Of crime and passion
Warnings/notes: Othello/Mitsume, drabble-ish shortie, ooc.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Demon Ororon. 'Of crime and passion' is the title of a song by Duran Duran.
written at 4th december 2004, by Misura, for a request made by Sarolynne in the livejournal-community fic-on-demand. Checked for canonical errors by the wonderful Roku-chan.
The first thing he becomes aware of is softness.
A warm, luxurious sea of softness, surrounding and embracing him, in which he is floating, yet not drowning. It's a pleasant, unexpected change from what he's become used to waking up to, so he cherishes the experience, allowing the moment to stretch.
Not unexpected is the illusions shattering the moment he opens his eyes and sees his environment.
Oh, the interior of the tent looks nice enough. Richly furnished, though not to the point of tasteless showing off of wealth.
The bed in which he lies is as much a piece of art and workmanship as the table standing nearby, not to mention the desk and the chair. He estimates either of them would be worth a year's pay. At least. If he'd still had been earning any kind of pay.
They also tell him clearly whose tent this is, whose tent this must be. He has never been here before, and he has no idea why he's been brought here now, yet he doubts if it's for anything he's going to like.
Mitsume sighs, wishing he'd kept his eyes closed just a little while longer. Even if that would have been the act of a coward, of a man unwilling to face reality and put up a fight to change it. He is neither, or so he assures himself.
He is merely tired, waking up.
And thus, after a quick survey of the contents of the tent to discover that there's nothing that can be used as a weapon here, as he might have known, he leans back in the pillows.
Trying hard not to think about what it means that he's in a bed.
Trying harder still not to think about what it means that he's in the bed of the man he hates more than anyone else.
It's a task that turns out not to be as hard as he'd feared, especially with the bed being so soft and comfortable, tempting him to think of good and joyful things. Part of him protests that he can't afford to lose himself to fantasies and memories, that he should be thinking of escape and revenge, but he ignores it for the time being.
He thinks that perhaps it's been too long that he smiled, even a little. If he allows himself to be reduced to feeling only pain and bitterness, he'll have been broken as much as he'd be if he'd have given up the will to escape. Othello will have won then, will have succeeded in ruining the rest of his life, whether he'll spend it in captivity or not.
Mitsume frowns as he realizes his thoughts have wandered back to the one person he doesn't want them to linger on just now. Odds are, he'll come face to face with the real thing sooner than he'd like.
As if summoned by that musing, the tent-flap is tossed aside at that moment. Mitsume catches a glimpse of a world covered in snow, and a few snowflakes are blown inside on the heels of the tent's owner. Mitsume absently notices how the snow falls on the floor of the tent as Othello shakes out his cloak, to melt to a small circle of water that vanishes quickly.
It's warm in the tent all of a sudden, though he hasn't noticed any kind of heater when he made an inventory. Nor did it seem particularly cold before, though that may have been caused by the blankets that covered him. That still cover him, causing him to feel inexplicably weak and vulnerable as Othello turns his attention to him.
Which is ridiculous. Othello has seen him while he was chained up, naked and beaten. Mitsume has never felt weak or vulnerable then.
Othello doesn't speak, instead strolling to a table, pouring himself a glass of wine from a bottle that Mitsume could have sworn wasn't there half a minute ago. Nor was the glass, for that matter.
"Isn't this place a bit too neat and cozy for another round of rape and torture?" Mitsume asks, knowing Othello will consider his having spoken first a small victory. He doesn't care though; he'll be damned if he's going to play this game by Othello's rules.
"Rape and torture?" Othello cocks his head, looking genuinely hurt. "You talk like I'm some kind of sadist, like I -enjoy- causing you pain. But really, you must know that any pain I inflict upon you is your doing alone. If you'd behave properly, as befits a prisoner, you'd not be all bruised and battered now. You merely need to give up your stubborn wish to regain your freedom."
"I -will- escape," Mitsume assures his captor.
Othello sighs, dropping his cloak on one of the chairs, and sitting down to pull off his boots. "I have little doubt that you will attempt to. But you will not succeed, and upon your recapture I will be forced to punish you."
Mitsume limits his answer to that to a snort. "Why am I here?"
Othello stares at him, an expression of surprise on his face. Mitsume can't quite decide if it's intended to mock him. "Why do you think you're here?"
"I already told you that," Mitsume points out. It sounds petty to his own ears, like he's some child whining about a broken toy to its parent.
"And I informed you that I have no design to either torture or rape you," Othello replies. "Is that such a hard concept for you to grasp?"
"Why else would you put me in your bed?" Mitsume ripostes. A very small part of him wonders if perhaps Othello is sincere, if perhaps the prince truly has no ulterior motive in having him deposited in his private tent.
"Not to rape you, to be sure." Othello strolls over to the bed, looking down on Mitsume with a strange expression on his face. Mitsume can't quite interpret it, but his instincts scream at him to run, to get away.
"Why not?" Mitsume asks, aware that perhaps this is what Othello wants; for him to suggest it, so that Othello can later claim Mitsume wanted what he did to him. Mitsume knows better though, knows he's never wanted any of this. And he's definitely never wanted Othello in any way.
Othello smiles, and Mitsume would say that smile reminds him of a cat that got to the cream, or ate the canary, if it hadn't been for that slight edge, that hint of some other emotion than satisfaction and amusement. It unsettles him somehow.
"Because you can't rape the willing, of course," Othello remarks, his hands somehow managing to find the few places on Mitsume's body that aren't bruised, where their touch doesn't hurt in any physical way.
Mitsume opens his mouth to denounce Othello's suggestion for a lie, discovering too late that he's only given the prince another opportunity to take over his body and use it against him. He refuses to call what Othello is doing to him a 'kiss', even if it fits the official definition.
He refuses to believe that this has anything to do with love or lust.
And when he opens his eyes again, in what may be several hours later, he adamantly refuses to believe the whole episode in Othello's bed has ever happened in reality. Even if the sheets are every bit as soft as he remembers them to have been in the dream that must have been a nightmare.