Order Watari had gone, and Oriya missed him.
Which was, he told himself sternly, stupid. Watari was shinigami. He was dead. He dealt in death. One should not even contemplate an association with such a being.
All of which served no purpose. Watari had gone, and hadn't been able to say when - or even if - he could come back. That had been twelve hours ago, and Oriya missed him.
He moved through the day on auto-pilot, dealing with bookings, orders, a couple of minor quarrels between several of the young women of the establishment… If the staff noticed anything amiss with their master, they did not dare to mention it in his hearing.
Not that he was a hard master, they all knew that. His manner with them had always been impartially, distantly considerate. They were all fond of him - with some of them it went further than just fond, but all their hints and wiles had come to nothing - and knew him to be a fair protector. But he was a very private man. None of them knew him at all well.
Which was as he wanted it.He didn't want to think about the past. It was painful. But sitting here, in the garden, taking a few minutes before the first booking of the evening, it forced its way up from its grave.
He'd lied to Watari. He knew a little of his past: his family was an old one, though hardly noble. KoKakuRou had once been respectable, renowned for the beauty and accomplishment of its maiko, and for the quality of its fare. Until his grandfather had - readily, with open eyes - become associated with the yakuza…
Oriya closed his eyes, cursing ojiichan to an everlasting torture in hell. The loss of honour, of meiyo, aside, once the yakuza closed their fist, nothing ever escaped. Before he'd even been born he'd been condemned to run KoKakuRou, its activities watched, a portion of its earnings demanded as protection money, certain important people 'accommodated' free of charge… And he had no way out. He'd tried, just once… He'd never try again. The pain - to himself, to his charges - wasn't worth it.
He smiled grimly. But he was the last of his line, and he would never sire children - he'd decided that long ago, even if his natural tendencies had made it very unlikely. He'd made provision for the women, to the best of his abilities. When the time came, if necessary he'd fire the place, to prevent any further corruption…
"Mibu-sama?"
Cho called quietly through the half-open inner door, thankfully interrupting his dismal reverie. He rose, assumed his usual calm demeanour, and followed her into the restaurant to deal with whatever problem it was that required his attention."You look rested."
Watari glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Tatsumi standing in the doorway.
"Ay is. Ta."
The Secretary moved into the room to stand beside the desk, arms crossed, a folder held loosely in one hand.
"Are you sure you are recovered?"
Watari leaned back in his seat and eyed Tatsumi warily.
"Aa… whut d'yew want me to do?"
A small smile.
"I thought you'd like to know your work enabled Tsuzuki-san and Kurosaki-kun to close their case yesterday. No doubt one or both of them will be along, later, to tender their thanks."
Watari blushed with pleasure. Yes, OK, it was his job, but it was nice when his efforts were recognised. Tatsumi's deep blue eyes twinkled.
"You have done very well, Watari-san. Thank you."
Speechless, the beaming scientist watched as the Secretary offered a small bow and returned to his office. A minute later voices - one laughing, the other dour - announced the imminent arrival of Tsuzuki and Hisoka.
"Oi, Watari!" Tsuzuki held a large square box in his hands. "We're celebrating!"
Hisoka scowled at his partner, then eyed the scientist, expression surprisingly open.
"Baka insisted. Hope you like chocolate."
Watari chuckled as Tsuzuki opened the box and produced a chocolate cake.
"Aa - choc'late's good…" He smiled at the young shinigami. "Wuz it hard - catchin' her, Ay mean?"
Hisoka shook his head.
"Not with everything you gave us, no…" He peered at the scientist, frowning. "We came to see you, yesterday evening: Tatsumi-san told us he'd given you two days off. But you weren't in."
Watari struggled to keep the smile on his face.
"Na… Ay went… out…"
It was pointless trying to keep the sudden feeling of guilt from Hisoka. The empath's eyes widened even further; as Tsuzuki hunted for something to use as plates, he hissed quietly,
"You… you've been with him?"
"Bon…"
"Why?"
Fortunately Tsuzuki saved his old friend from having to reply.
"Can we manage without plates?" He grinned at Watari. "I don't know what you've had on those dish-things but I'd rather not risk them…"
"'m sure hands'll do."
Hisoka swallowed and inclined his head.
"Thank you for your help, Watari-san." He eyed Tsuzuki narrowly. "Don't be too long."
Tsuzuki gazed at his retreating back as Hisoka left the lab, then swung to Watari, confusion and a tinge of hurt in his eyes.
"What have I done now?"
Watari shook his head.
"Nowt. 's my fawlt."
Tsuzuki stared at him.
"OK - what did you do?"
Watari gave him a long, appraising look, then sighed and dragged a chair over.
"Better sit down - might take a while to tell yew…"Oriya finally gave up trying to sleep shortly before dawn, dragging on a yukata and stepping out into the coolness of the garden, shivering slightly as cold air brushed his legs.
He felt - trapped.
Not that that was particularly unusual. After all, he was trapped. Had been since he was born, but particularly since he'd assumed responsibility for the restaurant-brothel. A few fleeting years of pseudo-freedom at school, then this…
He remembered his first meeting with Muraki. The boy had been striking even then, with that silver hair and those eerie silver eyes. And so pale! And so very, very strange…
He'd frightened off most people, his arrogance and implacable coldness daunting to his peers. Only Oriya, shunned because of his family's business and connections, had taken the time and trouble - because it was a trouble, trying to get behind the cold pale mask Muraki presented to the world - to try to understand him. He'd felt, even then, they had something in common.
Loneliness, probably.
It had taken a while, but eventually Muraki had responded. Not kindly - never kindly - but with a certain… respect, Oriya thought. It was enough. More than enough for the boy who'd never had a friend before.
They were called 'the freaks' behind their backs and avoided by their shoolmates, though their teachers accepted them: they both worked hard, ignored distractions, and were unfailingly polite - though Muraki's courtesy always had an edge of the condescending about it.
They were a striking, if odd, couple, Muraki's cold pale silver and Oriya's rich warm browns. Muraki's clinical detachment, Oriya's instinctive understanding of traditional warrior values. Muraki's science, Oriya's art - an artistic talent that had been quashed almost before it had had time to appear, since it was, his father had decreed, useless in his station in life. The boy must learn business methods, politics, economics… At least he'd been permitted to continue iaido.
And slowly he'd found himself becoming fascinated with Muraki.
He believed the feeling was mutual, although Muraki had never said as much. But somehow the boy had come to depend on him. Well, not so much depend, as… Oriya frowned. It was more as though by permitting him to - serve Muraki, Muraki was bestowing favour.
Why had he allowed it? How had he ended up pandering to Muraki, allowing the boy to use him? Partly because it was a novel experience, having someone rely on him - even if Muraki didn't see it that way. Partly because Muraki knew so much more, and liked the sense of superiority he gained from sharing crumbs of his knowledge with a grateful Oriya. But mostly because he had no one else.
It went without saying that Oriya's first sexual experience had been with Muraki. It hadn't been enjoyable - very painful, in fact - but it had set the pattern for the next couple of years. No question of who was in control, of course; Muraki had to be in control, would allow nothing else. Oriya believed that was partly because he'd been allowed none as a child. Between his half-mad mother and philandering father, his childhood had been… abnormal. At least Oriya's mother had shown him some affection.
The swordsman wrapped his arms around himself. He'd believed, with childish naivety, that by being a friend, excusing and forgiving everything Muraki did, he'd provided his friend with the love and acceptance he'd never had. By the time he realised that it hadn't worked, it was too late; they were too deeply entrenched in the roles that would define their lives.
Muraki had had so much potential…Tsuzuki's eyes were troubled, the chocolate cake forgotten.
"Oriya? Whatever possessed you to go to him?"
Watari's shoulders slumped.
"Ay wanted answers."
"Watari-kun, was that wise?"
The scientist raised his hands beseechingly.
"Ay haven' done anythin' wrong!"
Tsuzuki laid a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Are you sure?"
Gazing into deep purple eyes, Watari felt his heart sink. Oriya wasn't dying, wasn't connected with any current case; no shinigami had any reason to visit him - certainly not become familiar with him! So no, while he hadn't actually done anything wrong - not yet, anyway - his behaviour was hardly irreproachable. He lowered his head.
"Ay wuz lonely."
Tsuzuki could only just hear the whisper. His hand tightened on Watari's shoulder.
"You still miss him."
"Course Ay do."
"Will you speak to Tatsumi?"
"NO!" Watari coloured and lowered his voice again. "Na… Ay can't. He'll only forbid it."
"Watari-kun… you know it's wrong. You'll be hurt - and so will he - if you carry on."
Tsuzuki had never seen his friend look so miserable.
"Ay know…"
"What will you do?"
"Dun' know. Ay need to think." Chatoyant golden eyes regarded glowing purple. "C'ld yew 'pologise t' Bon for me? Din' mean t'upset him. Ay know how he feels, 'bout Oriya an' his connection with Muraki."
"OK." Tsuzuki pulled his hand away reluctantly. "I won't say anything. Neither will Hisoka. But you have to decide what to do, Watari - and soon.""Mibu-sama, please excuse our presumption, but is all well with you?"
Oriya looked up from where he'd been slumped over his desk, trying to focus on the papers before him for the last hour. Cho and Kohana were hovering in the doorway, Ayame behind them, all looking anxious: sometimes he allowed a little familiarity, most times not. He sighed.
"All is well. I am just a little tired."
Exhausted, more like! Cho thought to herself. The master hadn't slept properly since his pretty friend had left. She took the risk, telling herself it was for everyone's benefit.
"Mibu-sama… why don't you invite him to visit?"
He frowned.
"Who?"
"W… Watari-sama…"
He eyed them coldly.
"Now you are being presumptuous."
They bowed deeply.
"Y… your pardon, Mibu-sama…"
As the door closed behind them he rubbed his face, then ran his hands through his hair. Oh yes, there were few things he'd rather do than have the shinigami come visit, he thought dryly, appreciating the irony. But it wasn't possible. He didn't know how.
How did one contact the dead? Pray? Telephone? Send an email? He laughed at himself. Email Meifu. Ludicrous notion. Obviously he was more tired than he'd realised. He glanced at the clock; he had time for a nap.White filled his dreams, white moon, white flowers, a pale figure in white gleaming against a dark sky…
At twenty-one he'd helped Muraki dispose of his first kill. At least, he assumed it was Muraki's first.
By that time, while Muraki had been at university, he'd been working for three years learning the minutiae of the business under his ailing father, and was practically in charge of KoKakuRou. He knew and was known by those individuals who 'protected' the business - had been present at several beatings of those who'd tried to resist such protection, just so he 'knew what to expect', as his father had put it - so arranging the removal of the mutilated body had been both relatively easy and less horrifying than it might otherwise have seemed. (That it also gave those involved an additional hold over himself hadn't occurred to him until it was too late.)
Afterwards Muraki had fisted a hand in long brown hair, yanking Oriya's face close to his own, brushing the open mouth with a light kiss then sinking his teeth into the lower lip, breaking the skin as Oriya whimpered and tried to pull away. Smearing both their mouths with blood, he kissed his friend again, viciously, worsening the bite, then pulled back, his mouth vividly red in the lamplight. He licked his lips, smiling coldly.
"What I like most about you, koi," he said conversationally as he turned to leave, "is your beautiful craving for self-destruction."
Nursing his bleeding lip, Oriya had stared as the white figure sauntered away. It had been a while before he realised firstly, that Muraki was right, and it was only that that saved him from any real harm - there was no pleasure to be had from torturing and killing one who would welcome it - and secondly, that Muraki simply hated to be indebted to anyone.
Two years later Muraki had returned, and Oriya realised he'd been forgiven for the unwitting humiliation. And that Muraki accepted that it would make life less complicated for himself if he allowed the swordsman to 'clear up' behind him…
He woke abruptly, less exhausted but not exactly 'rested', and dragged himself back into the daily routine, blanking his mind, refusing to think beyond the demands of the moment. It had always been the easiest way to survive.Tatsumi watched Watari, concern in his eyes. Outwardly the scientist seemed much as ever, cheerful, eccentric, smile in place as usual - but the Secretary was uneasily aware of something not right, something… simmering below the surface. It worried him. It was unlike Watari to be secretive…
© 2004 April 5 Joules Taylor
As far as I can gather, Bon is kansai-ben ('outrageous Southern dialect') for little 'un: only Watari and Oriya call Hisoka Bon (the anime subtitles it as 'little boy' and 'little brother').
© 2004 WordWrights
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Iaido - similar to kendo, but - if I've understood it correctly (perhaps you'll correct me if I'm wrong, 'saru?) - iaido places more emphasis on the correct unsheathing/resheathing of the sword. It also seems to be a less vocal practice - less shouting! Since in the anime there is a deliberate focus on the way Oriya draws his katana - and the fact that he fights silently - I've opted for iaido rather than kendo (which is what Hisoka uses).
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