Disclaimer :Yummy no Matsuei… duh! Yami, it's Yami *sigh* Yami no Matsuei belongs to me not.Bow down to Youko Matsushita!
Author's notes :Do you realize that Oriya's kiseru (traditional Japanese smoking pipe) is a very lethal thing? Oh well, I do, and so does Muraki in this fic ^_* Takes place at the beginning of the Kyoto Arc, when Muraki arrives at Ko Kaku Rou. Enjoy!
This is not a very nice morning for you, if at all, apparently. That tousled midnight locks, that way your obi is tied, and that amusing ever-annoyed expression of yours…
You did not get some sleep last night. I guess at this very time, some important politic pigs are lying wasted on your main hall or on the hired embraces of those skillful women you employ.
I'd even wager that the fattest hog of the herd had even asked for your personal service…
but of course you'd have managed to knock him drunk first; I can smell whiff of sake in your breath as you greet me with a sigh and a frown, it must have taken considerable amount for him – and you to get to this state. Like lifting your head just to gaze me take so much of efforts. Vexing isn't it? A sober mind in drunk body, the hovering pain without so much gain.
Taking a nice hot bath or some rest should do you better. But you have not yet taken your time to do it; Ko Kaku Rou expects yet another guest. Yes, You still consider me as a guest ought to be honored with your costumary hospitality,I suppose it's a given habit you don't even realize. See? That's why I like you; you are mannered.
"You could leave me here and take a long nice hot bath if you want to." I say, taking a sip of the usual fragrant green tea you always serve me, scalding hot.
A snort from you, "And leaving you free to wander in this place? No way Muraki. My employees have been enough molested for the day."
Or so you say. Fine then. But even though I just drop by to leave a suitcase in one of your rooms, your tea is to my taste and I will take my time to finish it. My business can wait. Can your headache?
You do not speak and do not ask. Is it because you know me almost too well? Or just because you don't want to know? Or the hangover requires you to hold your head very very still?
A groan, followed by a sound of a shoji door being pushed open.
Ah, your beautiful garden.
You let out a sigh and lean to its wooden frame. That sweet late autumn air must have soothed you.
A scarlet shade from outside falls into the beige tatami. The momiji tree has outgrown the roof; has it really been that long?
Yes indeed, as you say it.
"…Just don't be reckless Muraki. I can't cover for you forever."
You do know more than I thought you know.
"I'll try." I say.
You shift your eyes at me. That infamous, piercing golden gaze, I forget how I like it too, how even I fall to its spell. A pair of clear ambers beneath the heavy dark eyelashes; no matter how disheveled your appearance is, those gems never fails you.
I enjoy that gaze… and the uncertainty and accusation within it. But you don't let me have it for long; you need something to distract you from the ceaseless pounding inside your head. You reach for your precious little carved box, where you keep your treasure. Your kiseru.
That long, slender equipment is one of the rare things that can coax a smile on your lips. What is so exquisite about a simple length of metal and wood that it softens your gaze? And is its stem so fragile that you hold it with such a care? I don't believe it; I've seen you use this 'fragile' thing as a weapon.
Taking your time like a curator handling a rare antique, you fill its copper bowl with kizami. Javanese tobacco, you said to me once, not just some ordinary dried tobacco leaves. I couldn't tell the difference between ordinary and extraordinary ones until I turned myself into a smoker. Now I can say that you do have a taste… no, you always have indeed.
Scented air. Sake and tobacco. Rich.
Then you move your slender fingers up to your obi, slipping them inside its gap where you keep a small pouch made of embroidered black silk. You bring it out and undo the red ribbon sealing it.
Soft rustling of the crushed silk between your fingers, and then comes that scent. The last one of those many fragrances that instantly paints a picture of you inside my head whenever I smell it.
Moonflower pollen. Powder taken from afragrant flower known by many names … Datura inoxia, chousei asagao, or devil's trumpet. Devil's… for the poison it conceals beneath the ambrosial scent that made you taste a sweetness in your mouth's ceiling just by a sheer inhalation of it. Tropane alkaloids, its toxic principle, should be causing delirium, hallucinations, pupil dilation… a very heavy headache that destroys your braincells. I think I have told you this before, have I not, Oriya? I won't bother to tell you again, the dosage you use not yet fatal anyway, and you always said it works for the headache. Interesting. Doctors sometimes use poison to neutralize other kind of poison. I don't know if a headache could neutralize another headache.
Oh probably you just find another excellent substitute for opium.
Sake, tobacco, moonflower. Toxic.
Hands in wide yukata sleeves work to infuse the ingredients, busy like a pair of black patterned butterfly wings. A dash, then two, then three… you have added a dose since the last time I counted.
Smoking kills slowly. Moonflower pollen kills seductively. You light a match that you keep on the box, never gas; it destroys the aroma you say, only the best wood flint. Fire flickers, furious golden, like the spark of relish mirrored in your eyes.
There goes complete, your special mixture. You feed the fire this concoction of yours inside the bowl, witnessing it devours them into a delicious smoke.
A world of you and your kiseru there, with a half-opened shoji screen on your back, colored by scarlet shade of autumn momiji leaves, and me here, all alone, clad in boring white with my, now tepid, green tea, completely forgotten.
You part your lips to welcome its tip, almost too urgent to be graceful; not letting the air catches its first whiff. You take a long drag of it with your eyes closed and hold it inside. You stay very still for a moment, as if listening to some inaudible whisper… then your hand draws the wood, leaving a narrow gap between your lips. You open your lids and gradually exhale the tendrils. Your eyes are shut again afterwards. You are relieved, somehow consoled, at least you have taken something to ease the headache.
I never forget this ritual of yours. The first draw, it looks so orgasmic it's almost indecent. I envy you, I could never find such a joy in my tea, nor anything; I suppose maybe blood … or desperate pleading from my victims could please me; but not the way your kiseru you.
You slip it inside your mouth again and let it stay there while you stare at the gray sky between the scarlet leaves. You are rewinding something inside your head, pictures of memories, probably from the last night.
The memory is not a very pleasant one, isn't it? Judging the way your grit your teeth on the metal tip, the clicking sound they make… You are annoyed, and you let it take the blame, puncturing it with small nips. Such an amusing sound.
You let the smoke out and reward me another glare. I guess my smile wasn't let go unseen.
"What?" you say, your tone laced with accusation, as if I just had a dirty thought of you inside my mind.
"Nothing…" so I say.
You are about to say something else but decide against it, your kiseru is more deserving your attention.
That clicking rhythm again, faster than before. Having such a bad day are you? I wonder why… Is that because of that bruise blooming blue on your ivory neck? My, you must have let your guard down for too long to let a lowly moneyed scum mark you that way…
"Don't ask Muraki…" you puff the smoke out.
Sometimes I wonder if you are an empath. You have never really said that you weren't.
"My skin is sensitive, is all." You say, replying something that had never actually been asked, shrugging some of that dark mane of yours to conceal the proof.
Sensitive? To touch, or to my gaze?
"Do you want me to avenge you?" I offer.
You snort, "He's the fattest Muraki. The fatter the better to be sucked dry. Alive." You turned to sip your neglected kiseru "Thank you but that I can handle." You thank me with a cloud of smoke.
For how long? Oh I just can't wait to see.
Silence. Back on you and your kiseru's world again, and me with my now empty cup as spectators.
No more clicking sound. Instead you puff little gray circles of smoke, watching them dissolve in the air with an almost childlike fascination. Your mood seems to improve a bit… Has my offer consoled you? Do you imagine me avenging you? Or is the intoxicating powder giving you a false ease? Is it me or has it been your kiseru all along?
No verbal answer from you, either you're not an empath or you just don't want to answer. But your gesture answers it all.
You put the tip of the hollow stem on your lips, not pushing it inside the mouth. You just put it there, resting on the cleft of your lower lip, watching the smoke performs its brief dance, you could have been an author having a writers block, waiting for inspiration to come.
Sake, tobacco, moonflower, and fire. Intoxicating.
You lick your lips. Then that stem doesn't stay still in the cleft anymore; as your lips are slippery, fun to explore. You move the stem down, trailing the lower outline…. A smooth line, the cleft, another smooth line… then up, forming a curve, down, a valley, up to another curve… What is it like to be your kiseru I wonder?
What is it like to wander on the curvaceous lines of your lips, to feel the yielding wet flesh, and slip inside the warm crevice…?
Oriya, Oriya, do you realize how suggestive the gesture you just made? You teach and are taught to act that way in your red-lit world of dubious pleasure, should you rehearse it in front of an old friend? Only you could have done this lewd gesture without losing your elegance. Has the mastered lesson become an inseparable part of you?
Or are you doing this on purpose?
You don't flinch as you find my face in front of your eyes. Of course, you don't mind if I want to have a better sight of you, do you? Let's see… Not much change from the last year's picture of you I have inside my head. But I have only one good eye anyway, maybe if I take off my glasses…
You don't flinch at the sight of my other, better eye. I don't see fear in your amber ones. If I move closer, will you back away?
Your kiseru separates us. The smoke blurs my vision like a dull old veil. You need a better shield against me.
Your slender brows arch in protest as I put that slender wooden stem away from your lips. I smile. Oh don't be mad; now I can see you clearly. You, your defiant eyes, your proud cheekbones, your aquiline nose, your tempting lips… You leave them parted, shall I consider that an invitation?
If I kiss you, will you balk?
I close our remaining distance. I touch your lips with mine, trailing their outline with my tongue.
You don't. Not even a flinch.
If it is I who mark you, will you object?
"Muraki…" you hiss my name as I get into the place where that bastard stained you. Are you telling me to stop? Or calling for more, wanting it to be mine? I feel your hand grasping my arm, but that's all.
One of the virtues of the mortals is when they're marked, it will stay there for a quite while. If your skin must bear one, better mine than anyone else's, isn't it?
Oh you smell so good, you taste even better.
Won't you mind if I taste more of you?
I kiss you again. You are still not resisting, but your eyes do. They stare at mine, those amber pools... So, they want to play staring game? Oh well, I'll play. But my tongue also wants to play with yours, then yours will have to play too, won't it? Let all be fair and square. Let me show you that your kiseru is no better than me.
You lose the staring game as your lids flutter shut. Chalk one for me.
Our other game is still running… but if you stay restrained like this I will likely to win again. I have no restraints; you're so sweet you've intoxicated me. Sweet sweet toxic moonflower flavored.
I am reckless, just like you say.
I forget something. Moonflower for deceitful charm, so says the language of flowers... It's too early for me to feel superior, much too early.
I have underestimated you. You do bite back.
I never thought it would be quite literally.
Sake, tobacco, moonflower, ... blood...
Oh, I guess I was a little too excited, wasn't I? That you to have to stop me by biting me.
"You are rude." You say flatly after breaking our liplock.
A kiseru cannot be rude; a piece of emotionless wood cannot be carried away by lust.
I can. Rude. My mistake.
Woods do not bleed when bitten. I do.
My crimson blood suits your lips perfectly. Chalk one for you; you win. This time you win; you and your kiseru.
"You've finished your tea."
Like I say, you are mannered, in every fucking thing. There are even proper manners to throw someone out, when this certain someone is rude.
"Yes I have." I concede, "Then I guess it's time for my business.
Setting a bait for my violet-eyed doll of a shinigami.
"Yes it is."
"Ja," I stand up, "I'd like unagi for dinner."
"Will be served." You answer, your gaze elsewhere to find your kiseru.
"Take some rest. I'm saying this as a doctor."
"Will do." You reply hastily, finding the wooden equipment.
I can't help but smile. Forgive me for interrupting you at one of your few true pleasures. It was just a brief moment of jealousy, and perhaps I haven't used inhaling too much of that special intoxicating ingredient of yours. But still my fault, I deserve this; I am rude today, so I will be rude outside your Ko Kaku Rou, outside the moonflower scented world of you and your precious kiseru.
I turn away and head to the door.
"Don't be reckless Muraki."
Never bored to remind me are you?
"I'll try." I can never promise.
There's still your scent in my skin. I lick my bitten lips; there is a taste of you in my blood. And I'm sure there will be my flavor, my blood, on your tongue. Can that famous spiced smoke of your kiseru erase that?
I doubt so.
Chalk one more for me.
***To Be Commented***
Ohisashiburi = it's been a long time
Kiseru = Japanese smoking pipe
Kizami = finely shredded tobacco leaves
Momiji = Japanese Maple, its foliage turned bright red in autumn
Chousei asagao = literally means Korean morning glory, Japanese nickname for datura flower
Shoji = paper screen on doors/walls
Tatami = traditional Japanese mat
Unagi = grilled eel (really tasty)
This fic is born from fondness of Oriya's pipe and a silly experience of getting a bad headache from brewing a datura inoxia tea (I was sixteen and stupid). Completely experimental ^.^*
IC? OOC? Hate it? Love it? Just tell me, push that button on bottom left.
This is trial on using a rather unusual POV, so any kind of feedback and criticism will be greatly appreciated. Watch for another Oriya/Muraki story from me sometimes this month. This one is my favorite pairing.
Tja, C'ya on other fics! ^-^