Yami No Matsuei Fan Fiction ❯ Blood Bond ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

Yoko Matsushita I am not. How do you say “Please, please, please don't sue me, I'm allergic to the legal system!” in Yoda-ese?

 

xx

 

“He's not coming.” The trembling whispers fell heavily on cold concrete floors: stumbling, rolling, finding no catch that they might stay. “He won't come.” Mismatched silver eyes dominated his view. 'They should be purple.' The thought disconnected and tumbled with the spoken words, saying everything, meaning nothing.

 

“That's right Hisoka. He won't come rescue you this time.” A hand, warmed from the pulse of blood beneath its skin but yet still so frighteningly cold, rested on his flushed forehead. “He hates you.”

 

“You...” They were so difficult, words. Distant and taunting, coagulating in a cloud just beyond his finger-tips. “You're lying.”

 

“Think what you want. You can trust no one but yourself now.” And he was right. Inside the chaos huddled a core, tightly bound, tangible, thoughts that didn't flit away when he reached for them. 'He hurt me. I ran. He's not coming.'

 

“Why?” He choked out from his tightened throat. 'Why aren't these eyes purple?'

 

“Rest now,” the voice soothed. That wasn't right either. It should hurt. That voice, he knew, should be torment beyond the physical. Strands of pain... something about tiny wires of pain criss-crossing his whole body. This he knew was truth; this he could hold.

 

“I hate you.” A statement. The purple eyes 'They should be here' were not truth. Confusion, secrets, the eyes that always hid something, were lost in the swiftly whirling kaleidoscope of colors.

 

Silver.

 

Blood.

 

Pain.

 

A scream: a guttural, animal sound frightened him. He twisted away, yet did not move. Icy shards pierced him, trapping his writhing form against a chest far too warm to be real.

 

“You always did expect the worst of me, didn't you boy?”

 

Silver, pale and threatening in the shadows. Blood darkening the purest white. Pain, distant and primal drawing tears 'They can't be mine.' and screams 'That's not my voice.' This, at least, was truth.

 

xxx

 

There was something beautiful about blood. There was something that blood did: the way it etched out the gentle lines of muscle, the way it possessively claimed his every crevice, something about his blood made him seem perfectly at ease as if ... 'As if his body was made only to bleed.'

 

The young man... the child stilled, golden head pressed tightly to the lab coat. Contorted fingers buried into the coat sleeves, twisting into fabric and skin. Another wave of pain shuddered through him. He had been expecting this. He had asked for this.

 

Muraki smiled, slowly drawing long needles from under delicate skin. Blade wounds, needle pricks, all closed leaving naught but a memory of red as a mark.

 

“Boy.”

 

Beautiful green eyes turned up to him, eyes that reminded of light, and life and everything good. Eyes that were even more beautiful when sparkling with tears, he noted.

 

“Can you think now?”

 

A hesitant nod, a flinch when the man moved, a sigh of relief when no pain encased him.

 

“Then ask.”

 

“Who am I?”

 

“Hisoka Kurosaki.”

 

“Who are you?”

 

“Kazutaka Muraki.”

 

He was unsatisfied with his answer. “Who are you to me?”

 

“Your killer. The obsession you cannot escape.”

 

“Why should I trust you?”

 

“You should not.” Briefly the boy mulled his words.

 

“Purple eyes...”

 

Muraki smiled. Precise fingers traced the edges of the boys face, and tilted his head up to meet his gaze. “Do you want me to take you to him?” He loved it. He loved the shiver that coursed through the child's frame. He loved the flash of fear in those eyes.

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“He hurt me.”

 

“More than I did?” The gold boy dropped his gaze, and Muraki had his answer.