Why you should never kick Muraki in the balls
Chapter Seven: Mu-chan & the truth that Tsuzuki cannot accept
A story by Kelly
Summary: It's nearly a year after the Kyoto Arc and Muraki is slowly losing himself to despair. This is a story about love, angst, humour, rage and why you should never kick Muraki in the balls. All will be explained. Soon.
Pairings: Not saying.
Warning: Will contain slash, graphic murders, traumatic recollections and the much-needed angst. Slight OOC. Read at your own risk.
Note to all: Concerning Muraki's past, I had actually planned it out earlier from when I first came up with the story. But when Osmalic's came out, I realized that our premise for his past will likely be similar. So I've went ahead and asked for Osmalic's permission, in case I inadvertently seem to be copying. Which I assure you, I'm not. I may end up mixing and mashing but I never intended nor do I plan on copying.
Quotable Quotes from the Questionable Sanity of Kelly:
"I do not scowl. I merely look upon in disapproval."
~Kurosaki Hisoka~
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Catch your breath
Hit the wall
Scream out loud as you start to crawl
Back in your cage
The only place where they will leave you alone
'Cause the weak will seek the weaker till they've broken them
Could you get it back again?
Would it be the same?
Fulfillment to their lack of strength at your expense
Left you with no defense
They tore it down
And I have felt the same
As you, I've felt the same
As you, I've felt the same
~Lifehouse "Simon"~
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It was, to him, a study of the most ironic of all ironies.
Muraki was, is, a powerful man. He is a talented magician, taking to magic like a duck takes to water. Onmyouji was a laughable matter to master. So was western magic. And befitting his way of doing everything with innate style and a dash of flair, it had taken little time for him to come up with the idea of using his own brand of magic. Mixing onmyouji, spiritualism and western magic in ways that no one had ever dreamt of, Muraki became a very powerful magician. If not the most powerful in his own right.
Though, Muraki was never vain enough to completely believe that. He was sure that there are other, more talented and far more powerful individuals out there though they seem to prefer to keep a low profile. For one thing, he was pretty sure he wouldn't want to meet the Sakurazukamori in a dark alley. Nor did he ever entertain the thought of meeting the Sumeragi Clan Head, especially this generation's, face to face. And let's not even get into the whole Kamui and Dragons of Heaven and Earth thing. He would like to keep his pride and dignity intact. And he doubted that meeting any of the previously mentioned individuals would leave him with either.
But we were talking about ironies, we were not? Yes, Muraki is a talented, powerful magician.
But no matter how powerful, how charismatic or even how woefully evil you are, the nightmares will always find you.
You can run.
But you can't hide.
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He dreamt.
He knew he was dreaming. Everyone can tell when they're dreaming. It's just a matter if you can wake up form the nightmare or not. And he couldn't.
He was in that little sunroom, off the west wing of the house that over looked the lake and gazebo. In spring, it was a wonderful place to be with the butterflies hovering ecstatically over the rose bushes that grew in wild profusion around the glass-fronted room. Autumn saw the scene outside painted russet red and golds and winter, everything was an innocent white.
He was around 10 years old in this dream. Wearing a silk white shirt specially tailored to his small frame and proper, silk trousers, Muraki was the picture of a small gentleman. He wasn't supposed to be here when he was wearing such nice clothes as the room was littered with pots of trained roses in all colors of the rainbow. Actually, that meant he should never even step foot in here any time at all as he was always in nice clothes. But Muraki was young. He was just a child. And he wanted to play with the roses.
Mommy loved the roses. She could identify each breed and variant with a single glance and knew the best way to coax luxuriant blooms from every one of them. Not that she did the work herself, oh no. Digging in the dirt was not work befitting one such as herself. Perfection must stay as it is.
But Muraki, dear, sweet young Muraki, knew not of such perfection. At least, not in himself. He knew that the roses are beautiful. So is Mommy. But perfection is as yet, a lesson that he did not fully understand. So there he was, that fine spring morning with his chubby little fingers trying to use a pruning shear too big for him. He knew that for the roses to be big and healthy, you had to sacrifice other buds. It was one of the earlier lessons on caring for the roses.
So he sat there, on the floor and chewed his bottom lip. He wasn't sure which bud to cut off. He felt sorry for them. It wasn't their fault that they grew. Yet cut them off he must. So he sat there and tried to figure out which bud was the meanest looking. That way, he wouldn't feel so guilty about using the shears.
Ah, he had decided on one. Using both hands to guide the shears, Muraki frowned in concentration and hesitantly closed the shears. But before he could cut through the hard stem, a shriek resounded in his ears. Flinching in surprise, Muraki dropped the shears and spun around.
Mommy.
And Mommy did not look pleased. She looked horrified.
Before he could explain anything, he was bundled up in arms that smelled of rose petals and felt like cool porcelain. With a dizzying briskness, he was deposited in his room and told to stay there. The door locked behind his mother and Muraki sat on the bed, trying not to cry. He knew what it meant when Mommy had that look in her eyes.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, the door swung open and Mommy stood there in the doorway, that familiar gleam in her cobalt eyes. Muraki shrank into a corner and tried to become invisible. No use really, when you gleamed like a white candle in the dark with that silver hair of his.
Kazutaka, his mother's voice was like the tolling of bells in his eras. No matter where he turned, he could not get rid of the echoes.
Kazutaka, how could you do that? You know you should never sully yourself with dirt. You are beautiful. You are perfect. My perfect little doll. And you must stay that way. You understand don't you? You know that Mommy has to do this for your own good.
He knew better than to cry. No one would come, forbidden as they were by Mommy. It was his own fault anyway. But oh, how he hated the dark and the cramped space.
How he hated being stripped of any clothing and thrust into that dark dark cupboard.
He had been sullied. Now he must be cleansed of all imperfections and made whole and perfect again.
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"Mu-chan!"
Muraki stirred, still trapped in the grip of a reality turned into a nightmare.
"Mu-chan! Wake up!"
Mu-chan? His mother didn't call him that. It was always Kazutaka. His father called him that as well. Oriya liked to use Kazu. On good days that is. When he was pissed, it was always Muraki. Besides, why would they call him anyway? He was trapped in that cupboard as punishment. It was his own fault anyway. It always is.
"Mu-chan!"
It was then that Muraki completely woke up, practically thrown out of his nightmare thanks to a little monster that decided to jump up and down on his futon. While he was still in it.
Startled out of a nightmare which had plagued his sleep for years uncounted, Muraki sat up with an oath and a hand which fairly crackled with power, ready to disintegrate the fool that had decided to attack him in his sleep. Said fool tumbled from his chest to roll on the covers with a shriek and high-pitched laughter.
"Mu-chan said a bad word! Mu-chan said a bad word!"
Muraki blinked. And let go of the power he held. Somehow, he didn't think an attacker would be concerned about foul language. That little bundle still rolling around in his lap suddenly sat up and Muraki found himself face to face with a little girl. She had light brown hair, done up in a two pigtails and glittering black eyes that simply screamed, 'I'm up to no good!'
He shivered.
"Ah. . .Eri?" he tried. He vaguely remembered something that Oriya had mentioned yesterday. Something about a family he was fond of with a 7 year old daughter that had declared him to be perfectly sound of mind. He seem to recall also Oriya threatening him with bodily harm should he even looked the wrong way at little Eri or her family. He had given Oriya his promise and since Oriya was the only one who could hold him to one, he would adhere to it.
He shifted uncomfortably under that piercing regard that seemed too knowing for a 7 year old.
"Mu-chan had a nightmare?" Eri asked him, a serious frown on her young face.
Mu-chan? He twitched.
He looked anywhere else but at her. That in itself was a miracle as Muraki enjoyed making other people uncomfortable. But somehow, Eri's "Of course you're not insane!" had stuck with him. It reverberated in his mind at the oddest times and strangely, insanely, gave him comfort. Eri had said it with the utmost confidence and the innocent brashness in her eyes had dared him to contradict her.
"Well?"
"No. . .not really," he hedged.
"Daddy says that it's not nice to lie," Eri declared firmly.
The day was made for miracles. Muraki actually drooped at the censure Eri showed.
"It. . ." he picked at the loose threads of his futon. "It was just a normal nightmare. . ." he mumbled.
"Of course it was a normal nightmare!"
Muraki eyed her with fresh bewilderment. "Excuse me?"
Eri rolled her eyes, clucking her tongue in obvious disapproval of the continuous idiocy this one adult seemed to show. Really, and they're the ones who are supposed to know better!
"How can a nightmare be un-normal?" she demanded rationally.
"Abnormal," Muraki corrected her absently.
Eri rolled her eyes again. "Okay," she said with exaggerated patience. "How can a nightmare be abnormal? It's a nightmare. They make you scared and people don't like them. You were scared, right?"
Miracle number three. Muraki actually nodded. And wondered why.
"So you were scared and you didn't like that nightmare. So it's normal!" Eri sat back and beamed, obviously pleased with her logic. And Muraki, for the life of him, could not figure out a way to counter that. And somehow, he didn't feel like he wanted to. There was just something about her. . .there was this fresh innocence in her, the belief that everything will be alright, perhaps? that made him loathe to shatter or disillusion it. His had been broken to pieces long ago. Seeing it in her. . .made him feel that maybe. . .maybe there was some hope left.
But for what?
"So you gonna sit here all day or what?" Eri demanded suddenly.
"What?" he blinked.
"You're not sick anymore right?"
Muraki shook his head.
Bounce bounce bounce. "Great! So you gonna come down for breakfast? They got western today. I hate natto. D'you like natto? Coz it's all yucky and gooey." Bounce bounce.
"I'm not really fond of the taste myself," Muraki said cautiously. Eri kept on bouncing though. His knees were starting to ache. Almost absently, he picked her up, Eri squealing in delight and settled her down firmly on his lap. Miracle number 4.
"Mu-chan!"
Muraki raised an enquiring eyebrow. "Who told you my name?" he asked mildly. "And why on earth are you calling me. . .that?"
Eri giggled and leaned in to whisper conspiratorly in his ear. "Chika-san told me," she confided. "But Muraki sounds too long and stiff so I'm calling you Mu-chan!" she declared proudly. "You like it?"
Though there was a beautifully put upon look of hope on her face, Muraki was not fooled. He saw the gleam of determination in her black eyes that said clearly; this man is Mu-chan and I will call him Mu-chan and god help him if he does not want to be called Mu-chan.
Muraki sighed. He knew defeat when he saw it. "I like it."
"Great! Get dressed already and come down for breakfast!"
Miracle number 5. He actually listened to her.
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It was ridiculous really, how nervous he was. And it was only a plain wooden door.
Hisoka shifted nervously on the balls of his feet. The cake box he held in a deathgrip had the handle nearly mangled from constant clenching and a sweat-slicked palm. Glancing into the brass plaque that announced that yes, this is indeed the Shokan's staff room, Hisoka caught his reflection and tried to pat down his hair. And immediately felt utterly foolish and extremely angry.
What's the use? He thought angrily. It's not like it'll make any difference. You know already that he can't stand the sight of you. Or rather, Hisoka amended silently to himself, Tsuzuki cannot stand the sight of his body. Which was decorated with his curse marks.
This was bordering on the ridiculous. Yesterday's talk with Tatsumi had set him to rights somewhat. It wasn't the answer he was looking for but at least, it made some sense in his already screwed up existence. Though the harsh truth that Tsuzuki may never be okay. . .that he was and always will be drowning in his past that no one knew of. . . he set that aside for the moment. What's important for now is that he get their relationship back to some semblance of normalcy that it had before it all blew up in their faces. Back to the constant denials and pretending but at least, it's something.
With that 'cheerful' thought in mind, Hisoka squared his shoulders and opened the door. As he stepped inside, he noticed that the staff room was relatively quiet. The girls were all down in Chijou with their respective partners and Watari being Watari, was in the lab. He had checked. He preferred to do what he was about to do next in privacy.
Tsuzuki was already at his desk, buried ostensibly under mounds of paperwork which he was desperately trying to pass off as actually doing work as opposed to pretending to doing work. He was good at it. Unfortunately, Tsuzuki's effort was a lost cause as it was only him and not Tatsumi.
He came to stand behind his own desk which was next to Tsuzuki's and cleared his throat.
"Ah. . .Tsuzuki?" he shifted uncomfortably.
Tsuzuki's head jerked up, eyes wildly scanning the room. Realising that no Tatsumi was around to call him on his bluff and threaten him with the monthly wages, he visibly sagged with relief. But as he realized just who was standing next to him, his shoulders stiffened, just so slightly, but it was there all the same. Hisoka could practically feel the walls he kept on his emotions got a mile thicker.
"Hisoka," he smiled. The smile was relaxed, cheerful and friendly but Hisoka wasn't fooled.
He gestured awkwardly with his free hand. "I just. . ." his eyes fixed to a spot that was somewhere in the middle of Tsuzuki's chest. There was a light stain next to his breast pocket. "I just want to say. . .I'm sorry. For yesterday," he added miserably. "I didn't mean to blow up at you like that."
"Yes you did," Tsuzuki corrected him gently.
That startled Hisoka into meeting Tsuzuki's dark purple eyes. Strange eyes. Abnormal eyes. Eyes that had made Muraki kill to own.
No, don't think about him. Not now.
"Why. ." he swallowed nervously. "Why do you say that?"
Tsuzuki smiled a sad smile. This was more genuine, less forced. "I do love you Hisoka," he started, a bit hesitantly but there was a determination to it that said he wanted to see it through to the end. "But. . ." he tapped his temple wryly, "I'm not really alright here." He tapped his heart next. "Or here. I can't give you what you want or need. I can't even give it to myself."
Hisoka stared at him, not sure what to make of this sudden confession. His heart had leapt with his partner's candid admission of affection and had immediately broken to pieces again with the next words. It wasn't the explanation he was looking for. Oh, it was better than the denial he had expected to hear. But it still wasn't the answer.
"And what about this?" he asked softly. He set aside the cake box. This time, not bothering to do the dramatic way of snapping his shirt open, he settled for drawing his sleeve up a few inches. It was enough. The marks were quiet, a deep nearly maroon scarlet. But it was there in all of its morbid glory.
He knew it was a big possibility. That it was in all probability, what Tsuzuki had feared to broach. But god help him, the pain he felt when Tsuzuki actually flinched, yet again, at the sight of his curse, was too real. It was more real even, than the air he breathed, the clothes he wore and the floor beneath his feet.
"It's not just that, is it Tsuzuki?" he asked, voice so carefully soft and controlled. "You can't see past the marks. You can't see beyond my past. It is all that you see when you're with me?"
Tsuzuki surged to his feet, panicked. "No! That's not what I meant! I-I mean. ." he fumbled, hands gesturing wildly as he tried to make Hisoka understand. "I don't. . .I just. . ." he trailed off as he realized that his very inability to say what he actually meant became more condemning than an actual confession. "I'm sorry," he whispered, the very picture of misery.
They stood like that, face to face yet not facing each other. Eyes were fixed on a desk or a window. Anything but at each other.
"I'm sorry," Hisoka finally stirred and fixed wide, unseeing eyes on his partner. "I had no right to say that."
"Hisoka, I-" Tsuzuki began wretchedly but he cut him off with a shake of his head.
"No," he insisted with a vacant smile. "It's alright. I understand." God help me I don't. I do, but I don't. I don't want to. Please take it back. Say you can love me. Please. "Actually, I got you this as a peace offering," his vacant smile turned to one of wryness as he placed the cake box in Tsuzuki's trembling hands. "I got it from your favourite bakery. I was almost tempted to eat it myself."
Tsuzuki stood there, head bowed and clutched the white box as though it was his lifeline. There was no more to be said.
"Well," Hisoka said casually, "We don't have a case assigned yet, right?" As Tsuzuki's slow confirmation, he went on. "I think I'll go take a walk outside. Take advantage of our freedom while we can right?"
He didn't wait for answer. Spinning around on his heels, tears that he refused to shed glittering in his eyes, Hisoka forced himself to a sedate walk that nonetheless, carried him quickly outside.
Here, underneath the sakuras he could try to find peace. Even if, ironically, it was underneath one that he found horror in the first place. But don't think about him now. The lake was a still mirror and he looked deep into it, sitting near the edge as he tucked his knees under his chin and his hands tried to contain the pain that screamed to be let out of his head.
He lost track of time. He only knew that sometime later, another reflection joined his and offered him wordless comfort.
Tatsumi stayed with him until their reflections were lost in the fall of salty rain and even then, Tatsumi was there to offer him a solid shoulder against the neverending tears.
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to be continued
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You know, Eri was purely coincidental. She never even figured into the story when I was first fleshing it out. All of a sudden, Oriya was being a chicken, trying to get up his nerve to enter Muraki's room and bam! Eri was there! And here she is again.
Is it us that control our writing or our muses?
I won't crossover with Harry Potter because as I'm sure you've noticed, I already started it. Yay! As to whether there is a sequel. . .we'll see *wink*. I have this scene in mind with Muraki, Eri and Hisoka. . .it'll be. . .interesting, to say the least. *smirk*
As to my HP/YnM crossover, I am looking for people willing to collaborate on it. There's so much I don't know about the magical world even if I am a Pot-head (that's what my friend calls HP fans *giggle*). Shaynie has already kindly agreed to lend me her assistance and the more the merrier I say! ^^ So drop me a line at the mailing list, email or review, ne?
Anyways, review! Jaa!