II.

Night had fallen. When Leon woke up he was alone. The apartment was dark, and there was no noise. Woo-Fei had gone to great lengths to ensure privacy for all his tenants, and not only where the walls, ceilings and floors insulated, but sound-reflectors had been put into the corners of every room, to bounce sound just the right way to eliminate it. Orcot came back from sleep feeling refreshed, and just about as afraid as he'd ever been. None of the animals were barking or growling, the A/C wasn't running, and every light was off. The silence and the dark were suffocating—Leon leapt off the couch, and walked back and forth with his hands outstretched, trying to remember where the light switches were.

"D?" he called, fumbling twice over his own feet before he managed to get to a wall. "D?" There was no answer from the Chinese count. There was no answer at all, only his lonely echo, and it sounded as scared and nervous as he felt.

"Where the fuck did that bastard go?" he mumbled, tracing the wall beneath his hands, exploring its painted texture for a smooth rectangle of plastic that would mean his salvation. It was twenty minutes before he finally found it, and after his eyes adjusted to the light he saw something rather odd.

The door was open. Wide open, in fact. It didn't escape Leon's notice that D's shoes were by the door, meaning not only had he left, but he'd left in a hurry. He knew the Count fairly well by then—better than most, who either were dead or gone—and he'd never go anywhere without something on his feet. He was a snob that way. Leon reasoned that D could just have worn another pair of shoes, but never in his life would he leave the door to his shop open.

"D?" he called one last fruitless time, knowing already he'd get no answer. Scowling, Leon fetched his jacket and ran out after him, hoping he'd get to him in time.

D knew he wasn't dreaming. Most of his life he'd spent discerning dreams from reality, and unfortunately what he was seeing was real. It was Leon, running toward him. At least, he supposed it was Leon: only Leon had that bedraggled blonde hair and dressed like some fashion reject from the early 90's. It was raining by then, and D, from his position on the ground, could barely see through the rain in his eyes. It made everything blurry.

"Detective?" he said aloud, more to himself, but Leon heard and ran faster, dropping down on one knee at D's side.

"What the fuck're you doing out here?" Leon demanded, all but screaming in D's ears. The Count made a shooing gesture, and turned his face away. If that was how Leon was going to be, then he didn't want to see him. Thought most of his animosity and temporary insanity had drained away he still wasn't in the mood.

"Go away, detective," D muttered, closing his eyes, blinking away the

(tears)

rain drops. He was curled up on the wet concrete of an alleyway, and he faced the bricks, preferring their rough touch to that of Orcot's even if his body was screaming for him. Leon growled, and grabbed hold of D's shirt, hefting him up off the ground so that his bare feet were half an inch in the air. D made no move to stop him, too tired and in too much pain to try. He only hung there limp and uncaring, tears steadily slipping from his mix-matched eyes to mingle with the rain.

Both of them were soaked through by now, and Leon, who sensed D was going to become very ill soon, bit down on his tongue to hide his words and pulled D into an embrace, carrying him bridal-style out of the alley.

Now D was in a fighting mood. He would have let Leon beat him half-to-death if that had been the detective's wish, but to let him carry him as if he were some helpless, hapless creature with no dignity? He'd rather run on a broken leg, and he let Leon know so, clawing his face with one savage motion. Orcot let out a harsh cry and dropped D into the gutter, where he fell into a puddle so deep that kneeling in it the water reached mid-thigh.

"Go away, detective!" he screamed, finally showing some real animation, his pretty face contorting in fury. "I told you to leave me alone, so why can't you! Get out of this city! Get out of Japan! Go back to America, you disgusting, foul, parasite!"

Leon, lying on the curb, said nothing. He was holding his face where D had scratched him—there were four long tracks, starting at his cheekbone, tapering across his nose to end at the corner of his mouth. Blood wept from all of them, thick rivulets trickling down to coat his collar in red. D didn't hang around to see what Leon would do: he picked himself up and started walking back to his apartment, limping and sobbing, his entire outfit sagging on his thin frame. He was oblivious to the gaping mouths and staring eyes as he went, unconcerned with whether or not anyone saw him. His pride was already wounded, why not kick it a little more?

He heard rather than saw Leon following him. It ought to have troubled D just how easily he recognized Leon's footsteps among an entire city, but he was too drained, from running and from his unusual outburst. I do believe that was a mood swing, he thought, catching a glimpse of Leon in the reflective panel of a building window. He was still nursing his cuts, but he had his old, determined look in his face, the fiery eyes and set jaw, remnants of another time. D remembered how he used to look that way when he thought for sure he had D pinned on something or other illegal, and he'd come busting into the shop, waving handcuffs and shouting up a storm. Cancer is easier to get rid of than him, D mused as he climbed the steps, holding on to the railing for support, and out of precaution. There was a good chance he could slip, and then where would he be? On his back with a broken spine, and Leon all over him again.

Amazingly he made it inside without anyone seeing him or trying to stop him, and once inside he locked the doors, knowing it was probably pointless, since Leon could always go complaining to Taizuu if he wanted in that badly.

Standing at the door, D began to think. It was a dangerous pastime, he knew, but when his physical form had failed him he was left with his mental capacity, thought it was up for debate just how sound that was at the moment. He was thinking on Leon carrying him from the kitchen, and his strange and uncharacteristic embarrassment, and the terror in his eyes at seeing D in the alley, and the blatant hurt when D clawed him, not just from the pain of it but the fact that D had hurt him at all.

With a sigh D unlocked the door. I must be going crazy, he frowned, and went to change before he soaked his entire carpet. Sometime later, after a short bath, he heard the door open. In the living room he found Orcot, looking uncertainly around him, dripping ever more water onto the floor. Another sigh, this time of exasperation.

"Bathroom, detective," he said shortly, indicating the way. Leon blinked in surprise and started to say something, but D gave him an icy glare that got the man going. In all the time Orcot had been in the shop he'd never gone into the master bath, so it was no surprise that he took the time to look around. It was just as lavish and Oriental as the rest of D's home—even the tiles were inlaid with opal or jade and outlined with gold flake. He might have admired it longer, but D was already running the water in the huge red tub.

"You already needed this," D said, testing the water with his wrist as it came out of the faucet. When the tub was full he stood up straight, smoothing the front of shirt. Leon noticed that his hand lingered on the flat plane of his stomach for a moment longer than normal. "Pass your wet clothes to me through the door, I'll bring you something that doesn't reek like a dead rat, and when you're done I'll also tend to . . . to your face." His eyes didn't quite meet Leon's, and the door was shut before he could reply. Begrudgingly he shed his soaked clothing, all except his police issued gun and holster, and passed them through the door to D as he'd requested. He waited, and a minute later a tunic and pants were thrust back through. They were silk, a material Leon was fairly proud to say he'd never worn before, but they did smell a hell of a lot better than his old things. With an exasperated sigh of his own he set the clothes aside and got into the water.

In the kitchen D made tea, and he was constantly having to send away inquisitive and pestering animals, T-chan most of all, who was normally not affectionate at all but insisted on rubbing against D's legs. D chalked it up to the fact he was exuding pheromones, another unwanted ability so graciously gifted to him by his father. He had to stink of them to the high heavens; he could smell himself, and though they had no effect on him, he was driving the animals nuts. He sent them to their individual cages or rooms and ordered them to leave off of him, and give him some peace. Unsurprisingly, they listened much better than Leon, who apparently lacked the power to do so, no matter what D said or did.

Do I have to claw his eyes out to make him go away? Honestly, he's more persistent than any other person I've ever seen.

"D?" The Count glanced up from the tea pot, and saw Leon standing in the doorway. For a second he had to backtrack to earlier, so he could distinguish just who he was looking at.

"Detective," he said a little uncertainly. Leon's hair was out of its casual ponytail, and clean and shaven, dressed so exotically, he looked almost like a different person. A smile tugged at the corner of D's mouth, and he beat it off with a stick. "Care for a cup?" he asked, holding out one of his remaining china cups after pouring the steaming tea inside. Leon gave it a cursory glance, taking it slowly, as if afraid D might upend the boiling drink onto his front. D wouldn't have put it past himself, except that he'd never use tea as a weapon unless in an emergency—that would be a waste of tea.

"Come into the living room," said D, "and I'll treat those cuts." He sat his own tea on the table, and returned with a small first aid kit. He himself had no use for it, but all tenants who ran businesses were required to have one on the premises. Leon, who hadn't touched his own tea, watched D with a wary eye while he picked through the box, fishing out anti-septic and bandages. D caught the look he was giving him and rolled his eyes. "Oh, stop it, detective; you're not going to get an infection from me. I assure you, the underside of my nails are cleaner than most hospitals. Now sit still, I'm sure you know this is going to sting."

Leon jumped when the anti-septic pad touched his skin, hissing through clenched teeth, and D automatically put a hand on his thigh to hold him down. "I said sit still," he glared, and scrubbed as gently as he could along the ragged edges where the skin had already begun to scab. Fresh, clean blood sprung up, and D wiped it all away. When the cuts had been clean D placed a gauze pad over Leon's cheek, and little bandages over his nose and chin.

"Are they going to scar?" Leon asked, half-joking. "If they do, there go my rock-star good looks, right out the window."

"Don't flatter yourself detective," D mumbled, fixing the last bandage. "You were never that attractive to begin with. Now drink your tea, I don't want to think I made it for nothing." Back in his seat D drank down his own drink, gulping it rather than sipping it, scalding his throat. He wanted to be done with it so he could retreat to his room—then a thought struck him. Where was the detective going to sleep? There was only one bed, and it was obvious the insufferable man had no intention of leaving. Not that D would have kicked him out, not after what he'd done to his face, which D would never admit to Leon he was sorry for doing. Well, sorry for wounding him, not for attacking him. He'd completely deserved that.

Across from him Leon took his first taste of his own tea, and D was pleased at the unexpected delight he saw in Leon's eyes. He likes it. The detective drank it slowly but eagerly, until it was gone. "What was that, jasmine?" he asked, licking his lips. He'd drank the dregs too, showing how little he knew about tea-drinking.

"No, Devil's Club," D said, stopping short of swallowing the bits of leaves and debris at the bottom. "It has restorative properties. Ah, you see? They're working already." Leon looked confused for a moment at the tone in D's voice, and then his hand went to his face. The cuts were completely gone, as if they'd evaporated. He tore away the bandages, and ran to the bathroom to look in the mirror. D followed him mostly out of curiosity, and smirked when the detective whirled on him, demanding an explanation.

"Surely I've shown you stranger things," D said, not at all intimidated by the detective's angry advances. In fact, he caught himself moving closer, so that their chests almost touched. Leon was too pissed to observe this change in placement until he felt D's thighs press against his, and one of D's clawed hands stroked his jaw line.

"D, what the hell are you—" he began, then stopped. His pupils dilated suddenly, like he'd taken a hit of heroin straight to the vein, and he leaned in to D, his face in D's hair. "You smell . . . you smell good," he said in wonder, inhaling the strange new odor D was expelling. His arms slipped soundlessly around D's waist, and he pulled him into a tight embrace, no fear of being reprimanded with teeth or nails. D didn't move, not right away. He was too scared; scared of just what, he wasn't entirely sure. Was it his own desire that frightened him, or the fact that this encounter was now out of his control? Maybe it was the strange idea that when this carnal act was over there was going to be new life blossoming inside him, like some hungry flower, taking root to grow and spore and feed.

"Oh, detective," D sighed when Leon's strong hands ran down his back to grasp his supple behind. His fingers were hard and urgent, sliding into his pants to delve into D, to touch him inside, where he probed him readily.

"You're wet," Leon said, mystified. His other hand was roaming D's shoulders and arms, to trace his chest. "And soft, like a girl." It was true; D was slim with almost no muscle to his frame. Because of this he caught himself testing Leon, exploring the tough masculine ridges of his body. When Leon brushed something deep in D the Count jerked, gasping in alarm, his hands making fists in Leon's shirt. He heard Orcot chuckle, and felt his warm breath on his neck. He rubbed the spot again, and again, until D was red in the face and all his worldly composure had crumbled. He was moaning softly, rubbing his groin into Leon's, and whimpering whenever that odd place in him was fondled.

"Detective, you're torturing me," D bit, impatient and painfully aroused. Leon, instead of being sympathetic, only laughed again and rubbed harder and faster, until D was an absolute mess, unable to stand in his own and shaking uncontrollably. Finally Leon took pity on him. He scooped D up bridal style for the last time, and D didn't fight at all as he was carried to his bedroom and splayed languidly upon the sheets. Leon began undressing him immediately, and D smirked at his difficulty in removing his clothes. Eventually he slapped his fumbling hands away and undid his dress himself, tossing the intricate clothing away, already forgotten. His pants Leon had no problem with, and these he removed slowly, tugging them down inch by inch to reveal D's smooth alabaster stomach, hips, and legs.

"You don't have any body hair," Leon observed as he kissed his way up the inside of D's ankle.

"My people are an-androgynous," D stuttered when Leon's mouth got to the junction of his thigh, as if it were an explanation. D was glad there were no questions on his ancestry from Leon, who was too busy licking his way up D's abdomen to be very chatty. He paused once to circle D's navel with his tongue before going higher to tease each nipple to firmness. D threw his head back and moaned, and this encouraged Leon to suck on them, nipping them gently with his teeth until D was trembling again, his nails making little scored paths in the blanket when he clenched his fists. "Bite them," he said suddenly to Leon, who perked his head in question. "Go on, bite them," he repeated, "bite them hard, until they bleed." Orcot looked off-put for a moment, unsure. D gave him a more genuine smile than he would normally, and caressed his freshly shaven cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Do it fast, and it won't hurt. Hurry, before I lose myself and forget." Leon might have questioned him then, but D kept his gaze steady and serious, and so with great reluctance Leon put his mouth over one of D's tender pink nipples and bit down with his canines.

"Ahh!" D's back arched and his pained cry made Leon flinch. He opened his mouth to ask D if he was alright, but his face was planted right back over the now bleeding patch of flesh. Even Leon didn't need an explanation of what D wanted him to do—he lapped the blood timidly, licking it all away. His pupils dilated again, and he shuddered once, violently. One more heavy bead of red welled up and D swiped it with the tip of his finger. He stared at it for what felt a long time.

Moment of truth, he thought, and put the finger in his mouth, sucking the smudge of his own blood off.

The effect was slow at first, but it built with time, until it was as if there was a fire in him, and the pain was back, white-hot and cruel. He cried out again, spasming angrily, and he fought for breath. Leon had recovered from his own shock by then, and he held D down while he had his last fit. The agony was unbearable, and for several seconds D was certain he would die, right there in his bed.

Then it was gone. All of it, flushed away as quick as it had come, tapering off until at last his insides calmed. In its wake there was a sensation of completion so perfect he smiled, and let a calm, easy exhale. He had never felt so tranquil. Leon was still kneeling over him, question in his eyes, and D pat him on the cheek fondly, then knotted his hand in Leon's hair and dragged him into a kiss, their first, and D could taste his blood in Leon's mouth, along with the Devil's Club tea and another flavor that was uniquely Leon Orcot. He imagined the detective was tasting something similar—blood, tea, and uniqueness—and let their tongues slide together to intermingle it all, until specifics were indistinguishable.

Later on, when Leon was asleep, D slunk out of his own bed to run to the bathroom. It was awkward going; he was sticky and sore, and he limped when he walked. When he got into the bathroom he shut the door behind him, sagged against it and took a breath as deep he could, letting it out slowly.

Like a man in the aftermath of a bombing, D stood for a long time staring, looking at nothing in specific but instead trying to survey all the carnage at once. His hands in place of his eyes examined himself, tracing bite marks, bruises, and tears from nails, until like macabre inventory he'd cataloged and recorded every new blemish. They would vanish in a matter of moments, and he wanted to remember how he had looked, like a rape victim who took pictures. He had to commit every captured image to memory, because what had just transpired was something he never intended to do, ever again, if at all possible.

It wasn't that it hadn't been good. Actually it was certifiably fan-fucking-tastic. D himself had climaxed three times and though pleasure had never been a mystery to him it had never been so intense as it had with Leon, and that was exactly why he could never do it again. Something had happened, something terrible and wonderful, and D would risk his life to ensure that something never repeated itself.