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31_days2006-02-18 11:44 pm
dashre.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-02-18 11:44 pm
[2006-02-18] [Yu Yu Hakusho] First Rule Second
So, yeah. This is my first community post ever. Be nice?
~
Title: First Rule Second
Day/Theme: Feb. 18th, "Bone flute."
Series: Yu Yu Hakusho
Character/Pairing: Youko/Kuronue.
Rating: PG-13 for implied shiz.
Word Count: 1,121 (heh. Cool.)
Warning(s): Yaoi.
~
First Rule Second
- dashre/tenika
Kurama's den never failed to captivate him.
Kuronue, once upon a very long, long time, would have pretended not to understand why this was true, but he was older now, and pretending no longer suited him. It was not an attractive trait in an adult. Children pretended, and while it could not be denied that the centuries separating their ages were almost too great in number for him to be considered anything but, he did not feel like a child anymore. Besides, Kurama hated it when anyone lied, himself—for once—included; Kuronue supposed it made him feel out of control.
The den fascinated him because it made no sense. No sense to him, at least. He was sure it made plenty of sense to the fox.
This, he had learned, was all that truly mattered; Kurama had kept him in the dark about a great number of things in their time together—for years, sometimes—out of laziness, maliciousness, boredom, malignance, or because he often derived some perverse amusement from watching him flail in confusion. It had been Kuronue's lot to learn to deal with these whims, never to complain. That was the first rule: never question Kurama's logic. Kuronue had learned it second.
On the dawning of the first day he had spent entirely in the den, in the glow of odd, phosphorescent flowers, Kuronue had stood and explored, leaving the fox sleeping (or dozing, he supposed—he didn't quite trust Kurama to sleep when it was convenient) as he wandered, wanting to see what could be found in the home of the greatest thief ever.
He had encountered rooms of flowers and plants that he couldn't put names to—leaves and petals he dared not touch, for fear of some heavily-draped stamen that might shift, fast as a lighting storm, into a mouth and bite him, or of some toxic pollen or acidic stem. He was too smart, too paranoid, to test his luck in such a way. Kurama would have laughed to see him return with a burned hand or face.
Farther and deeper into the sprawling, vascular tunnels of the den he found rooms of decorations, stolen jewelry and clothes, mirrors, weapons, candles; he found heavy, thick-paged history volumes, tomes of ningen-jutsu, hair brushes, cosmetics and fans, boxes, hair sticks, bowls, games, sheaves of paper. All this at once. And that just his first stay.
After that day, when he found the time—when Kurama didn't need him for some theft, or (much later in their stay as partners) when the youko wasn't quietly pulling him into secluded, dark corners and genially molesting him—he would sneak farther and farther into the den, discovering new rooms and new treasures and new insights into his partner.
The oddest thing he ever found there (more than the six-foot posters of detailed ningen anatomy tucked away in one lonely box, or the fine, hand-painted portrait of a young, wickedly grinning Kurama posed beside an equally wicked fawn-colored youko—his mother) was a small, unobtrusive bone flute.
Kuronue discovered it half-buried in the sand of a miniature Zen garden, another ningen thing. The bat found it interesting because, unlike the garden (which Kurama had told him once was a gift, given to him by a group of those weak creatures a long, long time ago), he knew nothing about the flute. Kurama had never once mentioned it. Kuronue didn't even know whether he could play. There were no other instruments to be found in the den, either.
Kuronue drew a whole elaborate fantasy around the flute. He imagined that once, a young, penniless youko had played it for entertainment, before he had killed and tricked his way to infamy. Perhaps he had put his charming looks to better use then, danced for a leering, violent public utterly entranced by his charms and wide grins filled with promise and teeth. He imagined that it had been part of some theft related entirely to sound, with some door that would only open at the tone of a flute.
More still, he imagined that Kurama simply liked it; that just maybe, on some of the evenings Kuronue spent away from him, he simply reclined in the throne of his den and played random, nameless things for his own entertainment.
Kuronue mulled over these imaginings, toyed casually with them, for over a year, content to let them grow and thrive. They furthered his good image of the fox, made him believe that there was something purely creative in him, something more than just manipulation or greed. They kept him quiet, thoughtful, on those days when Kuronue found himself at his worst, wishing that they had never met, that he could find the strength in his own withered core to kill him.
But they were not healthy. They were not Truth. Kuronue was unhappy by fits, but not prone to such long stints of delusion, and it was unfair to his partner. Kuronue had said yes. It had been his choice to join with the fox, his promise to accept, if not respect, his foul points. He knew full well that such fantasies were foolish, and would not last.
One evening he was lying, tangled in clothes and arms and a graceful white form, fresh from sleep and quietly enjoying himself as Kurama lazily took him apart with his fingers and claws—loosening and warming his muscles, uncurling nerves, mouth a warm prickling sensation where he either kissed Kuronue's neck or nicked it open with his fangs, lapping coolly at any extraneous blood—when the need to end it struck him abruptly. He remembered the bone flute as his own bones trembled, and swallowed against the fox's mouth, abdomen fluttering, wings flat against the ground. It was time, time to ask the right questions, to remove this small impediment which pushed weakly and without form at their balance.
The words were out, however, before he checked them, and were poorly arranged: "Kurama? Can you play the flute?"
It was awkward, a disgustingly simple phrase, but still better than asking with any particular specificity. Better than asking for an obvious reason. Kurama liked tact. Kuronue liked what Kurama liked; the rule he had learned first. He could have done better had his mind been clearer, but this was enough.
The youko's deep laugh feathered echoes across his skin, down into his spine. "Not at all," he purred against Kuronue's throat, one claw tickling down his thigh. "I only play you, shadow."
Oh, well. Kuronue sighed, closing his eyes.
No meaning. The flute held no meaning, and he was still as much a puppet as a coward.
At least the fantasy had been nice while it lasted.
Owari
~
Title: First Rule Second
Day/Theme: Feb. 18th, "Bone flute."
Series: Yu Yu Hakusho
Character/Pairing: Youko/Kuronue.
Rating: PG-13 for implied shiz.
Word Count: 1,121 (heh. Cool.)
Warning(s): Yaoi.
~
First Rule Second
- dashre/tenika
Kurama's den never failed to captivate him.
Kuronue, once upon a very long, long time, would have pretended not to understand why this was true, but he was older now, and pretending no longer suited him. It was not an attractive trait in an adult. Children pretended, and while it could not be denied that the centuries separating their ages were almost too great in number for him to be considered anything but, he did not feel like a child anymore. Besides, Kurama hated it when anyone lied, himself—for once—included; Kuronue supposed it made him feel out of control.
The den fascinated him because it made no sense. No sense to him, at least. He was sure it made plenty of sense to the fox.
This, he had learned, was all that truly mattered; Kurama had kept him in the dark about a great number of things in their time together—for years, sometimes—out of laziness, maliciousness, boredom, malignance, or because he often derived some perverse amusement from watching him flail in confusion. It had been Kuronue's lot to learn to deal with these whims, never to complain. That was the first rule: never question Kurama's logic. Kuronue had learned it second.
On the dawning of the first day he had spent entirely in the den, in the glow of odd, phosphorescent flowers, Kuronue had stood and explored, leaving the fox sleeping (or dozing, he supposed—he didn't quite trust Kurama to sleep when it was convenient) as he wandered, wanting to see what could be found in the home of the greatest thief ever.
He had encountered rooms of flowers and plants that he couldn't put names to—leaves and petals he dared not touch, for fear of some heavily-draped stamen that might shift, fast as a lighting storm, into a mouth and bite him, or of some toxic pollen or acidic stem. He was too smart, too paranoid, to test his luck in such a way. Kurama would have laughed to see him return with a burned hand or face.
Farther and deeper into the sprawling, vascular tunnels of the den he found rooms of decorations, stolen jewelry and clothes, mirrors, weapons, candles; he found heavy, thick-paged history volumes, tomes of ningen-jutsu, hair brushes, cosmetics and fans, boxes, hair sticks, bowls, games, sheaves of paper. All this at once. And that just his first stay.
After that day, when he found the time—when Kurama didn't need him for some theft, or (much later in their stay as partners) when the youko wasn't quietly pulling him into secluded, dark corners and genially molesting him—he would sneak farther and farther into the den, discovering new rooms and new treasures and new insights into his partner.
The oddest thing he ever found there (more than the six-foot posters of detailed ningen anatomy tucked away in one lonely box, or the fine, hand-painted portrait of a young, wickedly grinning Kurama posed beside an equally wicked fawn-colored youko—his mother) was a small, unobtrusive bone flute.
Kuronue discovered it half-buried in the sand of a miniature Zen garden, another ningen thing. The bat found it interesting because, unlike the garden (which Kurama had told him once was a gift, given to him by a group of those weak creatures a long, long time ago), he knew nothing about the flute. Kurama had never once mentioned it. Kuronue didn't even know whether he could play. There were no other instruments to be found in the den, either.
Kuronue drew a whole elaborate fantasy around the flute. He imagined that once, a young, penniless youko had played it for entertainment, before he had killed and tricked his way to infamy. Perhaps he had put his charming looks to better use then, danced for a leering, violent public utterly entranced by his charms and wide grins filled with promise and teeth. He imagined that it had been part of some theft related entirely to sound, with some door that would only open at the tone of a flute.
More still, he imagined that Kurama simply liked it; that just maybe, on some of the evenings Kuronue spent away from him, he simply reclined in the throne of his den and played random, nameless things for his own entertainment.
Kuronue mulled over these imaginings, toyed casually with them, for over a year, content to let them grow and thrive. They furthered his good image of the fox, made him believe that there was something purely creative in him, something more than just manipulation or greed. They kept him quiet, thoughtful, on those days when Kuronue found himself at his worst, wishing that they had never met, that he could find the strength in his own withered core to kill him.
But they were not healthy. They were not Truth. Kuronue was unhappy by fits, but not prone to such long stints of delusion, and it was unfair to his partner. Kuronue had said yes. It had been his choice to join with the fox, his promise to accept, if not respect, his foul points. He knew full well that such fantasies were foolish, and would not last.
One evening he was lying, tangled in clothes and arms and a graceful white form, fresh from sleep and quietly enjoying himself as Kurama lazily took him apart with his fingers and claws—loosening and warming his muscles, uncurling nerves, mouth a warm prickling sensation where he either kissed Kuronue's neck or nicked it open with his fangs, lapping coolly at any extraneous blood—when the need to end it struck him abruptly. He remembered the bone flute as his own bones trembled, and swallowed against the fox's mouth, abdomen fluttering, wings flat against the ground. It was time, time to ask the right questions, to remove this small impediment which pushed weakly and without form at their balance.
The words were out, however, before he checked them, and were poorly arranged: "Kurama? Can you play the flute?"
It was awkward, a disgustingly simple phrase, but still better than asking with any particular specificity. Better than asking for an obvious reason. Kurama liked tact. Kuronue liked what Kurama liked; the rule he had learned first. He could have done better had his mind been clearer, but this was enough.
The youko's deep laugh feathered echoes across his skin, down into his spine. "Not at all," he purred against Kuronue's throat, one claw tickling down his thigh. "I only play you, shadow."
Oh, well. Kuronue sighed, closing his eyes.
No meaning. The flute held no meaning, and he was still as much a puppet as a coward.
At least the fantasy had been nice while it lasted.
Owari