Chapter 3: Seduction
[this is my December; this is my time of the year]
Getting into the building was ludicrously simple. Structural engineers really made it too easy for people to break into their creations. Of course, most humans don’t think to protect emergency hatches to service elevator shafts; first of all, who would be bold enough to access the roof of a 40-floor edifice, and secondly, who would be insane enough to utilize said shaft without said elevator?
Why, that would be me! Mitsuru whistled cheerily as he pried open the hatch’s heavy steel door and jumped, feet first, into the six-by-six-foot-wide hole. His coat kited behind him and he tasted metallic air as he plunged a hundred feet down to what he hoped was the 30th floor.
Once he’d ascertained the approximate vicinity of his desired location, he reached out and halted his descent by seizing the elevator cables. He hissed briefly as friction caused his hands to scorch, but then he ignored this minor inconvenience, swung around the cable once to gain momentum, then kicked at the elevator doors. They buckled under his tremendous force, giving grudgingly.
Oh, so you want to play?
Mitsuru swung around again, feet running on the walls of the shaft, before launching himself at the doors once more. With a screeching groan, the steel burst from its confines and Mitsuru landed gracefully in the hallway of the...
Twenty-ninth floor. Damn.
He glanced around, found the emergency stairwell and bounded up one more level to his destination. He sighed. Getting in last time had been so much easier, when he’d timed his entrance with the departing exit of the quitting time rush. Walking in was definitely better than breaking in.
[this is my December; this is all so clear]
So. Down the hall, past the cubicles, down another hall…Room 304, ne?
Mitsuru pushed open the door to the executive office, the police tape that had barred entry already torn away by various investigating detectives and company employees possessed of morbid fascination. The room was unlit but Mitsuru’s eyes needed no light to see. He proceeded to observe the room from the doorway.
He discounted extraneous information like the chalk marks on the rug, the furniture in disarray, the faint scent of blood that teased his highly-sensitive nose. Besides the chalk outline, which had come after, all this was familiar; he had been at the scene of the crime when the crime had been committed. Mitsuru’s eyes roved the rest of the room, then, until they came to rest on the name placard that lay forlornly on the desk. How could he have missed that the first time?
Because I didn’t care who she was. I just knew I had to have her; there was that stench about her, like there had been with all the others…
Mitsuru hesitated by the doorway. That shivery dread that crawled up his spine whenever he thought of his dream was upon him again. All of a sudden, he didn’t want to know anymore. Didn’t want to pursue this senseless quest for information. Maybe it was best to leave well enough alone.
But what if the madness comes back again? What if that hungering need hits me and compels me to hunt the mortals tainted by that sweet smell of corpses and corruption? I’m done with harrying all over the world in search of these women. I have to know what it is that drives me!
Steeling himself from the oppressive sense of foreboding churning in his stomach, Mitsuru stepped into the room and picked up the flimsy piece of plastic. He turned it over in his hand and read.
Miya Igarashi.
light. bright. electric. the ocean of scarlet and sienna. the sky of purple and blue. pain pain pain searing his mind.
Mitsuru dropped the name card and clutched at his head, tangling his fingers in his long blond hair, falling to his knees in the middle of the chalk outline.
light. bright. electric. the green, green eyes…
Miya Igarashi. I remember you! I remember…
Then Mitsuru blacked out.
[this is my December; this is my snow-covered hall]
“Shin, this isn’t necessary, you know.”
“But we’re graduating next month. We’re almost free. I’m almost free. And after we graduate, he won’t have anything to hang over my head anymore.”
“Exactly. So why mess with it now? It’s best to leave well enough alone.”
“And will you be able to respect me in the morning if I do so?”
“You know, there are other ways one can interpret that statement.”
Mitsuru purrs playfully and grabs Shinobu’s chin in his hand. Shoving him gently so his back is pressed against the corridor wall, Mitsuru leans over the slightly shorter boy and hovers. Shinobu tilts his head up, eagerly meeting the other halfway. His mouth is already partly open in preparation for the hot tongue that he expects to come. He is not disappointed.
Mitsuru marvels at the pliant, responsive body in front of him. He closes his eyes as the kiss deepens. He accommodates his tall frame to meld flawlessly with his lover’s. He pushes his hardening need against Shinobu’s thigh. He wants to take him then and there.
Shinobu does not discourage him. His hands jerk up almost involuntarily and clutches at Mitsuru’s shirt sleeves. He arches his back instinctively, his shoulder blades jutting against unyielding oak. His eyes are also closed. His lips are crushed against his teeth because of the ferocity of the kiss. Shinobu’s tongue spars hungrily with the other’s in the shared heat of their joined mouths.
Outside, snow falls and blankets Tokyo.
“Mitsu, you are not going to distract me so easily.” Shinobu breaks off first. His sense of propriety kicks in.
“I can when I look into yours.”
Shinobu’s breath catches in his throat. He is sometimes surprised at how eloquent and romantic Mitsuru can be. His lover is usually so sunnily easy-going; this makes it difficult to imagine him in the role of Casanova. Shinobu realizes that this is but another reason why he loves this boy. And it is the strength of this certainty that compels him to do what he must.
“Let’s go. Dinner’s waiting.” Shinobu pushes off the wall, albeit reluctantly, and drags his lover down the hall toward the dining room. Mitsuru good-naturedly gives up his seduction for the nonce and allows himself to be dragged.
“Alright. But can we wait till after the fruit plate before we tell them?”
“Otousan…”
“So, Mitsuru, I hear you’re thinking of photography for a profession after graduation.”
“Hai, Mrs. Tezuka.”
“Is there much money in that?”
“Otousan, I need to…”
“I’m not really concerned with money at this point, Mr. Tezuka.”
“And why not, Ikeda? Money is what makes the world go ‘round, ne?”
“Otousan, there’s something I really…”
“I have some money saved up, and a bit of a trust fund my parents set aside for me.”
“That’s nice, dear.”
“Yes, I know, Mrs. Tezuka. So, without the constraints of having to be financially responsible for a while, I decided to do something with my life that involved my two loves: people and travel. Photojournalism seemed a good way to combine both interests.”
“Otousan, if you just listen a minute…”
“That’s all well and good, Ikeda, to do something you like. As a hobby, of course. But what about your future? What about a wife? Children? Surely you don’t expect to provide for them on a photojournalist’s salary?”
“Father! Mother! Mitsuru and I are lovers!”
There is a strange calm silence that envelops the room at this announcement. No chopsticks clatter to porcelain bowls tritely; no fists thump on tables melodramatically; no gasps of shock or outrage interrupt the perfect stillness. Shinobu’s mother placidly folds her napkin and places it precisely in her lap, eyes downcast. Shinobu’s father fishes for the last piece of daikon. Mitsuru’s eyes are round and his chopsticks are poised in mid-air, like the spindly legs of a hovering crane.
Outside, snow falls and blankets Tokyo.
“Well, that’s a very diplomatic way to put it,” Mitsuru recovers quickly and attempts to lighten the mood with wry facetiousness.
“Mitsuru and I are lovers,” Shinobu repeats, more quietly but with equal fervor.
“We heard you the first time,” Norio Tezuka glances at his wife who leaves the table at the unspoken, unseen command.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Shinobu stares at his father uncomprehendingly.
“To you? No. But I would like to have a private word with Ikeda.”
The old man abruptly rises and heads for the door. He does not look back. He expects Mitsuru to follow. Mitsuru does so without hesitation.
“Mitsu?”
“It’s okay, Shin. He just wants to talk. At least he hasn’t kicked me out yet.”
“But ---“
“Koi, don’t worry about it.” On his way out, Mitsuru passes his lover. He places a reassuring hand briefly on the other’s shoulder and squeezes. “This is what you wanted, and I live to please my love. Besides, have you ever met anyone I couldn’t win over with my resplendent smile and ineffable charm?”
Shinobu watches Mitsuru leave the room. He is comforted, but not by much. He knows his father.
Mitsuru hurries to catch up to the retreating form ahead of him. The back looks stiff, unrelenting. Mitsuru experiences a momentary pang of unease, but shucks it off. What can an old man do to him? He quickens his pace and catches the door to the study just as it swings to close behind Shinobu’s father. Mitsuru steps into the dark room. The door snicks shut.
[and I just wish that I didn’t feel like there was something I missed]
pain pain pain. searing.
He ran down the halls, past the ghostly cubicles, on to the stairwell, and up up up. Up to the roof. Up to the night sky. Away from this cold concrete prison that threatened to engulf him with susurrations of memories too wretched to contemplate. He needed to breathe. He wanted to escape. He wanted to forget again.
pain pain pain. scorching.
Panting, heartsick and soul-weary, he reached the fortieth floor and flung open the roof access doors. Immediately, alarm bells shrilled their clarion warning but Mitsuru was past caring. He bounded onto the blacktop, asphalt crunching beneath his black leather boots.
Thunder growled. A fierce wind bayed back.
He ran for the ledge, leaped panther-like onto its narrow strip. He flung his arms out then, but whether to welcome the harrowing of his past or to beg some higher power for deliverance from them was unclear even to the suffering vampire. He simply stood there, crucified by wind and hysteria.
pain pain pain. unadulterated chaos.
Miya Igarashi. Japan. Ryokuto Academy. Ryokurin Ryou. Aoki. Sakaguchi. Furusawa. Furusawa and his blasted motorcycle! Mitsuru laughed maniacally.
The dorm lady. Misako. Shun and Hasukawa…green, green eyes…
Then the heavens opened up and wept.
Arching his back, his arms still outstretched, Mitsuru Ikeda howled into the stormy stygian night…
“TEZUKA!”
…and vaulted off the roof.
[and I take back all the things I said to make you feel like that]
Shinobu winced as his chest was shoved against the bar for the third time since he’d entered the club, not more than five minutes ago.
“Oh, sorry!” A stunning brunette put a hand to red-rouged lips in mock apology. Her date, a swarthy man with entirely too much gold hanging from his neck, guffawed loudly.
Drunks. Shinobu dismissed the pair and gloomily resumed his rapt study of his glass’s contents. The murky remnants of an Irish ale sloshed gloomily back.
Igarashi was an idiot if this had been the kind of place she frequented. Shinobu was not a connoisseur of night clubs by any means; his tastes ran more toward quiet jazz pubs or the odd local opera house now and then. But he’d been dragged to enough bars by rowdy cohorts to recognize a meat market when he saw one.
Those reporters would have a field day if they saw me. I can just imagine the headlines now: Tokyo’s most eligible bachelor trawls L.A. hot spots in search for easy lay.
But that was a whimsical fancy. Shinobu Tezuka, youngest cadet ever to be promoted to detective on Interpol, was not about to let some chain-smoking, Evian-drinking, Miata-driving paparazzo find him if he didn’t want to be found. And tonight, he was on the clock, so to speak, and therefore was playing things incognito. Thus the dark attire. If Shinobu had had his druthers, he would have chosen that new camel-colored suede shirt he had bought from Saks just yesterday. And that top would have gone so swimmingly with the trousers he had on now. Sigh.
Shinobu’s sartorial musings were cut short by yet another shove. He ignored it. At any other time, this invasion of his personal space would have caused the man to swivel around and negligently kick the offender in the solar plexus, but he was incognito tonight.
And he was depressed.
No leads. No one even remembers Igarashi here. And why would they? This place is a zoo! Gods, Dad is gonna have my heart roasted if I have nothing to report tonight…
The glum detective raised two fingers to signal the bartender. It was a testimony to the powerful aura he commanded, even incognito, when the harried server immediately left the attentions of two giggling co-eds at the other end to tend to Shinobu’s nearly-empty glass.
“Ariga --- erm ---thanks!” Shinobu mouthed to the barkeep. He refused to strain his voice above the raucous pounding of Nine Inch Nails. It would be unseemly.
After pouring the drink, the bartender made the universal “check” sign with his hands inquiringly. Shinobu shook his head. The man grinned, gave a thumb’s up, then hurried back to the girls.
Suddenly, Shinobu shivered in the depths of his Burberry wool coat, and he was pretty sure the chill was not caused by the droplets of water that still clung to his silver hair. No, this had more the feel of a premonition, and Shinobu knew well to pay heed to premonitions.
He prepared to analyze the jolt of apprehension but was momentarily distracted by the smell of wet dog that emanated from his coat sleeve. Gods, he hated being caught in a downpour without an umbrella, especially when wearing wool. It would take a professional cleaner to get rid of the musty odor.
Another bill for Daddy, Shinobu thought fiendishly.
The electric jolt shot through him again.
The information overload was almost too much for the man. What with the din of the crowd, the pulsating beat of the music, the premature phone call and the sixth sense warning pimpling his arms, Shinobu was ready to throttle someone. But he quickly regained his infamously icy composure and took a deep breath, strangling his murderous impulses. The best thing to do under circumstances like these, he’d learned, was to take the path of least resistance. So that meant leaving the club, which had been a waste of his time anyway.
Shinobu downed his ale in one impressive swallow, wiped his mouth on his already-maligned coat sleeve, and pushed away from the crowd surrounding the bar. Cellular phone still clutched in his hand, he wended a path through the teeming masses, his eyes locked on the dimly-red exit sign.
Outside, the rain had not abated. Shinobu glanced down forlornly at his once-impeccable wardrobe. He inched away from the club entrance, but made sure his body was still protected by the overhanging canopy. Sighing at the unfairness of it all, he flipped open his Nokia, pressed a button with his thumb and reluctantly put phone to ear. Daddy would not be pleased.
“Shinobu.”
“Hai.”
“What do you have for me?” Norio’s voice crackled in demand.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Something?” Hopeful.
“Something.”
“Hai.”
A long-suffering sigh from the other end. “Well, which is it? Something or nothing? Spit it out, Shinobu. This call is probably costing me a fortune.”
“Well, no one’s really being very cooperative. This isn’t my jurisdiction, you know.”
“So, it’s nothing.”
Shinobu leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, waiting.
“Shinobu. I am not pleased.”
Still, he waited.
“Shinobu. Shinobu! Are you still there?”
“Dad, you hear me? Uh, Dad…hello? Bad connection. Will call you back, ne?” Shinobu Tezuka, Tokyo’s most eligible bachelor and skilled Interpol operative, held out his phone to catch the rain, hoping the noise would mimic a passable simulation of static.
“SHINOBU! You impudent sonuva ----“
The detective deftly flicked his wrist and terminated the conversation. Pocketing the phone, Shinobu breathed deeply. He had been doing a lot of that recently. Breathing deeply, that is. It would normally be a calming exercise if not for the damnable L.A. smog that was still pervasive even under the onslaught of a winter storm. Well, there was no help for it. Shinobu would simply crawl back into his penthouse suite and try his black book again. At least he’d be out of the rain there.
“Are you letting me in, or do I have to do something dire to different parts of your body?”
“Listen, dude. You can’t come in dressed like that. This is a respectable establishment.”
Shinobu snorted at this most erroneous statement and turned his head wearily to observe the disturbance at the club entrance. A burly bouncer, probably a Gold’s Gym reject by the looks of his muscled forearms and bleached-blond hair, was harassing another man, equally as blond but not as heavily built. However, to Shinobu’s trained eye, the detective knew who he’d be placing bets on if the altercation developed into a brawl. Although the irate customer’s back was to him, Shinobu sensed the lethal power in those wide shoulders and practiced stance. This man knew how to fight.
“Get out of my way.” The black-clad man snarled.
“No way, buddy,” the bouncer demurred firmly, arms folded across his chest.
The irate interloper moved toward the stubborn guard and Shinobu decided that he’d seen enough. He knew it was probably stupid of him to get involved, but he had some latent aggression begging to be released. His disheartening case and the still-itching scrabble of premonition in his mind compelled the detective to take action. Plus, he figured, it could be fun. And his wardrobe be damned.
“Oi! What seems to be the problem here?” Shinobu began pleasantly enough, although his muscles were already tensed for the inevitable combat.
A whirling dervish of darkness met him in mid-stride. It was too quick for his mind to comprehend, but Shinobu’s battle-honed training took over. Even as he was slammed hard to the club wall, even as his head rebounded painfully from the concrete, Shinobu had his .380 Berretta out of its holster and pressed against his attacker’s sternum. It was one of his finer moments, considering the incredible speed of the assault. A pity his attacker had a knife to Shinobu’s throat as well.
The two men froze, at an impasse. They were closed tight in a deadly embrace and neither one seemed inclined to give. The rain sluiced down in torrents. Shinobu blinked to clear his eyes, but he held the gun steady. The sharp blade by his jugular was just as still.
“And who the hell are you?”
That voice. So near now that the pouring rain did not distort it. That voice. Shinobu was acutely aware of that voice.
“Mitsuru?” he whispered incredulously.
Shinobu lifted his eyes to gaze upon the face of his foe and former lover.
Green eyes. Green. Green like the dream. Mitsuru recoiled in shock and fascination. The knife jumped as he did and scored a thin red line on his adversary’s neck. The crimson riveted the vampire and he watched it seep slowly from rendered flesh and onto the gleaming wickedness of his blade. He could not yet bear to look into those eyes.
“Mitsuru?” Again, the whisper.
The vampire ripped his gaze from the coupling of blood and steel and glared with ferocious desperation into the fountainhead of his fear.
Shinobu met the gaze. What he saw in those wine-scathed depths shattered him. Mitsuru had eyes like a desert, desolate and bleak. They were hollow husks of what once had been summertime and lit firecrackers. There was no life in those eyes. And no recognition?
“You!” The vampire pushed away from the wall and widened the gap between them, his knife slack in a hand that had dropped lifelessly to his side.
Yes? You do know me! Shinobu allowed himself a moment of exultation.
“Who are you? What do you want from me? What are you doing in my head?” Mitsuru raged impotently. He stepped back a few more inches.
The words hurt. But the drawing back, the obvious repulsion, knifed Shinobu’s heart more.
“Mitsu, it’s me. Shin?” Why did he even have to remind him? Why did he have to plead for remembrance? Had it been that long? And why did the other man seem so afraid?
“Who?” The name clung to Mitsuru’s consciousness yet the turmoil within him refused to subside. He was still too caught up in the seething miasma of newly-found memories. But those eyes…the green…
Rain lacerated the detective’s face as he lowered his gun and stepped away from the relative shelter of the club’s walls. He began to approach the skittish figure before him, a hand outstretched in reassurance and hope. “It’s Shinobu. Shinobu Tezuka.”
“Tezuka.”
The transformation took place instantaneously. Fear was replaced by a paroxysm of rabid fury as Mitsuru finally found a focus for the delirium excoriating his soul. Tezuka! The one who had done this to him – made him mad, made him hunt, made him kill, made him…
Mitsuru lunged at his tormentor with knife and murderous intent.
Shinobu’s body betrayed him. Even as his mind screamed NO! in anguish, his training came to the forefront once more.
The gun. His finger. The trigger.
Rain swamped the streets of Los Angeles, draining into the city’s sewers, taking with it grit, grime and the sluggish river of Mitsuru’s blood.
[and I just wish that I didn’t feel like there was something I missed]
~
Vampires do bleed. Mitsuru blinked in amazement. Chalk another one up for obscure vamp lore.
Then he blinked again. He wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t wet or cold either. Rather, he was lying in a deliciously comfortable bed, pillows piled high on either side of him. A sheet of richest Egyptian cotton covered him from the neck down. Above was a vaulted ceiling made of soundproofed glass, allowing Mitsuru to watch raindrops committing suicide without hearing their death drones.
The vampire slowly angled his head so he had full purview of the premises. He made out a large window to his right and what looked like the bathroom to his left. An oversized entryway immediately in front of him led to what looked like a sitting/dressing area. Beyond that, still in line with the entryway, was a set of French double doors, currently flung open to reveal a large living room. The lights were off in that room and Mitsuru did not strain himself to study it any further. It was enough to be aware of at least two exits from anywhere, and the glass ceiling and window were satisfactory.
Mitsuru sighed and permitted the cautious tension to drain from his body. Then he blinked a third time. He didn’t have a stitch of clothing on.
The vampire growled and leaped out of the bed, cursing the weakness that had seduced him to let his guard down. He remembered the thud of the bullet as it pierced his chest and splintered his sternum. He recalled being thrown back by the force of the shot and landing in the street in front of the club. The shouts from the bouncer. The honk of a car that swerved to avoid him. The rain pelting his face. The blood seeping from the gaping hole. And the man who had shot him, kneeling by his side and staring frantically at him with green, green eyes….
Tezuka.
He must have brought him here, for some purpose Mitsuru still had to find out. Now that he’d gained access into enemy territory, the vampire would finally get some answers.
That bastard probably has some exotic, painful torture in store for me. And he’s starting with my head. He’s screwing with my head by taking my clothes and leaving me defenseless and vulnerable. What a despicable little git!
Mitsuru began to stalk out the bedroom, prepared for battle. He didn’t need clothes to rip the man’s head from his spinal cord and bowl a couple frames with it. The vampire’s long, blond hair, free from the silk thong that had somehow vanished along with his clothes – and my knife! Let’s not forget my knife! – hung in damp tendrils to his bare back. Like an irate lion, Mitsuru shook his head to fling off the last droplets of water.
I haven’t been here long, then. Mitsuru deduced.
To make certain, he touched his chest for the spot where the bullet had entered. Instead of the wound he expected should be healing by now, Mitsuru’s fingers found neat, precise stitches holding together ragged flesh.
He fixed me! But why? He doesn’t know what I am? No! How? He has to know! Unless…
Mitsuru paused in mid-stalk, hand still on his chest.
Unless this was not the Tezuka he sought.
But that can’t be! He has the same taint as the other women! Faint, yes. Almost untraceable. But the scent is there, nevertheless. And his eyes! Those damnable green eyes! He fits in this puzzle somehow. The question is “how”?
Mitsuru sank to the floor and sat, cross-legged, in the middle of the darkened room. He let his wrists rest lightly on his bent knees and bowed his head in contemplation. Now that the initial delirium of memory overload had subsided, his mind was recovered enough for some serious, rational thinking. It was thus that Shinobu found him.
[and I take back all the things I said to you]
“You shouldn’t be up.”
The vampire remained motionless, half-hidden by shadows the dim light and a wayward moon cast upon the room.
“You’ve been sh---I shot you.” Shinobu corrected himself painfully. He approached the huddled figure hesitantly. “You should be in bed.”
Mitsuru raised his head leisurely. Then, with casual menace, he levered himself off the floor and stood. Amethyst eyes glinting, he gave the detective a sly, sinister smile. “I have amazing recuperative powers.”
“I see.” Shinobu flicked his gaze up and down the other man’s gloriously naked body and ordered his heart to cease its yammering from within his rib cage.
“Do you?” Mitsuru purred dangerously and prowled in a seemingly meandering path to close in for the kill.
This time, it was Shinobu who took the steps back. There was an alarming crackling of threat emanating from this golden-haired creature. Shinobu didn’t understand it, despaired of it, but knew better than to ignore it.
“And do you like what you see?” Mitsuru taunted softly, continuing his circling.
Shinobu stood rigidly, hands fisted by his side. He watched as Mitsuru neared him, tantalizing, only to draw back languidly and resume his circuitous route around the detective. Shinobu let his eyes devour the other hungrily. Eight years. Eight, long, empty years. The nights of dreaming, the days of wondering. The initial search that first year, frantic and scared. The succeeding four years, filled with alternating hatred and desolation. The pivotal sixth year, when resignation took its numbing hold of his heart. The remaining two years of nothing but work, work, work, drowning the emptiness in a sea of intrigue and conspiracy.
And now, to have it all come down to this. This gilded god with eyes of swirling madness. This maundering wraith possessed of a voice cadenced with derision. What happened to you, Mitsuru? Shinobu moaned silently. Why are you doing this to me? I wasn’t the one who left! I loved you!
I love you.
[and I give it all away, just to have somewhere to go to]
Love. What an unusual concept.
Mitsuru moved to stand behind the strained detective. This…love. What is this that he feels it so strongly? He’s projecting; his mind is screaming at me and he doesn’t even know that he’s letting it.
Mitsuru drew near, so much that he could make out the faint hairs on the man’s neck even in the darkened room. He breathed faintly and quirked an eyebrow in amusement as he watched the fine fuzz stand on end.
He wants me. His body aches for me to touch it. His thoughts are hot, blistering. This is love, then? Interesting…
Shinobu clenched his jaw as he felt the whisper of breath on his neck. Eight empty years. Pride was discarded as passion flared, searing his thighs with coruscating desire. He leaned back ever so slightly, yearning for contact.
And what if I do…this?
Mitsuru stuck out a curious tongue and licked the exposed flesh of Shinobu’s neck. The man’s shoulders twitched involuntarily. Mitsuru was delighted.
Ah! What about this?
The vampire’s tongue continued its perusal of softest skin. He transferred its attentions to Shinobu’s left ear, laving the outer shell delicately. Liking the taste of musk and salt he found there, Mitsuru followed his tongue with firm lips that nibbled what had been licked. Shinobu shuddered.
Why is this familiar to me? His scent…the taint is gone now. He smells of snow and sunsets instead…
A maddening sense of déjà vu overwhelmed the vampire, along with a tide of surging need. It wasn’t hunger this time. The fire that was slowly building in him demanded a different kind of release.
Shinobu wrenched from his grasp and whirled to face him. Their eyes locked, twin pairs of unutterable sorrow and recognition. Then, almost as if he were a marionette on a string, forced to enact a heartless god’s passion play, Mitsuru spoke:
“Shin, this isn’t necessary, you know.”
“But we’re graduating next month. We’re almost free. I’m almost free. And after we graduate, he won’t have anything to hang over my head anymore.” Shinobu whispered back.
“Exactly. So why mess with it now? It’s best to leave well enough alone.” Mitsuru yanked the words forth from a sea of frothing orange and red.
“And will you be able to respect me in the morning if I do so?” Shinobu recited obediently.
“You know, there are other ways one can interpret that statement.”
The two fell into each other. Human and vampire. Hunter and hunted. Lovers again.
[give it all away, to have someone to come home to]
I am helpless, enraptured. Caught in the maelstrom if his voracious appetite. Our bodies strain against mortal constraints, thrusting to fulfill an unquenchable need.
Mitsuru rips at Shinobu’s clothes and the other man pays no heed to the shredding of wool and cotton. His body is too eager for flesh to press against flesh. He burns to press his bare skin against the other’s sinewy muscle. Shinobu’s hands are equally fervent as they roam over the planes and valleys of Mitsuru’s perfection.
We are both naked, in body and spirit. He peers into my soul and I allow him safe passage. We acknowledge the ugliness and the despair and the anger that roils in each of us. We acknowledge and forgive and rejoice that we are complete once more.
Shinobu seizes Mitsuru’s mouth with his own. Their tongues entwine in a furnace of heat and fervor. Mitsuru bites down hard, drawing blood. Shinobu moans in pain and rapture. His hands grip Mitsuru’s muscled forearms and fingernails dig deep, scratching red tracks of their own. Mitsuru gives a guttural growl and shoves Shinobu onto the bed. Their lips are still fused together.
His body sings to me. We move as one, a wondrous waltz of violet and azure. We call forth memories of long summer nights and sugar-coated laughter. But the memories are smoky substitutes of what is here. Now. Us.
Shinobu tumbles Mitsuru until he is now on top, pinning the other’s shoulders onto the firm mattress. Shinobu straddles him, his turgid need settling with familiar ease on Mitsuru’s stomach. They both feel the staccato strobing of his shaft’s pounding blood. Mitsuru clutches the shaft in his hand and runs an urgent thumb around its sensitive head. Liquid fire erupts, moistening the caress. Shinobu arches his back and crushes Mitsuru’s ankles with his hands. Tears trickle from eyes squeezed shut.
Everything I’ve ever known before is artificial joy compared to this moment. There was no substance to all those meaningless fucks. The reality is here. The truth transcends all reason. My senses spin out of control in the face of this sweet madness.
Mitsuru scissors up, Shinobu’s sex still captured in his hand. They are now face to face. Panting, gasping, Shinobu rests his weight on Mitsuru’s lap. Mitsuru tugs fiercely on Shinobu’s arousal, his other hand raking scalp then pulling at silver strands. Shinobu releases Mitsuru’s ankles, folds in and reaches to tangle his own hands in his lover’s sun-spun mane. He bends forward and bites Mitsuru’s neck, sucks at the tender skin between bone and tendon. Mitsuru chuckles and pumps faster.
Shinobu cries out as he nears the moment of release. Mitsuru stops suddenly and the pain from unfulfilled passion is excruciating. Shinobu pushes him back on the bed and punishes him with tongue and lips. Shinobu laps at the hollow of Mitsuru’s throat, traces his collarbone, kisses his taut nipples and nips them to submission. Mitsuru writhes beneath him.
He is the marauder of my heart. He steals in and burgles my every emotion. He finds the hidden places where I have locked my secret self. He plunders my sanctum sanctorum and leaves behind lightning and thunder and howling winds. The storm within me is exquisite.
Shinobu splays his hands across Mitsuru’s chest, drags them down the jutting rib cage, toys with the curves of his buttocks. Shinobu’s head follows the same path until he reaches Mitsuru’s navel, where his tongue licks with fierce abandon. Mitsuru is consumed by flames of lust. He bares his fangs, unseen.
Shinobu grabs his lover’s pelvic bones masterfully, familiarly. He envelops Mitsuru’s engorged sex in his mouth. He lets his throat muscles relax and takes Mitsuru in deep. Shinobu revels in the taste of salt and sweat. He suckles slowly, erotically, swirling his tongue around the shaft. He allows his teeth free reign to graze along the thin sheath of its skin. He hums low in his throat and the thrumming sends daggers of heat through every fiber of Mitsuru’s body.
Mitsuru reaches down and pulls at Shinobu’s hair, urging him upward. Shinobu eagerly complies. Straddling Mitsuru once again, Shinobu slides his lover’s arousal in his welcoming warmth. He hisses with the initial shock of penetration. Mitsuru eases his pain by imprisoning Shinobu’s need in a firm grasp and continues where he had left off. They move in synchronicity then; pulling, tugging, pushing, thrusting in time to the syncopation of a shared heartbeat.
I am light. I am noise. I am disembodied electron and proton. I am splintering into a thousand shards of ecstasy. Screaming wildly into the deep night, my soul orgasms in counterpoint to his.
[this is my December; those are my snow-covered trees;
this is me pretending this is all I need]
The rain has stopped. Spent, sated, a man sleeps.
And like the final strains of a bittersweet melody, a vampire steals off into the night.