Sunday, March 12, 2006

dont read if you hate loveless...


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Blood. It's so warm. So... strange, like fluid velvet, when it's running. Slowly, like this, across battered skin.

Seimei.

He had no choice but to stain his clothes, but he dared not leave sensei's office half-nude. Carefully, Soubi reached for his shirt tossed on the floor, and pulled it over the fresh wounds on his back. The fabric, so soft when he had worn it just an hour before, felt rough on his skin. Another intrusion, and yet, it did not matter; he willed his strained muscles into quasi-relaxation with the release of a measured breath. His movements were slow, strangely smooth – to him, anyway - intent eyes fixed on the shard of glass, still embedded in his right palm.

Behind him, the butterfly collection, the same one Ritsu-sensei's puny substitute for Soubi's Sacrifice would never join, hung in its gloomy cages of wood and glass. Before him, the remains of the relaxing jar he had dropped reminded him of what he had done. For a short, fleeting second, as he looked at his feet, Soubi froze, petrified by the impression that it was his Sacrifice that he had carelessly allowed to fall. Shattered to pieces, it glimmered in the dim light, still in its broken silence.

An outline of Seimei's face flashed, in passing, across his mind. Soubi shuddered. You cannot protect your Sacrifice, if all you care about is your own pain.

He lifted his hand; a drawn motion that barely stirred the thick air around him. He closed his eyes. It hurt, and he moved his fingers to stretch the pierced skin – just a little further, just a little closer to the threshold. He felt the sharp fragment move inside his flesh, tear at the fibers, and his slow intake of breath solidified his acceptance of this strange sensation in his mind.

I don't care. Let it hurt.

It was not all that painful, he decided; not painful enough. Eyes shut, tentative fingers of his good hand tracing the sharp edge of glass, Soubi slowed the tempo of his breathing further still, to calm his throbbing heart. I do not feel this. He caught the shard in a firm grasp and twisted it in place, careful to keep his face blank, as if someone watched. Just like he was taught, he mused, and the thought did not disturb him, this time.

I will not lose to pain.

A whisper of something like reason chased fleeting half-thoughts across his consciousness. Sepia-tinted images, distorted in his mind's eye, scattered beneath the iterative syllables pushed forth from his lips. Then the whirlwind of his inner world came to a screeching halt.

What am I doing?

His eyes snapped open. Spellbound, Soubi watched the small pool of red that had gathered in his upturned palm, thin streaks escaping between his crooked fingers. Pain registered sharply and his composure shattered; his face twisted in a blend of discomfort and shame. He looked around in desperate search of something to wipe the blood, anything to cover this proof of his moment of madness. Finding nothing suitable, Soubi pursed his lips and lifted the hem of his shirt. It was ruined, anyway; it would have to do.

His heartbeat was loud in his ears, the rush of blood a constant noise around his mind. Carefully, Soubi removed the shard with trembling fingers, yet he watched it dislodge from the mangled flesh with passionless eyes. Pain is an emotional thing. Pain, but not the physical kind, had prompted this. He knew; oh, he knew that so well. He had felt it all along. Disappointment, rejection, failure – nothing quenched it better than the sting of broken skin. Ritsu-sensei was right in all things but one. Soubi's path, it would be one of achievement through pain; laid by his teacher, not Seimei – not when he bled – and he walked it blindly on shaking legs.

He hated every single step.

It did not feel right. Through the haze of fragmented thoughts, a bittersweet veil of increasing pain, Soubi could not stop something inside him from falling apart. The wounds from sensei's whip burned under his shirt, dissolving confusion even as his objections gained strength of their own. He should offer this pain as a proof of his obedience; yet it was not Ritsu-sensei he wished to obey, but Seimei. Him alone. He belonged to no one but his Sacrifice. He would lay his heart of hearts, the core of his soul, in Seimei's hands. It was only fair that the scars he bore were, too, tied to his destiny.

One last time, Soubi looked at the blood-stained glass he held in his hand. This is your Sacrifice. You cannot sway. Sensei's words echoed through his mind, and he felt a bitter laugh straining to escape, barely concealed beneath a cough. His true Sacrifice, he was beautiful; one of a kind, indeed, yet so far above any butterfly. He was perfect, the flaws of feeble creatures were alien to him. He had no need of a brittle Fighter who shied away from pain. So Soubi would endure this pain, and any other - and offer it freely to show that he was worthy of fighting for him.

Seimei.

He gave his head a light shake, eyes shifting between the closed door and the disarray of drying blood and fractured glass at his feet. He tried to remember if sensei had ordered him to clean it. It should go without saying, he guessed, and past experience told him that his neglecting to do so would be severely punished at a later time. He found himself strangely unconcerned. Sensei's whip could reach his flesh, easily, as it had ever since the beginning of his training. But it would not reach his heart, nor his mind, any more than Soubi himself allowed.

From this day on...

He tossed the glass onto the floor. It rattled softly against the rest of broken pieces there and landed in a darkening stain. The sound dispersed the leaden silence that weighed on his mind; a momentary relief, enough to let him push the remnants of fear into the shadowy recess of his thoughts. He reached for his ruined drawing, a pitiful mess of disappearing shapes on once-white, now blood-soaked, paper. He left enough behind without a trace of his change of heart. Then he turned on his heel and headed for the door, heedless of the blood dripping from his hand.

...only you.

His steps whispered against the floor, footfalls placed with caution to help him reach his room unnoticed. Seimei should not be there; not this early, he hoped. That would give him just enough time to make himself look presentable. Seimei needed not see either of his wounds, though the one on his hand would be harder to conceal. Silently, Soubi was glad for his Sacrifice's age, for his peculiar coyness where physical matters came into play. It allowed him to keep most of the long-lasting side effects of sensei's training to himself.

He welcomed the soft twilight of the tiny room with a quiet sigh, closing the door behind him as he walked inside. Leaning against the cool wall, Soubi closed his eyes. Ritsu-sensei's voice still rang in his ears, like a plague that persists despite all efforts to make it go away. He gritted his teeth and curled his fingers inward into a tight fist, fingernails digging into the fresh wound there.

A sting of pain shot through his hand and traveled up the inside of his forearm, high towards the elbow along sensitized nerves. He needed this, to know he was alive, and that pain was his, there by his own choice. It carried a promise of relief, if not one of a strange kind. Not punishment, this time, he thought, exhaling slowly to wipe the traces of discomfort from his face. His body simmered in response, fevered heat a layer on his skin.

“What are you doing?”

Soubi's heart skipped a beat. He caught the urge to whirl around by a thread and turned slowly instead, displeased by the sudden hitch of his breath.

“Good evening, Seimei,” he said, trying for a conversational tone. He moved the injured hand slightly behind his back.

“Good or not,” the younger boy's face contorted in a slight scowl, “you didn't answer my question.”

Small streaks of warm blood ran between his fingers and Soubi smiled inwardly to a sudden thought. He held out the ruined drawing he still clutched in his other hand, but he kept it safely out of Seimei's reach.

“Training my skills,” he explained, fully aware that his words fell somewhat short of the explanation Seimei expected him to give. Training indeed, just what skills he had in mind was not something intended to share.

“What is it? It's bloody,” Seimei's voice was laced with a hint of disgust. It reflected in his expression; in the way his eyebrows climbed into his hairline, in how his full lips formed a thin line.

Soubi's heart sank a little. “I...” he hesitated briefly. His cat ears wilted; he spent a good portion of his focus on resisting the urge to look away in shame. “I drew this for you,” he said reluctantly. He wanted to make it perfect, recreate the idea without a flaw. Imperfection such as this had no right to exist, not where his Sacrifice could see.

Seimei took the paper between the fingertips of his left hand, visibly displeased. “Dare I ask what you've been doing with it?”

The question hung in the air; another one Soubi did not - could not - answer. What passed between Ritsu-sensei and him would stay only there. He stared at Seimei instead, hopeful eyes seeking solutions to the turmoil of his heart.

“What's wrong with you today?” Seimei demanded. He shrugged his shoulders and dropped the filthy paper as if it burned. It landed with a whispering noise in the small space between them, at Soubi's feet. “I asked you a question.”

Impatience grew in Seimei's voice, a higher pitch in Soubi's ears. He managed a simple, “nothing,” before he lost the battle of wills and glanced out of the window, towards the darkening sky.

Folding slender arms on his chest, Seimei tilted his head. He watched Soubi with suspicious eyes, an inquiring stare; the moment seemed to drag forever before he finally spoke. “Show me your hands.”

Soubi clenched his jaw as the sudden movement of his arm stretched the battered skin on his back. A cold shiver ran along his spine; the fresh wounds there tore open again. He did as he was told, loath as it felt; his heart refused to let him ignore any of Seimei's demands. He reached out both hands, palms turned downward, wrists slightly bent.

He watched the other from under the cover of his lashes. Seimei's face took on a serious look, focus and morbid curiosity blending into one. Soubi suppressed another shiver when a small streak of blood trailed along his middle finger and began to drip.

Seimei winced. “What have you done?” he asked, taking a half-step backward. “Turn them up.”

Soubi swallowed thickly as he complied. The crimson layer on his skin looked almost black; the day drawing towards sunset lent it too low an amount of light for colors to keep their true hues.

“That's disgusting,” Seimei decided after a short while. He turned his head. “Go, clean yourself up, I don't want to see it.”

Soubi drew a deep breath, a lungful of air insufficient in battle with anticipation that constricted his throat and stole its trembling way into his voice. “If I displeased you,” he said timidly, “you should punish me.”

Seimei let out a quiet snort. “Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do,” he said with a hint of derision. “If I told you to leave, that's what I meant.”

Soubi's heart pounded against his ribs. This was not what he wanted; not what he needed to rid himself of sensei's acid breath he still felt on the back of his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped to his knees, shaking hands grasping the front of Seimei's turtleneck.

I need you to show me.

“What do you think you're doing?” Seimei cried, instantly pulling back. Soubi's fingers clutched at the fabric. “Get away!”

Soubi kept his eyes closed, his head slightly bowed. He held onto his Sacrifice as tightly as his injured hand allowed. “Please...” he whispered. Desperation welled up in his chest, summoning tears he knew he would not shed; not if Seimei granted him the one wish that, in this very moment, mattered above all else.

“Let go!” Seimei grabbed his wrists, trying to wrench his sweater out of Soubi's hopeless grasp.

The colors have faded. I'm lost. Draw the path for me again.

Soubi looked up. The horrified look on Seimei's face drew a bolt of fear into his heart. He struggled to wrench himself from Soubi's hold, disgust at touching his bleeding hands surpassed by the need to get away. He caught a glimpse of the stains he had left, of anger flickering in Seimei's dark eyes, his ears twitching in rising fury. No, he could not let go; not now, when he had driven them both so close to the edge.

He tightened his grip and held his breath, a split second before Seimei released one of his wrists and hit him across the face with the back of his hand. Soubi's breath caught as his head lolled backward; he retained his hold on Seimei's turtleneck with one hand even as he lost balance and landed hard on the other, injured one.

“I said let go,” Seimei hissed through gritted teeth. “You're not deaf, are you?”

Soubi licked the blood off his split lip. He looked to the side and upward, where the shadows painted the contours of his Sacrifice in beautiful, refined lines against the dark background of an empty wall. His face hurt, the wound on his hand was bleeding again, yet it wasn't enough. Soul-deep hunger gnawed at his heart, his mind hazy with scorching need.

The lines are growing blurry. Seimei... Show me what I am.

He pulled himself up, back into a kneeling position, his last effort spent on keeping his face calm. Then, in one swift movement, he let go of Seimei's clothes, sparing the dark marks he had left there only a passing glance. Pleading eyes fixed on that beloved face, his hand closed around Seimei's and he squeezed it – lightly enough for Seimei to break free and lock his wrists in an iron grip.

Bind me to where I belong.

Seimei leaned over him, narrowed eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment before he pushed Soubi into the wall. His other hand grasped at his throat, fingers digging into the hot flesh there.

“You will obey me,” he seethed through gritted teeth. Soubi watched, entranced, how the youth of his years vanished from Seimei's face, his tone one that would stand no quarrel. Seimei glanced aslant to where Soubi was clenching his fist, drawing blood; he caught that hand and brought it up in a crushing embrace of strong, slim fingers around the wrist.

“You will never hurt yourself like this again,” he said slowly. “It's too low, even for you.”

Soubi's heart leaped at the onset of pain. He soared past his thresholds, past his limits towards release from the claws of fear. There was nothing he could not endure, for his Sacrifice. Any hardship, any pain; he was ready. He gasped at the sudden sensory overload, brought to completely new heights by the awareness that it was Seimei, none other, the sole cause of this suffering he deserved.

From this day on...

Undisputed servitude. Captivity like this, it was liberating in the strangest of ways. His lungs cried for air, yet he did not struggle; he watched the trickle of blood as it disappeared between their skin with unfocused eyes that shifted from and back to Seimei's face.

“Yes... master,” he managed in a rough voice. Seimei released him, shrugged, straightened himself. He looked down at his hands, scowling at the blood there.

Until my last breath...

“You won't do this again.” Seimei's stern voice surrounded him, the command a sweet melody to which his heart began to dance. “Do you understand?”

Soubi sank completely onto the floor and watched the beautiful boy before him with an enchanted gaze. Then he gave a small nod. He smiled; a lopsided grimace that made Seimei roll his eyes. He swept a loving glance around the dark figure, tracing the contours of his Sacrifice, one last time. Seimei's back was so graceful, he mused, when he turned to leave.

...to your will...

Soubi cast his eyes downward, a fall of tousled hair obscuring his face. Slowly, he bowed his head. The tiles on the floor dissolved in a blur; a collage of all shades of red gathered in glistening droplets there. The memory of touch lingered on his skin; beloved fingers burning their prints into the crusty layer on his wrist.

His mind filled with a strange sense of inner peace. His heart slowed down to a strong, steady beat, his breathing grew calm. He listened to the distant sound of running water, of Seimei's scrubbing his Fighter's blood off his beautiful hands so they could be pure again.

...I surrender.

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