stare, yet trying to ignore the blood stains that he saw on his fingers - real and imagined; in actuality it was only his cuticles and fingernails that were tinted a strange red, slightly, but in his mind he always saw his hand dripping with fresh, warm blood, and no matter how many times he tried to wash his hands, to rid himself of everything he hated himself for, to purify his soul, it would never be clean. His hands were eternally stained by the blood of the hearts he'd held in them, and no amount of scrubbing or manicures could ever remedy that. He wondered if Fuuma ever noticed the red guilt on his hands and how everything he touched turned that hateful, awful color.
"Not a good day so far?" Fuuma inquired mildly as the older man patted around his jeans pockets for something before pulling a crushed pack of cigarettes out, like he had haphazardly shoved them in there and then had went about his day, forgetting about them entirely until just now. Half the cigarettes were crushed, broken, or otherwise mutilated, but he managed to find a whole one and searched in his pockets for a lighter. "Here," the dark Kamui offered as he reached into a pocket, pulling out a plastic one with the image of a sunset on it, and offered it to him.
The Sakurazukamori never uttered a word of thanks, no, not anymore, but accepted and used the lighter all the same, wordlessly handing it back to him when he was done. "I killed a little girl this morning," he said finally, albeit distantly, after he took one drag from his cigarette and let it rest comfortably between his two fingers, occasionally reaching over to tap the burning ash accumulating on the end of it into the ashtray on the coffee table nearby. "She was so cheerful and energetic and young and sweet -- I had to kill her...somewhat botched the job I had last night. Accidentally saw me kill her father, but I hadn't realized there was a witness until the Tree let me know later. She was too young, though, to understand what she saw. Doubt she understood the concept of death or murder or what blood was."
"Hm, but children, even young ones, can be remarkably observant when it comes to things they don't quite understand," Fuuma countered quietly as he propped his elbow up on the couch arm and rest his chin in his hand, "so it was probably for the best. She would have eventually grown to be scarred or traumatized from the experience, and then her cheerful livelihood would have been for nothing, right?"
The Sumeragi shrugged again and muttered softly, "Whatever. She's with the sakura now -- I kept telling her as she died how pretty its blossoms were and how nice they smelled so she wouldn't be afraid; but since it was instant death for her, it probably didn't matter. ...He would never have made such a mistake though."
"No, I doubt he would have," he replied blandly as his tone purposefully softened because he knew, they both knew, that he had once, so many years ago, made exactly that mistake. It wasn't something he was going to point out to the Sakurazukamori, anyway, though.
And the silence that immediately followed was heavy and full of things that they would traditionally and automatically cast aside.
"So no," Subaru said at last, his already thin and faded voice just barely above a whisper, as he let his cigarette rest on the side of the ashtray and somewhat curled into himself on the chair, "it hasn't been a good day so far at all. ...You see, the blood's still there...and it won't come off."
Fuuma cast a quick glance at the Sakurazukamori's hands and saw nothing but pale skin covering what seemed to be a frame of merely bones, like any fat or muscle was non-existent and if it was there, it was hiding. When he spoke to his Dragon, he did so smoothly and gently because he knew the fickleness of the Scales, "...Your hands look clean to me."
He looked at him in surprise, as if Fuuma were the one out of his right mind, but his eyes still remained hollow and empty, though...there was an odd brightness to them that sparked a sense of familiar apprehension within the younger man. "You...don't see it?" he asked in a soft murmur as he held out a hand for him to see, to decide on further inspection that he was right and there really were blood stains on his hands. "Not any of it? Well, what about the red right there, and the blood underneath...?" He reached out his hand further until Fuuma, after a strange gaze into his eyes, took it and gave his fingers a mock-inspection.
"If you scrubbed the tips of your fingers well with a sponge instead of staring at it and freaking out about it, I bet that the blood caked underneath your fingernails will go away, but other than that, your hands are absolutely...fine," Fuuma said with his eyes cast downward, and it was true, the blood would be gone with a good scrub, but he didn't mention how the previous Sakurazukamori's fingers looked like that, discolored slightly from cigarettes and blood, only with more meat to them; this one was just skin and bones, which was another issue unto itself. "Though, they're so bony that--"
"I don't feel like eating," Subaru nearly snapped as he attempted to pull his hand back, but Fuuma held onto his fingers for a few seconds as he noted how his eyes had returned to their usual lackluster green and amber before letting go. He also noted the faint ghost of a blush that had risen up into the Sumeragi's cheeks, and he smirked, aiming to provoke, as the mild apprehension that he had felt before receded and vanished all together.
After all, he never needed to be on his toes with Subaru.
Fuuma's poise relaxed as he casually leaned forward against the couch arm, closer towards the other, and kept his smirk as he added, "Actually, without that extra, healthy fat, you kind of look like you could be one of those high fashion, anorexic supermodels. And, of course, your pretty face doesn't detract from this. You ever think of giving up the spiritual business to go into fashion?"
A thin eyebrow arched skeptically above Subaru's amber eye as he muttered in a monotonous, yet clear tone, "...Are you wanting me to give up being your Dragon to be on the cover of Smart?"
"I'm just asking if you've ever thought about it."
The Sumeragi took a few seconds to answer, but he finally replied in that same flat voice, this time tinged with sarcasm and a hint of bitterness, "Well let me just drop everything and get right on that." And Fuuma gathered from his timbre as his upward-turned lips eventually came to a nearly flat line that while it may not have been his dream, the fashion industry definitely had been someone else's dream for him. "Besides," he continued, trying to come off as nonchalant as he took a drag from his cigarette, "eating disorders are a serious problem for women in that line of work. They're desperate to stay beautiful, but..."
Fuuma couldn't resist; he knew why that man had loved to tease him - if only to see that blush once more... "Well, are you a woman?"
The question had the desired effect as Subaru blushed almost immediately upon its asking and retorted almost forcefully in agitation, "Do I look like woman?"
A slow, languid smile crossed Fuuma's slightly parted lips and spread up into his eyes as he deliberately never gave an answer.
"Don't smile at me like that," he murmured softly with a growing reddish hue to his face as he turned his head minutely to gaze with his dull eyes somewhere else - at anything but Fuuma - and curled up into the chair slightly. "You look like the Cheshire cat when you do that. ...In...any case, I - I have no intention of pursuing anything else at the moment...if that's what you were wondering..."
Fuuma hadn't really been genuinely interested or concerned in the first place, but his smile stayed out of politeness and overall contentment with his situation and the man before him. Instead he decided to pursue a stray thought that had recently crossed his mind during his conversation with the Sumeragi, "Are you really done with him?"
For the briefest of seconds, Subaru's eyes flashed in confusion, but then, practically in shock, he registered what Fuuma had meant and with bright but deeply disturbed eyes he asked, almost in a sudden but controlled panic as he stubbed out his cigarette, "Well he's dead isn't he?"
A short laugh escaped Fuuma's lips and he watched the other with morbid curiosity, "Of course he's dead. You killed him, didn't you?" He watched his eyes go through several shades of green before continuing, "But I meant that...while physically he is no more, you aren't letting him die in spirit, are you? That's what I meant by 'done with'."
"No...of course not," came the Sumeragi's sullen and dark reply as he focused his attentions elsewhere, away from Fuuma's penetrating gaze.
Almost on a whim, as if on a dare from himself, Fuuma rose from his spot on the couch and perched himself on the arm of the chair Subaru was sitting in, much to his surprise and discomfort. "Good," he went on, "because there's nothing wrong with letting the spirit and memory of someone passed live on, but...it becomes a problem when you're consumed by it." As Subaru looked up at him, thinking over his words combined with their close proximity, Fuuma gazed into his mismatched eyes deeply, further driving his point home. "It's probably hard to consider, considering how you've spent the majority of your life, but," he added softly as he touched the underside of the onmyouji's chin fondly, and with the other hand he ran a thumb over the back of his formerly marked hands, "...you are not his property anymore."
Something inside the previously still man awoke violently at his words and the Sakurazukamori grabbed the hand stroking his almost angrily but allowed the one touching his chin to stay.
Fuuma felt adrenaline course through his veins as he noticed his curiously bright eyes.
For a while, neither said a word as the sudden tension between them buzzed tightly, but then at once it both exploded in climax and faded anti-climactically by a single daring and reckless action carried out not in any real desire, no, but in that same sort of feeling that had fueled so many of their actions before.
Morbid curiosity had been the reason why Fuuma kissed the Sakurazukamori.
Red tinted the Sumeragi's cheeks furiously, and it only served to accent his bright eyes; amber served as a bridge between green and red. He jerked away suddenly, pupils somewhat dilated, as he glared at the dark Kamui sharply, his breath catching every so often, and he managed in a strained voice, "What the hell."
Fuuma only returned his stare evenly and expertly without expression, though inwardly his heart was beating more quickly than normal. He couldn't recall a time when the air of a dangerously unstable man was ever stronger, and for a moment he regretted planting that kiss on his pale lips. But any doubt that lingered in his mind was pushed away forcefully by the exquisite blush that painted the onmyouji's cheeks; he knew what he was after then. He gave no indication of the thoughts within him, though, and instead provoked, "What, haven't you ever been kissed before?"
The Sakurazukamori's speed was accented by Fuuma's non-responsiveness and he pulled the teenager down, pinning him to the recliner with both hands and straddling his legs not in sensuality but entrapment. "How dare you..." he whispered, almost exhaustedly; the sudden motion had served as a brief outlet to Subaru's flash of anger, and he sat on Fuuma's legs, still upset but not sure of what course of action to take.
And Fuuma saw this in his eyes, saw the familiar confusion tinged with despair, saw the flicker in a search for something. He stood something to gain by provoking the Sumeragi, even if he wasn't sure at the time what it was, and the prospect of something gained obliterated any reservations he might have had about picking on his newest Angel. "Subaru," he said coolly with intentions marked as both innocent and cruel, "...you're getting blood on me." He gestured with his chin to the hands that still had his shoulders pinned.
"I'm sorry!" he said instantly and released his hands from Fuuma's shoulders, withdrawing them against his chest. But although he continued to apologize profusely for dirtying his Kamui with imaginary blood, his eyes kept strangely bright. "I'm sorry, I really am, but no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to..."
Cupping a hand to the Sakurazukamori's cheek, Fuuma quieted him as he smiled gently, though his brown eyes held the impression of something else, and pulled him down to kiss his lips in a feather-light touch. This time he was no longer reactionary and seemed rather pleasantly resigned to kissing the dark Kamui. "What," Fuuma asked wryly as he took up a softer tone and his hand stayed, "you've suddenly decided that this is okay?"
After a brief moment of going over things in his mind, he answered simply and airily, his bright eyes stark against the recent absence of a blush, "I can kiss anyone I want."
A genuine smile crossed Fuuma's lips. The Sakurazukamori had just gotten interesting.
"Can you now...?" he asked softly as his voice barely rose at the end, all the while locked in a steady gaze with the other.
Subaru visibly swallowed but after a brief hesitation, he answered in a soft and surprisingly sure voice, "...I can." And then he leaned forward, pressing his lips against Fuuma's awkwardly, almost, and the teenager accepted the kiss as if it were simply the next thing in the natural flow of events; he felt his lips curve up into a smile. Subaru was an inexperienced kisser, and in the end it was up to Fuuma to direct their movements, though he wasn't much more experienced than the Sumeragi. He was simply able to fool with his confidence more.
Fuuma's hands rest on the small of Subaru's back, and as their lips moved against each other's - he slipped a little tongue into the older man's mouth, slightly startling him - one hand would slide up his band and the other would trail downward to cup his buttocks. Even through his lips, Fuuma could have sworn he felt Subaru blush.
With his mind racing in several chaotic directions, Subaru clutched the fabric over the Angel's chest, as if he were steadying himself or making sure that he had a firm an anchor so he didn't go floating off into space because the laws of gravity had no application to him. He wasn't falling this time in anything, no, he was floating, floating high above Tokyo, above Japan, above the world - light as a feather in contrast to usually being stiff as a board.
Even without his tongue probing thoroughly, Fuuma knew what the Sakurazukamori tasted like: coffee, cigarettes, and the metallic hint of blood. Vaguely he wondered what Subaru tasted like, but he didn't want to disrupt the flow. And flow dictated that he press the man against himself, tightly, fully, to feel every part of themselves against each other; in that moment he felt the need to validate his own existence, to forcefully show the onmyouji that he was real and there, no matter how much anyone said otherwise. He had a crazy notion, as he kissed the man, that somehow they could repair their fractured souls and be who they really were - not what they naturally should have been, but what experience and environment forced them to be. That was the difference between a dream and reality, heaven and earth, Subaru and Fuuma.
And Fuuma wanted to find out who Subaru really was.
The Sakurazukamori tapered the kiss off into languidness, sensually sucking on and licking their lips, as if having nothing else worthwhile to do. His mind was filled with a buzzing noise, and Fuuma's hands on him were making strange things happen all over his body and inside his head; they made the buzzing chaotic and blood coursed throughout him rapidly. This he was used to, from a kill, but Fuuma's hands also made odd thoughts of irrational rationality spring into mind.
What was he doing?, was he honestly enjoying this?, the other thoughts he had were sick and wrong, what would he think? - each thought louder than the other, but the buzzing sought to drown it all out until there was nothing left to think about. Nothing but the skin beneath his flesh, pounding and pulsating in time with his head. His fingers drew an imaginary trail of blood from Fuuma's collarbone down to the waist of his pants.
Where the Sakurazukamori's fingers had been, the touch burned, not like a flame, but acid - as if there was something wrong with his very chemical makeup itself. The thought crossed Fuuma's mind that this was truer than he would ever have the opportunity to realize, but such thoughts were shortlived as the older man pressed himself closer, detaching their lips to suck on his earlobe. As a natural observer, it wasn't so much physical sensation that interested Fuuma but simple behavior, which had initially drawn him to the former Dragon of Heaven. He always seemed to be acting under the shadow of something, whether it be an old love or expectant family, but Fuuma had the hazy, indistinct impression, as he felt the hands between them move delightfully, that Subaru was acting on his own - only under the influence of his own body, which was the most independent he supposed the onmyouji had ever been.
At least, Subaru's fingers, drumming lightly on the fabric of Fuuma's growing bulge, were acting on their own.
Fuuma gripped at the chair's arms, and his knuckles whitened as he arched himself against the Sakurazukamori. Hearing a fakely innocent and almost giddy chuckle escape the other's lips did nothing to calm his erection. It only served to further intensify a little burning he felt in the pit of his stomach. A dull, deep ache that was not at all unpleasant, and it was nothing compared to the very different yet still not unpleasant ache in his groin. Anything, anyone, the ache there was easily brought on by something as trivial as arousal, but this...this was special to Fuuma. Something he had little experience with. Something new. And the fact that it was brought on by this tragic and desperate soul before him interested him greatly.
What was it? Was it how this man was stuck in a limbo between the memory of two old friends? Or was it how he completely ignored what he was in favor of what he should have been? Perhaps it was the man's hands prying Fuuma's shirt off his torso, bending down and flicking a tongue across his nipples, and running his hands everywhere - everywhere - smoking a cigarette with an air of unusual self-satisfaction and validation?
...Wait, where were his hands again?
He groaned in response to the Sakurazukamori's touch, breathing in deeply - air mixed with smoke mixed with lust - and gripping at his shoulder tightly, fingers digging into bone. He exhaled sharply in time with a moan and leaned forward to kiss at his neck on a whim, sucking, biting, licking.
Subaru's breath was becoming sharp and ragged. Whether it was from internal or external stimulation, it hardly mattered, but thought itself as an abstract and not quite tangible or decipherable form buzzed around in his head almost wildly. He had lost track of his body but was vaguely aware of smoking and directly stroking the firm bulge inside Fuuma's pants, his fingers semi-wrapped around it, moving. Everything was moving. Fast, slow, he didn't care as long as there was motion, heavenly and hellish at the same time.
He crushed a cigarette against Fuuma's nipple, and the Angel let out a shocked and strangled cry as his body arched sharply and pulled away. The Sakurazukamori leaned forward and licked the blistering flesh, nipping it lightly as he ran a hand down his Kamui's chest and came.
Perhaps it was a sensory overload, he didn't know, but a few moments passed before Fuuma finally regained his hold on the world. He registered the sense of awful pain in his nipple, something he hadn't truly felt in a while, and his entire body seemed drained. He wasn't sure when he had come, but he was immediately disappointed because something had escaped him on his watch. Before, they had been moving against each other in a sort of euphoric haze, but now...Subaru lay against him, his ear on his blistering nipple.
"I can hear it pulsating," the Sakurazukamori murmured almost indistinctly.
Fuuma lazily raised an eyebrow at him. "You can not," he countered softly, and his brain thought that he should reach out and stroke the man's raven-black hair, but his actual muscles refused to listen; they were trying to think.
Something had happened, and he had missed it. It was driving him crazy. He usually knew everything that was happening - knew everything about everyone; there was nothing that escaped him. ...Yet this had.
Above all else, Subaru had.
Maybe he wasn't as caught in the limbo between his environment and expectations as Fuuma had originally thought. He knew, from both former friends, that Subaru had always been a little lacking in sanity; the assassin said it was his family, but his twin star said it was his past. His twin star also said that he was evil; the assassin simply called him fun. Like he was two separate people. Fuuma was beginning to understand his interest in this Subaru: they were parallel beings. It was like Subaru was on the outside what he always felt like on the inside: fractured. ...Two separate minds that could never come to a whole.
No wonder they had to attach themselves to the identity of those they gave everything to; it was to simply exist. But maybe they weren't trapped after all. He wasn't used to second-guessing himself, to the possibility of being wrong, but Fuuma was beginning to know what he perceived as the truth about both of them: their pasts and families may have screwed them over, but it was possible that they were simply born that way.
Fuuma was about to ask if it was possible to exist without attachments to the past when he noticed that the gentle rise and fall of his chest appeared to have lulled Subaru, with a bloody finger in between his teeth, to sleep.
End