Happy B-day, Bansai \o\
whuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut did I write? =_= Sorry there will be stuff in here that isn't Gintama after this. I swear. Just written for Bansai's birthday >_>;
Title: The Romance of Our Assassination
Rating: R
Pairing: Bansai/Takasugi
Warnings: Made of blatant suck and lots of tired. Also, adult situations and a bit smutty. Just a bit.
Author's Notes: Meant to be porn, but it kind of veered... so it's not really that porny. *cough*
[001]
He hears him before he ever sees him, a sad song strummed along on a shamisen, breaking the silence of the night, and Takasugi's eye shifts towards the direction, straw hat low and hiding most of his face in the shadow. It's rare that he ventures out of Kyoto, preferring to avoid the watchful eyes of the Bakufu's dogs, but something of interest draws him this far.
The tune grows hollower the closer he moves, an echo of his own heart and possibly the heart of the musician. This country they'd once fought for is now bereft of any true warriors. The samurai that remain live in run-down places such as these, small ghettos full of vermin and the stench of blood and grime thick in the air. It's only a promise that lies on his lips, a whisper of glory to motivate them. What he wants is to purge this ugly world, and what he needs is an army.
If the words that have reached his ear are true then the man he seeks will be an integral piece.
He's sure the smoke from his pipe announces his presence more than the footfalls as he approaches the young man hunched over, clothes stained and ragged. Nothing befitting the assassin he knows him to be.
The song never stops nor do fingers falter, skilled and slim as they move over the wires. In spite of it being night, the man still dons a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, shrouding himself in a superficial anonymity, but Takasugi knows that killers can recognize each other on instinct alone.
The hair rises on the back of his own neck, which is already wet and sticky with perspiration, so it must be a good sign. He smiles beneath the brim of his hat, lips stretching around the tip of his pipe, and he drops money next to the man's thigh. It's a decent amount, enough for two or three meals if he uses it sparingly. The clink of metal hitting the ground haults his playing, and Takasugi watches out of the corner of his eye as the musician looks down from the money then up at his face, remaining silent.
Smoke leaves Takasugi's parted lips, a heavy stench in the air that doesn't dissipate as quickly, and his smile widens before continuing on his way. There's an offer there, something exchanged that doesn't need a voice to give it value. It hangs just as thickly as the smell, and when the playing resumes, a different tune, something renewed and exuberant, Takasugi knows he's gained his interest.
[002]
The measure of a warrior is not something to be seen but experienced, and one only needs to follow the trail of corpses to find the orchestrater. There's a beauty in the way he moves, something elegant that can only be recreated with the same music those very hands produce.
Takasugi watches him and makes no motion to hide himself from view, leaning casually against the walls of a dingy building and listening intently to the squelching, wet noises as a sword is drawn out from where it had pierced someone's internal organs. Another body hits the ground, a dull thud announcing the poignant finality of his death.
"And what drew your hand to kill them? What rage do you bear inside?"
Six he counts. Six dead. Six calmly sliced up with no real passion, only the slightest urge to feast a sword's hunger, but Takasugi knows there wasn't any purpose in these killings.
The other man never answers, merely sliding his sword back into its hilt -a clever hiding place carved into his shamisen. Takasugi can only imagine the care and precision that went into constructing such a thing.
The silence spreads but doesn't stifle, another bout of smoke fleeting from Takasugi's lips, and he still waits for words that never come.
Grass crunches, bent crudely beneath the soles of tattered boots, fading only when the assassin comes to a complete stop, and he stands close -closer than they'd ever been to one another.
"One does not need a purpose to kill," he finally answers, and it's the first time Takasugi ever hears him speak.
There's a rich quality to his voice, a strange wavering lilt that rises and falls in a melodic pattern.
"And if I were to give you one?"
Takasugi half expects an answer but isn't really surprised when he receives none at all. He catches sight of the other man's back as he walks away, barely aware that he himself is smiling again.
[003]
"Kawakami Bansai."
The name falls out from his mouth with a hint of amusement. From their first meeting to this point, nothing has been accidental, and Takasugi verifies it with this single acknowledgment, enjoying the slightest evidence of surprise on the assassin's face -a tick of his eyebrow- when he says his name out loud.
There are seven bodies today, all killed with an air of boredom. The victims were other ronin, nobody of worth. Takasugi would much rather see the heads of the Bakufu lined on the ground, but he has no room to request it, yet.
He steps over the corpses as he moves closer, head craning up to stare directly at Bansai's face, still shielded with his glasses. The smell is even worse today, something acrid and decaying.
The scent of death.
"It's more satisfying if you have a reason. The taste of revenge is one of the few pleasures left in this rotting place."
From their proximity, it's even more obvious how much taller the assassin is, but Takasugi doesn't mind having to crane his head just to stare beyond his shades and catch the way those eyes focus on him intently.
"I can give you a reason to fight again. My will can become yours."
Something has broken through even if Bansai doesn't speak or change expression. Something has finally moved him, the offer attractive enough to merit the slightest consideration, and the sword is slid into its sheath, tucked carefully into the instrument. It's a wonder why it had never been turned on him, but, then again, few recognize the threat that walks among them. Few have a face to paint with the title of 'the most radical man in Edo.'
"This man would like the honor of knowing your name."
Passive-aggressive. The false sentiment doesn't escape Takasugi's notice as he exhales.
"Takasugi Shinsuke."
That finally garners a visible reaction, eyebrows darting up over Bansai's shades, and Takasugi laughs as he passes him by, arms brushing along the way. He knows he's not what most people imagine -someone still young and only bearing the marks of war on his face. The ostentatious clothing speak more of an actor than a warrior, but he allows himself these small indulgences simply because they don't fit any expectations.
A hedonism born from the war.
He likes the feeling of nice clothes as much as he likes the sick sound of the edge of his sword slicing through thick bone and tissue.
They part ways that night, but Takasugi knows it won't be the last time. He also knows he won't be the one seeking the other man out again, and he plans to allow himself to be found.
[004]
Bansai speaks of harmony and accompanying pieces of music. Complimentary tunes that run parallel to each other until they intertwine at a crescendo. It only makes sense when they fight together on the same side, their swords dragging through a common enemy. It's always a war song they play together, fast-paced and powerful, something that leaves the victims overwhelmed and barely recognizing what had been played until it's over.
Afterwards, their feet drown in blood that licks their ankles, and they share in the glory of victory.
During these moments, they retire indoors with the rain tapping at their shutters, and play on dual shamisens, manifesting the same song that echoed before in their minds. Even with eyes closed, Takasugi knows the intense expression Bansai wears when he plays, eyebrows knitting towards the center and face a slate of concentration. He's seen the same expression when he pours over lyrics that never make it far passed his own desk, a stolid hope lingering behind that serious countenance, and he remembers that Bansai's an artist just as he is a warrior.
When the song ends, the tail end fading out, Takasugi remains in place, exhaustion befalling him, and he hears the sound of socked feet padding over the tatami mats before the door to his room slides open then shut. So many words still pass between them, curiosities left unsaid. They're still veritable strangers, only knowing each other through reputation and the sounds their instruments produce. Even their fighting styles are still foreign, always something they can't fully reveal should they ever need to cross that line and turn the blade to each other's throat.
But Takasugi likes it better that way.
[005]
Tsunpo… is another matter entirely.
From the stage name to the false voice, a flamboyance that Takasugi watches with silent amusement. The transformations are subtle, but the difference ever-present. However, it's a fulfillment of at dream for Bansai, the chance for Edo to witness the creativity those two hands produce, and it's no surprise when that alter ego of his rises to fame and popularity.
There's something brilliant in his music, not in the nonsensical lyrics but in the power they hold over feeble-minded consumers. He single-handedly draws them close, an obsessive gleam carved into the eyes of fans as he transforms Otsuu into a perfect idol.
And all this time, Takasugi watches behind the curtains, a subtle interest while he taps his pipe against his front teeth. He doesn't disapprove. Not at all.
He can't say much about Bansai's taste or the actual lyrics produced, but the chance to have public approval gives him access to certain venues he would be otherwise cut off from. The distance between himself and the Bakufu grows shorter, and he already imagines the warships lined up behind him, all canons set forth to blow it up.
Though the changes in Bansai grow more noticeable -the set of headphones that permanently accessorize the musician's head, the expensive coat, the quality steel on his new blade, the reinforced strings on his shamisen that gleam eerily under the spotlight.
They're all superficial.
The assassin still lies beneath all the garish decorations, a beast that squats quietly in the dark ready to sink its fangs into something, and Takasugi is mostly mesmerized by what everyone else doesn't see. He wonders if he could reach out and pry that man open -dig his fingers into the warrior's soul and drag them down across his flesh to feel his warm, beating pulse speeding up with pre-battle excitement.
But maybe that's just the hedonist in him talking again.
[006]
Takasugi likes to pull the strings of loyalty to see how far he could stretch them before they break. Even before he sits down to the meeting with the Amanto smugglers, he knows it's a terrible idea.
Bansai knows it, too, but never speaks a word against it. His face itself is more stoic than usual, nothing reflected in the way he blandly stares across the table, making no move to interrupt the proceedings.
Takasugi only indulges in the charade out of boredom, wearing a casual smile as he outlines the provisions of their contract. Foreigners like the Amanto, he knows, won't keep their word. They have no honor and only seek to satisfy their self-interests, but it's just a show, a play they act out to accomplish an even more under-handed goal.
A bottle of sake is shared between them, and Bansai still refuses, fingers resting on his lap, though the way they twitch as if eager to react -a killer instinct- never goes unnoticed. By the end of the night, deals are made, written down on flimsy paper, and Takasugi is tipsy but still aware of the growing threat.
He wonders why so many continue to underestimate him -still continues to wonder this when the blade finally points at his throat, sharp and cold and just barely scratching at his adam's apple. His pipe his held mid-air, breath released while he opens his one eye to stare casually across at the man threatening him.
"I don't believe this was stipulated in our bargain."
"You didn't read the fine print," the Amanto snarls.
It's a pity really that they couldn't have posed a single bit of usefulness to him before their deaths. However, before Takasugi can even reach of his sword, the Amanto's hand is lopped off, dropping to the ground with a grotesque sound.
Bansai stands in between them, a living, breathing shield, silent rage contained in the stretch and vibration of his muscles as he slaughters them all one by one. Takasugi imagines he hears notes in his head, a frantic tune being plucked awkwardly. It's not as beautiful as what Bansai had played the night before, a haunting aria that maybe precluded this meeting.
When the last body falls, angry eyes turn to him, a fury that Takasugi has yet to witness, and Bansai closes large hands around his shoulders, squeezing inwards where the bones threaten to crack beneath the forceful grip. There will be bruises there tomorrow, but wounds are still a plate of armor on a warrior's body.
"Was this the outcome you were expecting?"
Takasugi's lips quirks up, and the alcohol's still swimming through his body, making him laugh at the accusation.
"They were killed, weren't they?"
Every step had been written out before he'd walked onto the ship. Takasugi came with the intention of destroying a large distributor to the Bakufu, and it came with the added benefit of inciting something intriguing from his subordinate.
He wonders how badly he'd managed to chisel at Bansai's temper. He knows the accusation in that face. 'You could have died' it speaks to him, but Takasugi places no more value on his own life than he does any of his men. He is always ready and willing to die for the cause at any moment.
He also knows Bansai wouldn't let that happen, and he'd been counting on his interference this entire time.
The fingers press in harder, and Bansai's breath touches his own face, warm and heated over his skin.
"Shinsuke."
The name only strikes him as unusual because it's the first time in years Takasugi has been called by his given name. The last person who had done so…
And he puts that thought away because that man is incomparable to anyone else.
Nothing else leaves Bansai's mouth, though he knows how badly the other man wants to protest and continue, the tension still driving through him and felt through his grip, looking for release. There's a temptation to offer it to him -to see where it would go, and Takasugi wants to know how his given name sounds breathed out harshly against his ear. If he thinks about it too long, his mind generates the warm press of bodies, the sensation of straddling the delicate line between pain and pleasure, and he wonders if those hands would leave the same marks around his waist or whether that face will break and contort if Takasugi were to-
But he doesn't because the moments in between them are plenty and fleeting, and this one has already passed the second the fingers leave him and his flesh feels cold under his yukata again.
It's difficult to sleep that night, even with alcohol weighing down his eyelid, and Takasugi touches his throat where the sword had grazed and thinks of the way Bansai's lips puff slightly when he's angry. It's desire, he knows, reinforced by the other man's violent loyalty, but it's not enough to simply take what he wants. Not when he'd rather slowly unravel all the barriers that separate them, first.
[007]
Ten Amanto officials sit down to dinner, a picturesque moment engraved in photographs set to be printed in the papers. It's an important meeting, one integral to the growth of the Amanto's forces in Edo. They'll discuss how to reinforce the sword ban and keep the few lingering terrorist groups from being active.
Takasugi attends uninvited, of course.
He only brings a few men along with him for back-up but harbors no actual intention of using them. It only requires one sword to kill them all, and his personal desire for carnage has been left unfulfilled for far too long. Tonight, he digs his claws into them and let his inner demons eat them all alive one by one.
They die too quickly shortly after his arrival, too naïve and too confident in their own protection.
Ten of them.
Takasugi murders them one by one, repeating their names in his head, recognizing each of their identities, all notable figures. It would certainly upturn the government for a while.
Afterwards, he walks away in a yukata covered in blood, red caked even on his eye lashes, and the stench is just as gratifying as the memory of cutting them up. Edo will know of the Kiheitai, a gruesome stain left marking the pages of history, and he laughs and plays to his heart's content that evening, only a single candle illuminating his dark room.
Bansai sits across, watching motionlessly and staring too quietly. He doesn't move and finds no will to accompany him, but sweat dots his forehead and the top of his chest from the hot night air.
"You're more silent than usual," Takasugi finally comments during a lull in his playing, fingers trailing over the dried up blood that's caught on the strings of the shamisen and absently scratching it off.
"One is simply moved by the rhythm you produce and finds no reason to interrupt."
There are more words wrapped around his tongue, things he can't admit. Takasugi wants to draw it out and find a rhythm to match his own frantic pace that evening. Setting aside the shamisen, he drifts across the floor, feet falling heavily over wood, and comes to a stop in front of his subordinate. His yukata is still stained red all over, and the left side of his face is sticky with dried, cracked blood. The smell of it embraces him pleasantly as he lowers himself to his knees and reaches outwards with his hand.
His fingers close around the headphones, plucking them from one of Bansai's ears, and he sees the musician's face transform with mild discomfort and irritability, never one to enjoy being away from the pulsating beat that perpetually animates him.
Takasugi's own voice slides out thickly, heavy with exhaustion as he whispers, "Would you deny an instrument of being plucked by talented fingers tonight? It has no value if left un-played just like a sword has no value if left unused."
A touch, as simple as any, grazes Bansai's fingers, hands warm and rough when they meet. Takasugi rubs the pads of his fingers, feeling along his calluses, far too intimate and as much of an indication he'll ever give about where his personal interests lie. And from this distance, he sees the sudden stiffness in Bansai's posture, lips pressed tightly together enough that they turn white at the edges.
Takasugi continues to touch, running along the edges of his hands and sliding between to stroke the webs of his fingers. If he were to use his tongue instead, would that restraint slip away? It's tempting, a thought that remains in his mind as he draws an invisible circle on the palm of Bansai's hand with his finger just to see those lips press together harder and feel his pulse speed up when his hands finally drag down to his wrists.
After a pause, letting the veins throb soothingly under his touch, he replaces the headphones properly and casts a smile in Bansai's direction, standing up to retire towards his own futon. The invitation is always present, something he knows Bansai will take one day, but he's in no rush.
[008]
It's a wonder when the hand slams by his head, a gesture that rattles the screen door, that this hadn't happen sooner. Bansai's glasses lie broken on the floor, a few feet away, smashed from one sword swipe, and the look underneath is naked and dangerous, pinning Takasugi against the wall with his gaze alone.
What Bansai hides from the world is an intensity lying inside that threatens to overwhelm, and Takasugi drowns in it, a fearless grin even when he knows the anger is directed at him alone.
"One thinks if you proceed with this course of action-"
"I didn't ask for your opinion," Takasugi cuts him off, remaing calm in the face of Bansai's verbalized dissent.
Disagreements were so rare and short between them that this in itself was an anomaly. Bansai had never given voice the way he does now, a distinct doubt in the man whose confidence he should have complete faith in.
The pipe falls to the ground loudly, its contents spilling out, and Takasugi's shoulders are slammed backwards into the wall, the rough bark catching on his yukata. Warm air touches his cheek as Bansai presses inwards against him, the difference in their body size never more obvious than when they're pasted this close. The material of his leather jacket brushes over Takasugi's bare chest, and he's held in place, stifled and, for once, silenced, hearing only distantly the waves lapping angrily at the boat outside.
"It's advisable you listen to this man's opinion, Shinsuke, before you decide its worth."
Takasugi's fingers move towards his sword, unappreciative of the outward defiance, but before he can draw his sword, Bansai slams his palm down on the tip of the hilt, pressing it back firmly into its scabbard. They stare each other down like a set of jungle cats circling each other, a thick tension in the air that they refuse to break. A desire to be equal, to match his strength -those lines of hierarchy that should exist are erased in an instant, and they're both just two samurai again with nothing but pride on the line.
Which of the two is the stronger?
The answer, they both want to know, and with one graceful movement, the sword is finally drawn.
They fight that night, nothing short of attacking each other at full strength. Blood stains the screens, merciless and cruel. Wires hiss through the air, latching onto more skin, but Takasugi cuts through them and drags his sword across the same hands he's admired time and time before.
It ends with the crash of a shamisen against the floor, the finely-tuned instrument shattering like a toy, pieces scattering everywhere. The edge of Takasugi's sword kisses Bansai's mouth, cutting into his bottom lip, and Takasugi stares him down with crude delight before removing his blade. He kisses the same spot on his sword and smiles, tongue tasting the blood now on his mouth. He knows he's won more than just loyalty, but now he's Bansai's goal. A purpose that superimposes just wanting to work for him.
"Are we in accordance now?"
Bansai's eyes flicker briefly to the broken instrument, sheltering his anger once again. "Yes."
[009]
But it's never that simple between them, and things don't always end that easily. Takasugi has more than enough wounds on his body to lick, the wires having left abrasions on each of his limbs, and Bansai's rage is palpable the more he collects the shattered fragments of his instrument. Takasugi will find him a new one because a warrior stripped of his sword is of no use to him, but for now, he relishes in the silent fury, knowing it could snap again at any moment.
It just takes one comment.
"I expected more from you, Bansai."
And he's on his back within seconds, shoved down, adding more bruises to his collection. His head cracks against the wood, but he pays it no mind, breathy laugh high-pitched with excitement as Bansai tugs his yukata open, ripping the already torn fabric while dragging it down his arms.
A kiss is too intimate for the situation so their lips don't touch, but Bansai's mouth rests against his ear, breathing heavily as he tears the obi away next.
"Good enough for you?" he hisses and pries apart Takasugi's smooth thighs with blood-stained fingers before sinking in between them.
It hurts to be fucked roughly against the floorboards, dragging over them like a rag doll while leaving a trail of blood. Each thrust screams into him, a sound that threatens to pull him apart, and Takasugi can only cup the back of Bansai's neck, a possessive touch, and wait until he shatters.
Bansai's fingers dance over him roughly, moving over his flesh with the same delicacy used in handling his instrument, plucking skillfully away at each string. However, it's Bansai's voice against his ear that unravels him, choking on his given name, and Takasugi doesn't care if more wounds open between them when he arches desperately into that touch. He turns his head in time to catch the emotion on Bansai's face, drinking everything from his narrowed eyes to his lips stretched back in a cruel grin, and his own mouth breaks apart, gasping loudly.
Afterwards, Takasugi sits quietly by the window naked, biting down on the tip of his pipe. The cool night air touches his skin still covered in blood and sexual fluids and the smoke flows outwards before being blown away.
Across the room, Bansai pens lyrics haphazardly, non-stop since they'd separated, and several papers litter the floor with the remains of his shamisen. They don't say anything, unwilling to break the comfortable silence, and for a moment, Takasugi wonders if there will come a day where he will have to turn his sword in all seriousness against Bansai.
And then he has to wonder why, even then, he wouldn't feel any remorse over the other man's death.
Absence of conscience… this is how they both choose to live.
[010]
They make the finalizations on their plans to launch an attack on the Bakufu, and on the eve before separating, they stand side by side on Takasugi's ship, staring up at the night sky. Takasugi imagines flames painting it red and orange, a beauty only befitting of this world, and anticipates that it will only be days before he reaches his goal.
All he needs is to secure their back-up should things go wrong, and he doesn't doubt that it might. After all, his last attack had been foiled just as simply by the Shiroyasha.
"I expect you won't be requiring any further assistance when meeting with the Harusame?"
Bansai's hands are tucked in his pockets, head subtly bobbing to the music. For a moment, Takasugi thinks he hasn't heard at all but still harbors no urge to repeat himself.
"It will be taken care of."
A smile, and Takasugi inhales pleasantly from his pipe. He knows negotiation isn't exactly Bansai's favorite task, but he is also the one most adept at it. He has a mastery over language that can't be compromised, and it would only be detrimental to his efforts were he to send anyone else in Bansai's place.
…No matter how much he enjoys having the other man's blade at his side.
"Good," Takasugi finally replies and tucks the pipe away before moving passed Bansai.
He doesn't expect a hand to dart outwards and seize his wrist before he can travel too far, nor does he expect the sudden tugging forward of his body. And his head is pressed back at a weird angle, cradled by Bansai's palm as the taller man covers his mouth with his own.
The grip tightens on Takasugi's hair, fingers digging into the bandages, and Bansai shoves his tongue gracelessly inside to devour him further. It's hard to breathe like this, oxygen sucked away, and Takasugi stays lax in the hold that possesses and the false tenderness that only hides the flavors of dominance.
When Bansai finally pulls away, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, there's nothing more that Takasugi can do outside of licking his own lips and ignoring the way the heat now curls around his stomach and spills lower haphazardly. He pushes the pipe back into his mouth and mirrors Banai's smile, perpetual even while the musician walks away, heels clicking noisily on the wooden deck.
The message there in that kiss is clear.
'Maybe I'll be the one to kill you, first.'
Title: The Romance of Our Assassination
Rating: R
Pairing: Bansai/Takasugi
Warnings: Made of blatant suck and lots of tired. Also, adult situations and a bit smutty. Just a bit.
Author's Notes: Meant to be porn, but it kind of veered... so it's not really that porny. *cough*
[001]
He hears him before he ever sees him, a sad song strummed along on a shamisen, breaking the silence of the night, and Takasugi's eye shifts towards the direction, straw hat low and hiding most of his face in the shadow. It's rare that he ventures out of Kyoto, preferring to avoid the watchful eyes of the Bakufu's dogs, but something of interest draws him this far.
The tune grows hollower the closer he moves, an echo of his own heart and possibly the heart of the musician. This country they'd once fought for is now bereft of any true warriors. The samurai that remain live in run-down places such as these, small ghettos full of vermin and the stench of blood and grime thick in the air. It's only a promise that lies on his lips, a whisper of glory to motivate them. What he wants is to purge this ugly world, and what he needs is an army.
If the words that have reached his ear are true then the man he seeks will be an integral piece.
He's sure the smoke from his pipe announces his presence more than the footfalls as he approaches the young man hunched over, clothes stained and ragged. Nothing befitting the assassin he knows him to be.
The song never stops nor do fingers falter, skilled and slim as they move over the wires. In spite of it being night, the man still dons a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, shrouding himself in a superficial anonymity, but Takasugi knows that killers can recognize each other on instinct alone.
The hair rises on the back of his own neck, which is already wet and sticky with perspiration, so it must be a good sign. He smiles beneath the brim of his hat, lips stretching around the tip of his pipe, and he drops money next to the man's thigh. It's a decent amount, enough for two or three meals if he uses it sparingly. The clink of metal hitting the ground haults his playing, and Takasugi watches out of the corner of his eye as the musician looks down from the money then up at his face, remaining silent.
Smoke leaves Takasugi's parted lips, a heavy stench in the air that doesn't dissipate as quickly, and his smile widens before continuing on his way. There's an offer there, something exchanged that doesn't need a voice to give it value. It hangs just as thickly as the smell, and when the playing resumes, a different tune, something renewed and exuberant, Takasugi knows he's gained his interest.
[002]
The measure of a warrior is not something to be seen but experienced, and one only needs to follow the trail of corpses to find the orchestrater. There's a beauty in the way he moves, something elegant that can only be recreated with the same music those very hands produce.
Takasugi watches him and makes no motion to hide himself from view, leaning casually against the walls of a dingy building and listening intently to the squelching, wet noises as a sword is drawn out from where it had pierced someone's internal organs. Another body hits the ground, a dull thud announcing the poignant finality of his death.
"And what drew your hand to kill them? What rage do you bear inside?"
Six he counts. Six dead. Six calmly sliced up with no real passion, only the slightest urge to feast a sword's hunger, but Takasugi knows there wasn't any purpose in these killings.
The other man never answers, merely sliding his sword back into its hilt -a clever hiding place carved into his shamisen. Takasugi can only imagine the care and precision that went into constructing such a thing.
The silence spreads but doesn't stifle, another bout of smoke fleeting from Takasugi's lips, and he still waits for words that never come.
Grass crunches, bent crudely beneath the soles of tattered boots, fading only when the assassin comes to a complete stop, and he stands close -closer than they'd ever been to one another.
"One does not need a purpose to kill," he finally answers, and it's the first time Takasugi ever hears him speak.
There's a rich quality to his voice, a strange wavering lilt that rises and falls in a melodic pattern.
"And if I were to give you one?"
Takasugi half expects an answer but isn't really surprised when he receives none at all. He catches sight of the other man's back as he walks away, barely aware that he himself is smiling again.
[003]
"Kawakami Bansai."
The name falls out from his mouth with a hint of amusement. From their first meeting to this point, nothing has been accidental, and Takasugi verifies it with this single acknowledgment, enjoying the slightest evidence of surprise on the assassin's face -a tick of his eyebrow- when he says his name out loud.
There are seven bodies today, all killed with an air of boredom. The victims were other ronin, nobody of worth. Takasugi would much rather see the heads of the Bakufu lined on the ground, but he has no room to request it, yet.
He steps over the corpses as he moves closer, head craning up to stare directly at Bansai's face, still shielded with his glasses. The smell is even worse today, something acrid and decaying.
The scent of death.
"It's more satisfying if you have a reason. The taste of revenge is one of the few pleasures left in this rotting place."
From their proximity, it's even more obvious how much taller the assassin is, but Takasugi doesn't mind having to crane his head just to stare beyond his shades and catch the way those eyes focus on him intently.
"I can give you a reason to fight again. My will can become yours."
Something has broken through even if Bansai doesn't speak or change expression. Something has finally moved him, the offer attractive enough to merit the slightest consideration, and the sword is slid into its sheath, tucked carefully into the instrument. It's a wonder why it had never been turned on him, but, then again, few recognize the threat that walks among them. Few have a face to paint with the title of 'the most radical man in Edo.'
"This man would like the honor of knowing your name."
Passive-aggressive. The false sentiment doesn't escape Takasugi's notice as he exhales.
"Takasugi Shinsuke."
That finally garners a visible reaction, eyebrows darting up over Bansai's shades, and Takasugi laughs as he passes him by, arms brushing along the way. He knows he's not what most people imagine -someone still young and only bearing the marks of war on his face. The ostentatious clothing speak more of an actor than a warrior, but he allows himself these small indulgences simply because they don't fit any expectations.
A hedonism born from the war.
He likes the feeling of nice clothes as much as he likes the sick sound of the edge of his sword slicing through thick bone and tissue.
They part ways that night, but Takasugi knows it won't be the last time. He also knows he won't be the one seeking the other man out again, and he plans to allow himself to be found.
[004]
Bansai speaks of harmony and accompanying pieces of music. Complimentary tunes that run parallel to each other until they intertwine at a crescendo. It only makes sense when they fight together on the same side, their swords dragging through a common enemy. It's always a war song they play together, fast-paced and powerful, something that leaves the victims overwhelmed and barely recognizing what had been played until it's over.
Afterwards, their feet drown in blood that licks their ankles, and they share in the glory of victory.
During these moments, they retire indoors with the rain tapping at their shutters, and play on dual shamisens, manifesting the same song that echoed before in their minds. Even with eyes closed, Takasugi knows the intense expression Bansai wears when he plays, eyebrows knitting towards the center and face a slate of concentration. He's seen the same expression when he pours over lyrics that never make it far passed his own desk, a stolid hope lingering behind that serious countenance, and he remembers that Bansai's an artist just as he is a warrior.
When the song ends, the tail end fading out, Takasugi remains in place, exhaustion befalling him, and he hears the sound of socked feet padding over the tatami mats before the door to his room slides open then shut. So many words still pass between them, curiosities left unsaid. They're still veritable strangers, only knowing each other through reputation and the sounds their instruments produce. Even their fighting styles are still foreign, always something they can't fully reveal should they ever need to cross that line and turn the blade to each other's throat.
But Takasugi likes it better that way.
[005]
Tsunpo… is another matter entirely.
From the stage name to the false voice, a flamboyance that Takasugi watches with silent amusement. The transformations are subtle, but the difference ever-present. However, it's a fulfillment of at dream for Bansai, the chance for Edo to witness the creativity those two hands produce, and it's no surprise when that alter ego of his rises to fame and popularity.
There's something brilliant in his music, not in the nonsensical lyrics but in the power they hold over feeble-minded consumers. He single-handedly draws them close, an obsessive gleam carved into the eyes of fans as he transforms Otsuu into a perfect idol.
And all this time, Takasugi watches behind the curtains, a subtle interest while he taps his pipe against his front teeth. He doesn't disapprove. Not at all.
He can't say much about Bansai's taste or the actual lyrics produced, but the chance to have public approval gives him access to certain venues he would be otherwise cut off from. The distance between himself and the Bakufu grows shorter, and he already imagines the warships lined up behind him, all canons set forth to blow it up.
Though the changes in Bansai grow more noticeable -the set of headphones that permanently accessorize the musician's head, the expensive coat, the quality steel on his new blade, the reinforced strings on his shamisen that gleam eerily under the spotlight.
They're all superficial.
The assassin still lies beneath all the garish decorations, a beast that squats quietly in the dark ready to sink its fangs into something, and Takasugi is mostly mesmerized by what everyone else doesn't see. He wonders if he could reach out and pry that man open -dig his fingers into the warrior's soul and drag them down across his flesh to feel his warm, beating pulse speeding up with pre-battle excitement.
But maybe that's just the hedonist in him talking again.
[006]
Takasugi likes to pull the strings of loyalty to see how far he could stretch them before they break. Even before he sits down to the meeting with the Amanto smugglers, he knows it's a terrible idea.
Bansai knows it, too, but never speaks a word against it. His face itself is more stoic than usual, nothing reflected in the way he blandly stares across the table, making no move to interrupt the proceedings.
Takasugi only indulges in the charade out of boredom, wearing a casual smile as he outlines the provisions of their contract. Foreigners like the Amanto, he knows, won't keep their word. They have no honor and only seek to satisfy their self-interests, but it's just a show, a play they act out to accomplish an even more under-handed goal.
A bottle of sake is shared between them, and Bansai still refuses, fingers resting on his lap, though the way they twitch as if eager to react -a killer instinct- never goes unnoticed. By the end of the night, deals are made, written down on flimsy paper, and Takasugi is tipsy but still aware of the growing threat.
He wonders why so many continue to underestimate him -still continues to wonder this when the blade finally points at his throat, sharp and cold and just barely scratching at his adam's apple. His pipe his held mid-air, breath released while he opens his one eye to stare casually across at the man threatening him.
"I don't believe this was stipulated in our bargain."
"You didn't read the fine print," the Amanto snarls.
It's a pity really that they couldn't have posed a single bit of usefulness to him before their deaths. However, before Takasugi can even reach of his sword, the Amanto's hand is lopped off, dropping to the ground with a grotesque sound.
Bansai stands in between them, a living, breathing shield, silent rage contained in the stretch and vibration of his muscles as he slaughters them all one by one. Takasugi imagines he hears notes in his head, a frantic tune being plucked awkwardly. It's not as beautiful as what Bansai had played the night before, a haunting aria that maybe precluded this meeting.
When the last body falls, angry eyes turn to him, a fury that Takasugi has yet to witness, and Bansai closes large hands around his shoulders, squeezing inwards where the bones threaten to crack beneath the forceful grip. There will be bruises there tomorrow, but wounds are still a plate of armor on a warrior's body.
"Was this the outcome you were expecting?"
Takasugi's lips quirks up, and the alcohol's still swimming through his body, making him laugh at the accusation.
"They were killed, weren't they?"
Every step had been written out before he'd walked onto the ship. Takasugi came with the intention of destroying a large distributor to the Bakufu, and it came with the added benefit of inciting something intriguing from his subordinate.
He wonders how badly he'd managed to chisel at Bansai's temper. He knows the accusation in that face. 'You could have died' it speaks to him, but Takasugi places no more value on his own life than he does any of his men. He is always ready and willing to die for the cause at any moment.
He also knows Bansai wouldn't let that happen, and he'd been counting on his interference this entire time.
The fingers press in harder, and Bansai's breath touches his own face, warm and heated over his skin.
"Shinsuke."
The name only strikes him as unusual because it's the first time in years Takasugi has been called by his given name. The last person who had done so…
And he puts that thought away because that man is incomparable to anyone else.
Nothing else leaves Bansai's mouth, though he knows how badly the other man wants to protest and continue, the tension still driving through him and felt through his grip, looking for release. There's a temptation to offer it to him -to see where it would go, and Takasugi wants to know how his given name sounds breathed out harshly against his ear. If he thinks about it too long, his mind generates the warm press of bodies, the sensation of straddling the delicate line between pain and pleasure, and he wonders if those hands would leave the same marks around his waist or whether that face will break and contort if Takasugi were to-
But he doesn't because the moments in between them are plenty and fleeting, and this one has already passed the second the fingers leave him and his flesh feels cold under his yukata again.
It's difficult to sleep that night, even with alcohol weighing down his eyelid, and Takasugi touches his throat where the sword had grazed and thinks of the way Bansai's lips puff slightly when he's angry. It's desire, he knows, reinforced by the other man's violent loyalty, but it's not enough to simply take what he wants. Not when he'd rather slowly unravel all the barriers that separate them, first.
[007]
Ten Amanto officials sit down to dinner, a picturesque moment engraved in photographs set to be printed in the papers. It's an important meeting, one integral to the growth of the Amanto's forces in Edo. They'll discuss how to reinforce the sword ban and keep the few lingering terrorist groups from being active.
Takasugi attends uninvited, of course.
He only brings a few men along with him for back-up but harbors no actual intention of using them. It only requires one sword to kill them all, and his personal desire for carnage has been left unfulfilled for far too long. Tonight, he digs his claws into them and let his inner demons eat them all alive one by one.
They die too quickly shortly after his arrival, too naïve and too confident in their own protection.
Ten of them.
Takasugi murders them one by one, repeating their names in his head, recognizing each of their identities, all notable figures. It would certainly upturn the government for a while.
Afterwards, he walks away in a yukata covered in blood, red caked even on his eye lashes, and the stench is just as gratifying as the memory of cutting them up. Edo will know of the Kiheitai, a gruesome stain left marking the pages of history, and he laughs and plays to his heart's content that evening, only a single candle illuminating his dark room.
Bansai sits across, watching motionlessly and staring too quietly. He doesn't move and finds no will to accompany him, but sweat dots his forehead and the top of his chest from the hot night air.
"You're more silent than usual," Takasugi finally comments during a lull in his playing, fingers trailing over the dried up blood that's caught on the strings of the shamisen and absently scratching it off.
"One is simply moved by the rhythm you produce and finds no reason to interrupt."
There are more words wrapped around his tongue, things he can't admit. Takasugi wants to draw it out and find a rhythm to match his own frantic pace that evening. Setting aside the shamisen, he drifts across the floor, feet falling heavily over wood, and comes to a stop in front of his subordinate. His yukata is still stained red all over, and the left side of his face is sticky with dried, cracked blood. The smell of it embraces him pleasantly as he lowers himself to his knees and reaches outwards with his hand.
His fingers close around the headphones, plucking them from one of Bansai's ears, and he sees the musician's face transform with mild discomfort and irritability, never one to enjoy being away from the pulsating beat that perpetually animates him.
Takasugi's own voice slides out thickly, heavy with exhaustion as he whispers, "Would you deny an instrument of being plucked by talented fingers tonight? It has no value if left un-played just like a sword has no value if left unused."
A touch, as simple as any, grazes Bansai's fingers, hands warm and rough when they meet. Takasugi rubs the pads of his fingers, feeling along his calluses, far too intimate and as much of an indication he'll ever give about where his personal interests lie. And from this distance, he sees the sudden stiffness in Bansai's posture, lips pressed tightly together enough that they turn white at the edges.
Takasugi continues to touch, running along the edges of his hands and sliding between to stroke the webs of his fingers. If he were to use his tongue instead, would that restraint slip away? It's tempting, a thought that remains in his mind as he draws an invisible circle on the palm of Bansai's hand with his finger just to see those lips press together harder and feel his pulse speed up when his hands finally drag down to his wrists.
After a pause, letting the veins throb soothingly under his touch, he replaces the headphones properly and casts a smile in Bansai's direction, standing up to retire towards his own futon. The invitation is always present, something he knows Bansai will take one day, but he's in no rush.
[008]
It's a wonder when the hand slams by his head, a gesture that rattles the screen door, that this hadn't happen sooner. Bansai's glasses lie broken on the floor, a few feet away, smashed from one sword swipe, and the look underneath is naked and dangerous, pinning Takasugi against the wall with his gaze alone.
What Bansai hides from the world is an intensity lying inside that threatens to overwhelm, and Takasugi drowns in it, a fearless grin even when he knows the anger is directed at him alone.
"One thinks if you proceed with this course of action-"
"I didn't ask for your opinion," Takasugi cuts him off, remaing calm in the face of Bansai's verbalized dissent.
Disagreements were so rare and short between them that this in itself was an anomaly. Bansai had never given voice the way he does now, a distinct doubt in the man whose confidence he should have complete faith in.
The pipe falls to the ground loudly, its contents spilling out, and Takasugi's shoulders are slammed backwards into the wall, the rough bark catching on his yukata. Warm air touches his cheek as Bansai presses inwards against him, the difference in their body size never more obvious than when they're pasted this close. The material of his leather jacket brushes over Takasugi's bare chest, and he's held in place, stifled and, for once, silenced, hearing only distantly the waves lapping angrily at the boat outside.
"It's advisable you listen to this man's opinion, Shinsuke, before you decide its worth."
Takasugi's fingers move towards his sword, unappreciative of the outward defiance, but before he can draw his sword, Bansai slams his palm down on the tip of the hilt, pressing it back firmly into its scabbard. They stare each other down like a set of jungle cats circling each other, a thick tension in the air that they refuse to break. A desire to be equal, to match his strength -those lines of hierarchy that should exist are erased in an instant, and they're both just two samurai again with nothing but pride on the line.
Which of the two is the stronger?
The answer, they both want to know, and with one graceful movement, the sword is finally drawn.
They fight that night, nothing short of attacking each other at full strength. Blood stains the screens, merciless and cruel. Wires hiss through the air, latching onto more skin, but Takasugi cuts through them and drags his sword across the same hands he's admired time and time before.
It ends with the crash of a shamisen against the floor, the finely-tuned instrument shattering like a toy, pieces scattering everywhere. The edge of Takasugi's sword kisses Bansai's mouth, cutting into his bottom lip, and Takasugi stares him down with crude delight before removing his blade. He kisses the same spot on his sword and smiles, tongue tasting the blood now on his mouth. He knows he's won more than just loyalty, but now he's Bansai's goal. A purpose that superimposes just wanting to work for him.
"Are we in accordance now?"
Bansai's eyes flicker briefly to the broken instrument, sheltering his anger once again. "Yes."
[009]
But it's never that simple between them, and things don't always end that easily. Takasugi has more than enough wounds on his body to lick, the wires having left abrasions on each of his limbs, and Bansai's rage is palpable the more he collects the shattered fragments of his instrument. Takasugi will find him a new one because a warrior stripped of his sword is of no use to him, but for now, he relishes in the silent fury, knowing it could snap again at any moment.
It just takes one comment.
"I expected more from you, Bansai."
And he's on his back within seconds, shoved down, adding more bruises to his collection. His head cracks against the wood, but he pays it no mind, breathy laugh high-pitched with excitement as Bansai tugs his yukata open, ripping the already torn fabric while dragging it down his arms.
A kiss is too intimate for the situation so their lips don't touch, but Bansai's mouth rests against his ear, breathing heavily as he tears the obi away next.
"Good enough for you?" he hisses and pries apart Takasugi's smooth thighs with blood-stained fingers before sinking in between them.
It hurts to be fucked roughly against the floorboards, dragging over them like a rag doll while leaving a trail of blood. Each thrust screams into him, a sound that threatens to pull him apart, and Takasugi can only cup the back of Bansai's neck, a possessive touch, and wait until he shatters.
Bansai's fingers dance over him roughly, moving over his flesh with the same delicacy used in handling his instrument, plucking skillfully away at each string. However, it's Bansai's voice against his ear that unravels him, choking on his given name, and Takasugi doesn't care if more wounds open between them when he arches desperately into that touch. He turns his head in time to catch the emotion on Bansai's face, drinking everything from his narrowed eyes to his lips stretched back in a cruel grin, and his own mouth breaks apart, gasping loudly.
Afterwards, Takasugi sits quietly by the window naked, biting down on the tip of his pipe. The cool night air touches his skin still covered in blood and sexual fluids and the smoke flows outwards before being blown away.
Across the room, Bansai pens lyrics haphazardly, non-stop since they'd separated, and several papers litter the floor with the remains of his shamisen. They don't say anything, unwilling to break the comfortable silence, and for a moment, Takasugi wonders if there will come a day where he will have to turn his sword in all seriousness against Bansai.
And then he has to wonder why, even then, he wouldn't feel any remorse over the other man's death.
Absence of conscience… this is how they both choose to live.
[010]
They make the finalizations on their plans to launch an attack on the Bakufu, and on the eve before separating, they stand side by side on Takasugi's ship, staring up at the night sky. Takasugi imagines flames painting it red and orange, a beauty only befitting of this world, and anticipates that it will only be days before he reaches his goal.
All he needs is to secure their back-up should things go wrong, and he doesn't doubt that it might. After all, his last attack had been foiled just as simply by the Shiroyasha.
"I expect you won't be requiring any further assistance when meeting with the Harusame?"
Bansai's hands are tucked in his pockets, head subtly bobbing to the music. For a moment, Takasugi thinks he hasn't heard at all but still harbors no urge to repeat himself.
"It will be taken care of."
A smile, and Takasugi inhales pleasantly from his pipe. He knows negotiation isn't exactly Bansai's favorite task, but he is also the one most adept at it. He has a mastery over language that can't be compromised, and it would only be detrimental to his efforts were he to send anyone else in Bansai's place.
…No matter how much he enjoys having the other man's blade at his side.
"Good," Takasugi finally replies and tucks the pipe away before moving passed Bansai.
He doesn't expect a hand to dart outwards and seize his wrist before he can travel too far, nor does he expect the sudden tugging forward of his body. And his head is pressed back at a weird angle, cradled by Bansai's palm as the taller man covers his mouth with his own.
The grip tightens on Takasugi's hair, fingers digging into the bandages, and Bansai shoves his tongue gracelessly inside to devour him further. It's hard to breathe like this, oxygen sucked away, and Takasugi stays lax in the hold that possesses and the false tenderness that only hides the flavors of dominance.
When Bansai finally pulls away, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, there's nothing more that Takasugi can do outside of licking his own lips and ignoring the way the heat now curls around his stomach and spills lower haphazardly. He pushes the pipe back into his mouth and mirrors Banai's smile, perpetual even while the musician walks away, heels clicking noisily on the wooden deck.
The message there in that kiss is clear.
'Maybe I'll be the one to kill you, first.'