[Arashi] [Edo!Vampire!AU] Sanguine I
[Title] Sanguine I
[Author] honooko
[Rating] R
[Notes] I am working on Mafia!AU, I swear. This just... bit me. Lolz pun. All rotten tomatoes should be thrown at lady_gemma and kitsch_brigade; it's their bunny, I'm just letting it gnaw on my ankles. ;_;
‘Kazuko’ ran, ran until ‘her’ feet were bleeding and ‘her’ chest was heaving and everything ‘she’ saw was blurred around the edges from exhaustion. ‘She’d be caught, no doubt about it, but for now a little distance, a little quiet, would be enough to stop ‘her’ hands from shaking.
Carefully, ‘she’ undid ‘her’ outer obi, well aware that the material alone was worth twice ‘her’ own life, and that if it was damaged, ‘she’d be beaten. Again. Once down to the cotton under-kimono, the boyish shape of ‘her’ body was revealed; square hips, boxy chest, broad shoulders. With the silk, ‘Kazuko’ shed the name and mask of a girl and settled into his real self; 16 year old Kazunari, a boy. A boy taken in by one of the few, well-hidden, geisha houses that made ideal women out of scrawny young men, feeding off the secret desires of the men who would rather have a male writhing beneath them.
Checking his feet for rocks, Kazunari scowled. They would scar, no doubt, but there was nothing lodged in his soles to cause permanent damage. All he wanted was some air that wasn’t perfumed with the scent of money and power and twisted lust. Running away meant beatings, at the very least, but his sanity counted for more than his physical state. At least he could be sure his face and legs would be left undamaged; harm to them would affect his work.
The neatly-folded kimono (with tabi and geta perched on top) was tucked under a hollow tree for safe-keeping, and he splashed his face from a stream, washing away as much of the thick makeup as he could. His hair was undone, and he tied it back with a bit of twine in a low ponytail. Examining himself in a stagnant pool’s reflection, Kazunari almost felt like a boy again.
Almost.
He wandered down a dirt-covered road, far enough from the city that traffic was reduced to a few day-laborers only just now returning to their huts. It was dark, but the air was warm and heavy still from the heat of the day, and Kazunari was comfortable enough in his light yukata. He’d long since ignored the stabbing aches of his feet, content to simply exist without needing to entertain. As he walked, he moved further and further out of the city, passing fields and small grubby houses that were becoming few and far between. Presently, there was simply nothing but large expanses of empty land, owned by no one and overgrown with wild grasses and weeds. A small distance out, he could see a campfire, surrounded by four figures; men, he guessed by the way they sat, hunched over the fire, knees spread. This was confirmed when one figure reached over to playfully swat another on the back of the head.
A glint flashed off a shoulder, and Kazunari ducked down behind a scrubby bush, suddenly realizing that the men were wearing armor. Soldiers, then? Samurai? If anything, they were most likely ronin, rebel samurai either left without a master, or those who willingly abandoned him. They were scrupulous men of no honor and no decency, but few except for honest samurai had the power to stop them. And no matter how one looked at it, getting caught by them probably wouldn’t end well.
The scent of a cookfire drifted over the grasses, and Kazunari’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten all day, having been forbidden breakfast after a smart-ass response to a customer the previous evening. He frowned, weighing his choices carefully. A girl would have no chance whatsoever, likely to be raped or killed or both. A boy had similar prospects (especially a small, bird-like boy like himself), but with slightly better odds. He could outright ask to be fed, or he could try and steal enough to at least remove the hollow echo of his insides. After a deep breath, he’d decided. Stealing it was.
Creeping through the grass, Kazunari momentarily cursed the fact that his yukata was a starched white. It was impossible to blend in, but removing it would be suicide should he be caught. He’d rather risk it. One of the figures laughed, hearty and amused; his fellows chuckled too. Good, they were in pleasant moods. As he got closer, he could see all their possessions laid out alongside them; a few packs, some random armor, and a whole rabbit being roasted over the fire. No other food to be seen, which meant they were just as badly off, no doubt. Kazunari wasn’t surprised to notice that all the men seemed near to him in age; the oldest couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. He winced at the thought. Young men, in his experience, were far, far crueler than their fathers.
He’d meant to just sneak up behind the tallest, hiding in his shadow and snatch a bit of rice, but the shortest of the men suddenly looked up from the spot of fire he’d been staring at, his eyes focusing directly on Kazunari. The boy froze, one hand extended and eyes wide, and neither breathed for what felt like an eternity.
“Ah,” said the man, lifting a finger to point in surprise. “A kid.” Darting back three steps, Kazunari’s heart thudded as he prepared to run for his life, well aware that on his injured feet, he’d probably never make it beyond the tip of one of the soldier’s blades. The other three men turned to look at him, staring, each with expressions showing varying degrees of surprise. The one closest to him reached out, tugging lightly on Kazunari’s ponytail.
“A girl?” he questioned, and a thrill of horror ran through the boy.
“Idiot,” said another. “Look at his hands and facial structure. That’s a boy.”
“Oh,” said the ‘attacker’ with disappointment. “I like girls better.”
“What’s your name, kid?” a third, the one who had laughed before, asked gently. Kazunari knew better than to give away his real name so freely, so he pulled a nickname from his childhood out without hesitation.
“Nino.”
“Nino, huh? Are you lost?” the same kind face asked. ‘Nino’ shook his head, because while it was true he hadn’t any idea where he was, admitting he was vulnerable and wouldn’t be missed was a very stupid idea. “Just hungry, then?”
Nino didn’t answer, not sure which response would be safer. He shifted from one foot to the other nervously, waiting for some indication as to his fate. The man who had spotted him was still quiet, and had returned to staring off into the fire.
“Captain,” the kind man asked his dazed companion. “What do you think? We can spare a little, right?”
“What?” ‘Captain’ responded, looking up. “Oh, yeah. Okay.”
Grinning, the kind man scooted over, patting the dirt between him and Captain. “Sit down, eat with us. I’m Sakurai, this is Aiba, Matsumoto, and our Captain, Ohno.”
The hair-puller, Aiba, poked at the rabbit with a stick curiously, and the disdainful one, Matsumoto, smacked him on the wrist with a quiet, “Stop that.” Nervously, Nino did as he was told, instinctively keeping track of everyone’s hands and weapons. He dared not ask what Ohno was a captain of, only sparing the man a few sidelong glances. It seemed odd that such a spacey, small man would be the highest ranked in the group of four.
Ohno seemed to feel Nino’s gaze, and he turned to look at the boy. His eyes scanned up and down Nino’s body once, spending an odd amount of time at his chest and jaw, but then looked away quickly.
“Are you a local’s son?” Sakurai asked, seeming intent on keeping up friendly conversation. Nino was tempted to lie and say yes, but that would then invite questions as to why he was eating from a stranger’s fire.
“My parents are dead,” he answered truthfully, his tone mild. He didn’t remember his parents, or even his family name, so their death meant nothing to him.
“I’m sorry,” Sakurai said sincerely, and Nino had the sudden urge to correct him; his parents had dumped him in the streets, so surely they weren’t worth mourning.
“And you?” he said instead. “What are you all doing here?”
“We’re ronin!” Aiba declared in a loud whisper. Matsumoto elbowed him and Sakurai sighed into his palm.
“Aiba, you’re not supposed to tell people,” Sakurai said with the tone of a man who had repeated these instructions many, many times before. Aiba looked a bit sheepish, but not even slightly repentant. Sakurai sighed again before explaining.
“Our master was killed. In such a way as to make revenge… difficult.”
Nino raised an eyebrow, neither requesting more information nor refusing it.
“Vampire,” Aiba said, suddenly quite serious.
“Vampire,” Nino repeated incredulously. This was not good; clearly, these men had lost their minds.
“How else do you explain two small puncture wounds to the throat and not a drop of blood left in the bastard?” Matsumoto drawled. “We cut apart the body, looking for more wounds. Not only did we not find any, but he was dry as a desert.”
“And we didn’t like him much,” Aiba confided in Nino with a nod. Sakurai laughed, but it was forced and only highlighted the ensuing silence further.
“And you?” Nino asked Ohno after a moment. “You didn’t like him either?”
Ohno frowned, his lower lip sticking out in a mild pout as he thought. His entire face twitched once, twice, like something small and multi-legged had landed on his nose, and Nino automatically filed away the strange expression.
“I didn’t like him,” Ohno confirmed after a moment. “But nobody should die like that.”
“Captain’s too soft-hearted for this job,” Sakurai said, his tone fond, but a touch sad. Matsumoto snorted.
“Captain’s too soft-hearted for this life,” he corrected, and as Nino turned to Ohno to hear his response, all he got was the sight of Ohno staring off into space again, his eyes strangely dark. Somehow, Nino thought that those were the eyes of a man who had seen too much, too soon, and was only just keeping himself together.
“Some people should,” he said absently in response to Ohno’s earlier comment. For a moment, everyone went back through the conversation, trying to figure out what Nino was referring to. Sullen, the boy scraped out some ashes from the fire, burying his toes in them for warmth. He was always cold, these days. Customers complained of it.
“Like who?” Matsumoto asked carefully. Nino’s face remained blank, impassive. Hundreds of faces he’d known over his short life swam in his vision, and countless names perched on his tongue. But he erred towards the vague.
“People who cause pain to those who don’t deserve it. People who hurt children. People who treat a human life like a commodity that can be bought and sold at will, and then thrown away.” Staring resolutely into the fire, he added, “The world would be better off if everyone who died was a person that wouldn’t be missed.”
After Nino’s rather dark turn in topic, Sakurai and Aiba seemed determined to steer the conversation back onto the pleasant and mundane, and Nino didn’t have the heart to fight them. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, and now that his belly wasn’t crying out, sleep was nudging at the edges of his mind. Sakurai noticed his growing weariness and apologized, saying they had no proper bedding, but offered his pack for Nino to use as a pillow. Thanking him and curling up under a large clump of bushes, Nino drifted off into a dreamless sleep, thankfully free of the usual nightmares that plagued him. But an hour or so before dawn, he awoke to sharp pains in his stomach. In retrospect, eating rich rabbit on an empty belly had not been wise. Dragging himself from his makeshift bed, Nino made it to the riverbank before he emptied his dinner into the water. Heaving, all he could think was how no matter what he did, his life insisted on taking all the wrong turns.
Once the lurches of his gut subsided, Nino splashed his face in the water, rinsing his mouth of the bitter taste of bile. In the quiet of the early morning, with no sounds except the pounding of his heart and the burbling of the water, Nino heard what was quite distinctly a whimper. Concerned he’d accidentally run into a wolf as it fed, or some other injured and frightened animal, Nino jogged upstream in the hopes that it was further away from the beast. As he rounded a low-hanging tree, his eyes settled on something that froze his blood in his veins.
A man lay dying, twitching, his eyes rolling back into his head. But that wasn’t the horrifying part; leaning over him, sucking at his neck, was another man. No, not a man.
A monster.
Without meaning to, a small sound of absolute terror escaped Nino’s throat, and the creature turned sharply. A small spray of gore spattered across the ground and a feline hiss made the hair on the back of the boy’s neck rise. The beast looked him in the eye.
No.
Ohno did.
Part II
[Author] honooko
[Rating] R
[Notes] I am working on Mafia!AU, I swear. This just... bit me. Lolz pun. All rotten tomatoes should be thrown at lady_gemma and kitsch_brigade; it's their bunny, I'm just letting it gnaw on my ankles. ;_;
‘Kazuko’ ran, ran until ‘her’ feet were bleeding and ‘her’ chest was heaving and everything ‘she’ saw was blurred around the edges from exhaustion. ‘She’d be caught, no doubt about it, but for now a little distance, a little quiet, would be enough to stop ‘her’ hands from shaking.
Carefully, ‘she’ undid ‘her’ outer obi, well aware that the material alone was worth twice ‘her’ own life, and that if it was damaged, ‘she’d be beaten. Again. Once down to the cotton under-kimono, the boyish shape of ‘her’ body was revealed; square hips, boxy chest, broad shoulders. With the silk, ‘Kazuko’ shed the name and mask of a girl and settled into his real self; 16 year old Kazunari, a boy. A boy taken in by one of the few, well-hidden, geisha houses that made ideal women out of scrawny young men, feeding off the secret desires of the men who would rather have a male writhing beneath them.
Checking his feet for rocks, Kazunari scowled. They would scar, no doubt, but there was nothing lodged in his soles to cause permanent damage. All he wanted was some air that wasn’t perfumed with the scent of money and power and twisted lust. Running away meant beatings, at the very least, but his sanity counted for more than his physical state. At least he could be sure his face and legs would be left undamaged; harm to them would affect his work.
The neatly-folded kimono (with tabi and geta perched on top) was tucked under a hollow tree for safe-keeping, and he splashed his face from a stream, washing away as much of the thick makeup as he could. His hair was undone, and he tied it back with a bit of twine in a low ponytail. Examining himself in a stagnant pool’s reflection, Kazunari almost felt like a boy again.
Almost.
He wandered down a dirt-covered road, far enough from the city that traffic was reduced to a few day-laborers only just now returning to their huts. It was dark, but the air was warm and heavy still from the heat of the day, and Kazunari was comfortable enough in his light yukata. He’d long since ignored the stabbing aches of his feet, content to simply exist without needing to entertain. As he walked, he moved further and further out of the city, passing fields and small grubby houses that were becoming few and far between. Presently, there was simply nothing but large expanses of empty land, owned by no one and overgrown with wild grasses and weeds. A small distance out, he could see a campfire, surrounded by four figures; men, he guessed by the way they sat, hunched over the fire, knees spread. This was confirmed when one figure reached over to playfully swat another on the back of the head.
A glint flashed off a shoulder, and Kazunari ducked down behind a scrubby bush, suddenly realizing that the men were wearing armor. Soldiers, then? Samurai? If anything, they were most likely ronin, rebel samurai either left without a master, or those who willingly abandoned him. They were scrupulous men of no honor and no decency, but few except for honest samurai had the power to stop them. And no matter how one looked at it, getting caught by them probably wouldn’t end well.
The scent of a cookfire drifted over the grasses, and Kazunari’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten all day, having been forbidden breakfast after a smart-ass response to a customer the previous evening. He frowned, weighing his choices carefully. A girl would have no chance whatsoever, likely to be raped or killed or both. A boy had similar prospects (especially a small, bird-like boy like himself), but with slightly better odds. He could outright ask to be fed, or he could try and steal enough to at least remove the hollow echo of his insides. After a deep breath, he’d decided. Stealing it was.
Creeping through the grass, Kazunari momentarily cursed the fact that his yukata was a starched white. It was impossible to blend in, but removing it would be suicide should he be caught. He’d rather risk it. One of the figures laughed, hearty and amused; his fellows chuckled too. Good, they were in pleasant moods. As he got closer, he could see all their possessions laid out alongside them; a few packs, some random armor, and a whole rabbit being roasted over the fire. No other food to be seen, which meant they were just as badly off, no doubt. Kazunari wasn’t surprised to notice that all the men seemed near to him in age; the oldest couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. He winced at the thought. Young men, in his experience, were far, far crueler than their fathers.
He’d meant to just sneak up behind the tallest, hiding in his shadow and snatch a bit of rice, but the shortest of the men suddenly looked up from the spot of fire he’d been staring at, his eyes focusing directly on Kazunari. The boy froze, one hand extended and eyes wide, and neither breathed for what felt like an eternity.
“Ah,” said the man, lifting a finger to point in surprise. “A kid.” Darting back three steps, Kazunari’s heart thudded as he prepared to run for his life, well aware that on his injured feet, he’d probably never make it beyond the tip of one of the soldier’s blades. The other three men turned to look at him, staring, each with expressions showing varying degrees of surprise. The one closest to him reached out, tugging lightly on Kazunari’s ponytail.
“A girl?” he questioned, and a thrill of horror ran through the boy.
“Idiot,” said another. “Look at his hands and facial structure. That’s a boy.”
“Oh,” said the ‘attacker’ with disappointment. “I like girls better.”
“What’s your name, kid?” a third, the one who had laughed before, asked gently. Kazunari knew better than to give away his real name so freely, so he pulled a nickname from his childhood out without hesitation.
“Nino.”
“Nino, huh? Are you lost?” the same kind face asked. ‘Nino’ shook his head, because while it was true he hadn’t any idea where he was, admitting he was vulnerable and wouldn’t be missed was a very stupid idea. “Just hungry, then?”
Nino didn’t answer, not sure which response would be safer. He shifted from one foot to the other nervously, waiting for some indication as to his fate. The man who had spotted him was still quiet, and had returned to staring off into the fire.
“Captain,” the kind man asked his dazed companion. “What do you think? We can spare a little, right?”
“What?” ‘Captain’ responded, looking up. “Oh, yeah. Okay.”
Grinning, the kind man scooted over, patting the dirt between him and Captain. “Sit down, eat with us. I’m Sakurai, this is Aiba, Matsumoto, and our Captain, Ohno.”
The hair-puller, Aiba, poked at the rabbit with a stick curiously, and the disdainful one, Matsumoto, smacked him on the wrist with a quiet, “Stop that.” Nervously, Nino did as he was told, instinctively keeping track of everyone’s hands and weapons. He dared not ask what Ohno was a captain of, only sparing the man a few sidelong glances. It seemed odd that such a spacey, small man would be the highest ranked in the group of four.
Ohno seemed to feel Nino’s gaze, and he turned to look at the boy. His eyes scanned up and down Nino’s body once, spending an odd amount of time at his chest and jaw, but then looked away quickly.
“Are you a local’s son?” Sakurai asked, seeming intent on keeping up friendly conversation. Nino was tempted to lie and say yes, but that would then invite questions as to why he was eating from a stranger’s fire.
“My parents are dead,” he answered truthfully, his tone mild. He didn’t remember his parents, or even his family name, so their death meant nothing to him.
“I’m sorry,” Sakurai said sincerely, and Nino had the sudden urge to correct him; his parents had dumped him in the streets, so surely they weren’t worth mourning.
“And you?” he said instead. “What are you all doing here?”
“We’re ronin!” Aiba declared in a loud whisper. Matsumoto elbowed him and Sakurai sighed into his palm.
“Aiba, you’re not supposed to tell people,” Sakurai said with the tone of a man who had repeated these instructions many, many times before. Aiba looked a bit sheepish, but not even slightly repentant. Sakurai sighed again before explaining.
“Our master was killed. In such a way as to make revenge… difficult.”
Nino raised an eyebrow, neither requesting more information nor refusing it.
“Vampire,” Aiba said, suddenly quite serious.
“Vampire,” Nino repeated incredulously. This was not good; clearly, these men had lost their minds.
“How else do you explain two small puncture wounds to the throat and not a drop of blood left in the bastard?” Matsumoto drawled. “We cut apart the body, looking for more wounds. Not only did we not find any, but he was dry as a desert.”
“And we didn’t like him much,” Aiba confided in Nino with a nod. Sakurai laughed, but it was forced and only highlighted the ensuing silence further.
“And you?” Nino asked Ohno after a moment. “You didn’t like him either?”
Ohno frowned, his lower lip sticking out in a mild pout as he thought. His entire face twitched once, twice, like something small and multi-legged had landed on his nose, and Nino automatically filed away the strange expression.
“I didn’t like him,” Ohno confirmed after a moment. “But nobody should die like that.”
“Captain’s too soft-hearted for this job,” Sakurai said, his tone fond, but a touch sad. Matsumoto snorted.
“Captain’s too soft-hearted for this life,” he corrected, and as Nino turned to Ohno to hear his response, all he got was the sight of Ohno staring off into space again, his eyes strangely dark. Somehow, Nino thought that those were the eyes of a man who had seen too much, too soon, and was only just keeping himself together.
“Some people should,” he said absently in response to Ohno’s earlier comment. For a moment, everyone went back through the conversation, trying to figure out what Nino was referring to. Sullen, the boy scraped out some ashes from the fire, burying his toes in them for warmth. He was always cold, these days. Customers complained of it.
“Like who?” Matsumoto asked carefully. Nino’s face remained blank, impassive. Hundreds of faces he’d known over his short life swam in his vision, and countless names perched on his tongue. But he erred towards the vague.
“People who cause pain to those who don’t deserve it. People who hurt children. People who treat a human life like a commodity that can be bought and sold at will, and then thrown away.” Staring resolutely into the fire, he added, “The world would be better off if everyone who died was a person that wouldn’t be missed.”
After Nino’s rather dark turn in topic, Sakurai and Aiba seemed determined to steer the conversation back onto the pleasant and mundane, and Nino didn’t have the heart to fight them. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, and now that his belly wasn’t crying out, sleep was nudging at the edges of his mind. Sakurai noticed his growing weariness and apologized, saying they had no proper bedding, but offered his pack for Nino to use as a pillow. Thanking him and curling up under a large clump of bushes, Nino drifted off into a dreamless sleep, thankfully free of the usual nightmares that plagued him. But an hour or so before dawn, he awoke to sharp pains in his stomach. In retrospect, eating rich rabbit on an empty belly had not been wise. Dragging himself from his makeshift bed, Nino made it to the riverbank before he emptied his dinner into the water. Heaving, all he could think was how no matter what he did, his life insisted on taking all the wrong turns.
Once the lurches of his gut subsided, Nino splashed his face in the water, rinsing his mouth of the bitter taste of bile. In the quiet of the early morning, with no sounds except the pounding of his heart and the burbling of the water, Nino heard what was quite distinctly a whimper. Concerned he’d accidentally run into a wolf as it fed, or some other injured and frightened animal, Nino jogged upstream in the hopes that it was further away from the beast. As he rounded a low-hanging tree, his eyes settled on something that froze his blood in his veins.
A man lay dying, twitching, his eyes rolling back into his head. But that wasn’t the horrifying part; leaning over him, sucking at his neck, was another man. No, not a man.
A monster.
Without meaning to, a small sound of absolute terror escaped Nino’s throat, and the creature turned sharply. A small spray of gore spattered across the ground and a feline hiss made the hair on the back of the boy’s neck rise. The beast looked him in the eye.
No.
Ohno did.
Part II