Yami No Matsuei Fan Fiction ❯ The First Death ❯ Chapter 5: The True Death, Part 1 ( Chapter 5 )

Summary: A routine case in Tokyo opens the gate. Tatsumi learns how to deal with his new partner, Terazuma and Wakaba join the new team in Tokyo, and Oriya holds the key that Saki is looking for.

The True Death, Part 1

|Saki|

That's right. Shidou Saki. It's nice to meet you.

Age 36. Single (perpetually, unfortunately). Height: 185 cm (6'1", for you Americans). Blood type: B. Black hair, dark brown eyes (very blandly Japanese). Date of birth: 12/03/1964. Favorite color: violet. Favorite food: Chocolate donuts with sprinkles or sukiyaki - depends on my mood.

Current motto: /Tsuki ni muragumo, hana ni arashi/ - "Clouds over the moon, storm over the blossoms." It means that misfortune waits just around the corner when you're happiest.

So, you never thought you'd meet me, right?

I know. You want to hear about Kazutaka. Everyone does. My brother's an interesting guy. Smart as hell, handsome, good sense of humor. He was a genuinely nice kid growing up, if you looked past all the twitchy weirdness. It's too bad his mother was crazy. I'm surprised that he's not utterly insane. Well, okay. More insane than he is now.

Eh…was. More insane than he *was*. I keep forgetting he's dead.

That reminds me of something else I forgot. This is important. I'm supposed to tell you what my interests are.

Interests: Genetic research with a specialization in human cloning.

What? Don't look at me like that. This isn't science fiction. I'm very serious about my work. I learned from the best. Professor Satomi from Shion University in Kyoto. If he was German, they'd call him Herr Professor Doctor - he's got that kind of status. The man was tenured so firmly that it would have taken an act of God to get him fired, much less reprimanded. His research made so much damn money that they built him his own wing and looked the other way once he started on his more morally questionable projects.

Satomi was like a father to me. He told me a long time ago that he saved me because he felt sorry for me, that he wanted to nurture and protect my genius. He was an old friend of the Muraki family, and knew them well. Or as well as anyone was ever allowed to know them.

When I was a kid, one of the little minions of the Muraki family managed to shoot me. I nearly died. Thank God that Kazutaka was too frightened at the time to do something intelligent like check my pulse to make sure I was dead, because all they did was bundle me into Satomi's car and hope that Satomi would 'take care' of me.

I don't really remember that part though. I passed out before then. Getting shot through the back will do that. But you know what? Satomi did take care of me. Satomi took care of me for years.

A few months after the incident, after I got better, I was secretly bundled out of the country. Did all my education in Los Angeles, in the United States. BA and Ph.D. from UCLA. It's really a shame that these Americans have such a serious bias against human cloning experiments, because I could have done some amazing research there. Our laboratory had some brilliant graduate students. Including myself, that is.

About three or four years ago, I decided to return to the motherland. So I applied for a transfer at my job at Amgen, and got moved from their headquarters in Thousand Oaks to their Tokyo branch. I hadn't been back to Japan since I left the country at age 15. I guessed that it was safe now because as an adult, Kazutaka wouldn't recognize me if he tripped over me. That actually almost happened once because we were in the same hospital at the same time.

I'm fairly anonymous. Well, I am good looking. But I'm not like him.

He sticks out like a sore thumb, as the Americans would say. You can't not see him, especially in a place like Japan where the natural hair color is black or dark brown. Even with all those gothic lolita types dying their hair all sorts of wild colors these days, you can't miss him.

Kazutaka shines like the clouds over the moon.

Hey, it's been nice talking to you. You're a good listener. We'll have to continue this some other time. There are a few other things I want to tell you about Kazutaka, but it's going to have to wait, because I made an appointment to go meet with someone.

Well, that's not exactly true. I said I'd go see them, so I decided to meet them tonight at seven. To see if they want to go out to dinner.

Yes, it's like a hot date. He's very good looking.

Don't look so surprised. It's not like I'm going to try to get into his pants or something. Not on the first date. Good Lord. Besides, he usually wears kimonos.

Anyhow, I'll speak with you later. It's time for me to go meet the blossom.

*******

|Oriya|

White orchids. The petals caress Oriya's face as he holds the crackling bouquet gently in his arms, minute drops of stray water dampening his black suit. He can't wait to get back to the apartment, because he's been meeting with lawyers for the last five hours. All he wants to do is change and have a quiet meal by himself before going to bed.

He's not sure why he bought this single delicate spray of orchids, virginal blossoms with a blood red heart whose veins seep into the white. Oriya almost never buys flowers. Not that he doesn't love them - they inhabit Oriya's garden and are arranged tastefully in vases around the various rooms of Kokakurou. Blossoms grown in the sun by one's own hand, in his opinion, are far preferable to those impersonal beauties found in the refrigerated cases of florists.

But these seemed to speak to him. Their water-splashed petals hold a particular frailty to them that feels just right. Their fragrance is as faint as the shadow of a ghost.

Oriya feels fragile these days.

***

Finally he's back. The apartment is silent, but for his movements. Of course, Muraki's cat is nowhere to be seen. It's always hiding.

The movers will come at the end of the week to take away the furniture. It will all be donated, these elegant antiques. Oriya has been idly contemplating keeping the beautiful Chinese horseshoe back chair in Muraki's office. It's easily three hundred years old.

Unfortunately with the cat there is to be no decision; it's going back with him to Kokakurou. It's easily three years old.

Asato-neko. What a silly name for a cat.

All by Muraki's will.

Oriya closes the door behind him, and toes off his shoes at the entry. He walks into the bare kitchen, and sets about putting the flowers in water, busying himself with the mundane task. He's thinking about what he's been doing all day, which is tracking down all the various accounts that Muraki had money in. There are safety-deposit boxes scattered in banks throughout the country, even a handful of Europe, that need to be tallied and accounted for.

Oriya's inherited it all, but he wants none of it.

He'd rather have Muraki back. The bastard might have been a bastard after all was said and done, but still, they had an understanding. Muraki knew him, and he knew Muraki.

The thought makes Oriya frown. The flowers drip water onto the smooth granite counter. He leaves it there to dry, walking out toward the living room.

Oriya unbuttons, and pulls off his suit jacket in one smooth movement. He folds it over the back of a chair, and just as he's about to loosen his hair from its business-like bindings, there's a knock at the door.

Five firm taps. Oriya blinks, unsettled by the break in routine. He wasn't expecting anyone.

Oriya looks at the clock on the wall. Seven.

He walks back, and opens the door.

"Good evening." It's Saki. He's dressed in a manner that makes Oriya think of him as dangerously classy. Saki is wearing a black suit over a blood red shirt that looks to be silk. Over that, a long flowing coat that's so deeply scarlet that it reminds Oriya of dead rose petals. Or dried blood.

It's such an unusual reminder of Muraki that for a moment, Oriya's breath catches before he can control the emotion.

Exhale.

"It's you," Oriya says, as if he expected Saki all along. Oriya's eyes harden almost imperceptibly.

"In the flesh," Saki smiles. "I thought that maybe we can continue our conversation?"

"Perhaps." Oriya says, inconspicuously settling himself where Saki cannot pass him to enter the apartment.

"What about over dinner? I bet you've had a long day and don't want to cook. I'll take you out." Saki says casually, draping himself along the doorframe. "Let me do something for you in return, since you took care of my brother for all those years."

Oriya thinks about it for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the flowers. Saki continues to stand by patiently.

"That's acceptable," Oriya says, finally, after he decides Saki's waited long enough.

Saki smiles.

***

Oriya is pleasantly surprised.

Everything is exactly right and perfectly ordered. They're at an elegant yet modest little restaurant that serves interestingly eclectic French-Japanese fusion cuisine. The food is delicious and aesthetically appealing, arranged fancifully like little works of art.

"Should it be Shidou-san?" Oriya asks politely, as he sets his fork and knife down. "Or perhaps Dr. Shidou would be more apt?" He watches Saki closely.

"Just Saki."

"Then please call me Oriya." Oriya notices Saki smiling. He used to wonder, occasionally out loud, whether there could be anyone in the world that smiled more than Muraki. Well, now he knew. "Tell me, Saki, how did you manage to find this place?"

"I pay attention." Saki says, pleased. "In a week or two, this place will be the most fashionable restaurant in Tokyo. The cooks have been working hard to perfect their menu, and we've hit them just when they've reached the height of their level. Word's already spreading. See the man over there in the green coat?" Saki's eyes flicker to the left without moving his head. "He's a food critic with one of the main newspapers in town. Once he gives the word, God himself won't be able to get a reservation."

"Interesting." Oriya says, looking over to the man in green who's making notes on a little pad of paper.

"I notice you're in the restaurant business yourself," Saki says conversationally. "How is Kokakurou doing these days?"

"Fine," Oriya says, picking up his glass of wine. He swirls it twice, counter-clockwise, before taking a sip. "Business is as usual."

"Mmm, I hear you have a lot of traffic from the political world," Saki says, picking up his own glass. He takes a sip himself. "Some say that more than half of the members of Parliament have darkened your doorstep at one point or another, not to mention heads of state."

"The rumors are exaggerations," Oriya says modestly.

"Are they?" Saki says, leaving the question open. "Say, tell me, how did you know I was a doctor?"

"I asked." Oriya looks at his glass of wine absently. It's a pale gold that catches the low light.

"Oh?" Saki says, his attention piqued. "Who?"

"Just a friend." Oriya looks at Saki pleasantly. "How was Los Angeles?"

"I love the weather. I think once we're deep into winter in Tokyo, I'll have to go back for a week or two," Saki says, his eyes gleaming.

"That must be nice," Oriya says, allowing a hint of wistfulness to tinge his tone. He watches Saki closely, paying attention to every nuance in his voice, every change of expression. "I hear the campus branch of the University of California in that city has some exceptional architecture."

"Definitely. I very much enjoyed it," Saki replies. "Kyoto too has some very fine architecture." Saki's expression reveals nothing.

"Kyoto is a classical beauty," Oriya agrees. "So lovely this time of year."

"Painted scarlet, like the poems say," Saki says. "Although, I hear there was a terrible accident last autumn at the university. The newspaper said that a laboratory burned down."

"A great loss," Oriya notes. "It was a very expensive wing to build."

"It's a shame. But you attended university in Tokyo, so you must not have missed it much when it burned down," Saki continues. "Weren't you and Kazutaka in the same class?"

"Yes, we were. He's my elder by only a few weeks," Oriya replies.

"A New Year's child," Saki says. "What's that like? I bet you used to tease Muraki about him being technically a year older than you for about a month."

"Never," Oriya says, a hint of a smile forming along the side of his mouth.

"Did you ever finish your degree in physics, Oriya-san?" Saki asks.

"Oh, I never got around to it," Oriya hides his surprise well. "I had other things I had to do."

"It's a shame. I think you would have made a great scientist," Saki replies. "Weren't you getting your doctorate when you had to leave?"

"I chose to leave," Oriya says, a little stiffly.

"It's too bad about your parents," Saki says.

"I can say the same for you. Was it hard, being so young?" Oriya counters.

"Yes, it was," Saki says. His eyes narrow minutely. "Afterwards, I had no one. You at least had Kazutaka to help you handle things. He was always there for you when you needed him, wasn't he?"

"Yes, and now he's dead. What do you want?" Oriya says, finally. He's feeling like he's lost this round, because Saki managed to provoke him.

"Nothing, really. Just your company at dinner," Saki folds the cloth napkin, and sets it on the table. He puts his hands on the edge of the table, and leans toward Oriya conspiratorially. Oriya doesn't flinch as Saki draws almost uncomfortably close.

"Now, what do you want for dessert?" Saki asks, his voice edging toward a sensual whisper. "They make their own crepes here."

***

The next morning, Oriya calls Kokakurou and sends for his katana.

Afterwards, he hangs up the phone and rests in the horseshoe back chair, feeling the smooth curved ends of its arms underneath his hands. He looks at the wall before the desk. Muraki's office is surprisingly bare, austere in style, nothing but a bookcase, a desk, this chair, and a wall scroll that hangs on the wall before the desk.

It's very small and modest, indeterminately ancient, yet without the commentary and stamp seals that Oriya has long associated with old calligraphy. It's signed with a name that could be either male or female. Oriya is fairly certain it's Chinese in origin.

The touch of the ancient brush was sure, following through each flowing stroke without hesitation. It speaks of a true spirit, of strength and harmony.

Just one word:

Completion.

Oriya reflects on the meaning in silence.

As he sits, the cat lands with a soft patter onto the desk, jumping down from its hiding place in Muraki's bookshelf. It's the first time in over a week that he's seen the cat. Oriya doesn't know where it hides; other than that food disappears at a regular rate and the litter box needs cleaning, one wouldn't have known it existed. Even that link is tenuous - it's all taken care of by a hired service that comes daily.

The cat is completely gray, but for a touch of white on its nose. It cautiously approaches Oriya.

Oriya reaches out its hand, and the cat sniffs it delicately.

"Is it all right, Asato-neko?" Oriya's voice is soft, barely parting the silence. "May we be friends?" The cat hesitates momentarily, but then nudges its head against his hand.

Oriya lets his fingers trail along the smooth fur.

To think that Muraki would have done the same. Oriya sighs. It brings to mind the brother.

After he returned from the funeral, Oriya had made discreet inquiries. It wasn't easy, nor was it cheap, but eventually he was able to find the vaguest hint of a lead and follow it through. What he found was quite interesting.

"Does that make him American-Japanese, or Japanese-American?" Oriya wonders aloud to the cat. Asato-neko purrs into his touch, long whiskers brushing Oriya's palm.

Saki unsettles Oriya in ways that Oriya could never have imagined. Superficially, it seems as though there's nothing of the pale brother in him - he's raven haired with dark brown eyes, he doesn't wear glasses, and his skin's slightly tanned from the touch of the bright American sunlight. But up close, the details mattered - his eyes have the same shape as Muraki's, and so too is the shape of his face similar. They both have something of that strange humor that's like being high in the sky above the storm clouds where it's frighteningly sunny while below, lightning slams into the rain-soaked ground.

Oriya doesn't know what to make of it.

His instincts tell him to push Saki as far away from him as possible. Reason dictates the same. He knows Saki is dangerous.

He thinks that Saki wants something. Something that only Oriya can provide. But Oriya doesn't know what it could be.

Revenge would be futile - Muraki was already dead.

So what did the man want? Oriya ponders the possibilities as his fingers move through the cat's thick fur.

As if on cue, the phone rings.

Oriya stares at it cautiously. No one should be calling this line - he's been conducting most of the matters through his business cell phone.

He picks it up.

"Muraki residence, this is Mibu."

"Hello Oriya." It's Saki.

*******

|Saki|

I'm glad you're still here. I'm sorry I had to leave in a rush last time. I had to get changed before my big date, you know.

Oh, how did it work out? Fine, just fine. I think you might even know him, now that I think about it. Mibu Oriya, of Kyoto. Sole surviving heir of the Mibu family. They've owned a luxurious traditional restaurant for the last several generations. As far as I can tell, it's definitely as far back as Meiji in the records, but the locals say it's older. There you go, the difference between paper and memory.

Today, I thought I'd let you in on a little secret. It's just between you and me. Please don't tell Oriya I told you this. Because it's about him, and I think he'd be put off if I told anyone. You won't tell him, will you?

Good.

A few years back, when I returned to Japan, I did a little research about my brother. That's when I looked up Oriya. It seemed as if there was something more to the whole story than met the eye, when I looked at all the facts. I'm not certain what it was - just a feeling, I think. Call it instinct.

It's great what a few hours in front of microfiche can do to reveal things about people that they'd never think that you could find out.

Oriya was…let's see, what year was that…yes, when he was about sixteen or seventeen, there was an incident. It seemed to me like his parents paid the right people the right money to cover up the story, but still, at least a few things leaked out in the regular press. That was enough for me to find what I needed. I've got the file at home in my apartment - the particulars are…well…I won't speak too much of it.

Suffice to say, it looks like young Mibu-kun was on his way home one day from school when some former government official took off with him at gunpoint. He was gone for about a week before they could manage to put together the ransom. A harsh blow against Kokakurou - it was a disgruntled 'guest' that had been banned for something he did to one of the maids. Quite brutal…poor girl - it didn't make national headline news, but definitely cost the man his position in Parliament.

But you know, the strange thing is as far as I can tell the ransom wasn't paid out in money.

After that, there aren't very many records. The only notable one I can think of involves money paid out to some unnamed physician who came by the Mibu residence once a week for about seven, eight months. His files, unfortunately, have been destroyed.

It's interesting how an event like that can change you. Before that, Oriya's school pictures showed a very normal looking young man. Handsome, of course, just as he is now, but with neat short-cropped hair.

After that, it seems like he grew his hair out. In every picture, his hair is progressively longer. Apparently Oriya also became very serious about kendo too - he participated in a college tournament where he broke someone's arm. They say it was an accident. Of course, he wouldn't have meant it now, would he?

Oriya is such an…interesting man. I called him earlier. We're going to have dinner again tonight.

I hope he likes Italian food.

*******

|Konoe|

"This is impossible." Tatsumi crosses his arms. He's scowling. "You cannot expect me to do this."

"Tatsumi, you know the budget better than any of us…" Konoe gestures conciliatorily, trying to calm Tatsumi down. "A room for two costs only a fraction more than two rooms."

"I will…I will pay out of my own pocket first before I will share a room with that man," Tatsumi states with a note of finality.

"Don't make me do this, Tatsumi…" Konoe pleads, "Just be reasonable and do what's right…"

"Right? What's right would be to put this man's shadow through his own heart! Don't talk to me about what's right!" Tatsumi's anger is making the shadows around the room quiver violently.

"Fine. Then as the chief of this division, I'm ordering you to follow protocol. You're sharing a room. The matter is settled." Konoe says, authority lending credence to his words. Then, more meekly, "…If it's all right with you."

"That…that's just fine." Tatsumi says, his voice suddenly pleasant. Frighteningly so. "Thank you for your input, chief. We will depart for Tokyo immediately."

Konoe breathes a sigh of relief Tatsumi turns to leave his office. His eye catches the movement of Tatsumi's shadow as Tatsumi walks out the door. It does a little twitchy dance beneath his feet right before he crosses the threshold and closes the door shut behind him.

This makes Konoe shiver. A lot.

***

|Wakaba|

"Wah…lucky!" Wakaba beams. "You're going to Tokyo? I wish I could go…" She leans against Tatsumi's desk, now in the general office. It's Wednesday afternoon, and Tatsumi's already been moved out of his tiny office annex near the Chief's and into the general room where all the other divisions have their desks.

"I'll bring you back something nice, Wakaba-chan, I promise." Tatsumi says with a forced smile. "That is, once my new partner decides to make an appearance. Ah, speak of the devil." There's a whole lot more emphasis placed on the last word than necessary. Tatsumi's eyes follow Muraki and Terazuma's entrance. Between the two of them, they're carrying three bags.

"Three? We're not going on vacation. This case isn't to last more than ten days," Tatsumi raises an eyebrow. Muraki scowls back.

"Why don't you…" Muraki starts.

"Eh, forgot to tell you," Terazuma says, cutting off Muraki. He walks up to Tatsumi's desk, and sets two bags down with a clunk. "Looks like you guys are getting some company. We're going to Tokyo, Kannuki."

"Really! Oh, wow!" Wakaba claps her hands with a little hop of joy. "This is great! And Hajime brought me my travel bag too! Wai!! Thank you thank you thank you!" Terazuma looks slightly embarrassed, a faint flush of pink coming to his cheeks, mostly obscured by the marks of his Shikigami. He hides it by looking down, digging his hands into his pockets as if to search for a cigarette.

"Ah, right. I forgot about that." Tatsumi adjusts his glasses. "'For the first case, the mentor must accompany the new Shinigami,'" he quotes. "I suppose you've got the extra room reserved?" He and Terazuma fall into a discussion on logistics.

"Did you bring everything you need?" Wakaba asks Muraki.

"I think so." Muraki holds up the small piece of luggage. "Mostly a few changes of clothing and the manual."

"Don't worry - we don't need much." Wakaba smiles. "Shinigami always travel light."

"I noticed you were already packed. But you didn't know we were going…?" Muraki says, absently, his attention captured mainly by his surveillance of Terazuma and Tatsumi.

"Every Shinigami has a travel bag - that's for when we have to go to Chijou at the last minute. This means we don't have to waste time packing and can leave right away," Wakaba explains, as she picks up her bag. She opens it, and pulls out a package of gum. "Want some? It's peach."

"No thank you." Muraki says. He watches Tatsumi thoughtfully. "I was under the impression that Tatsumi knows everything. Why didn't he mention that you and Terazuma would be coming with us?"

"Tatsumi's situation was different, so that's probably why he forgot," Wakaba explains to Muraki. "You see, his mentor was also his first…"

"Now that everyone is assembled," Tatsumi raises his voice slightly, effectively cutting off all conversation, "it's time for us to go."

Wakaba raises her hand. "All right! Fourth and fifth division are now beginning their big Tokyo adventure!" And then, to Muraki, "This is the fun part. Just hold my hand and…"

"Nah, I can handle this," Terazuma says, stepping in. "Here." Terazuma grabs Muraki by the wrist. "Now tap your heels together three times, and say there's no place like home."

"Uh…" Muraki blinks.

"Hajime, that's not how it works!" Wakaba laughs while Tatsumi stifles a snicker.

"Heh, just kidding." Terazuma grins rakishly. "It's actually a spell. You studied it, right?"

"Of course."

"Well then, mister magic, let's get going." Terazuma keeps his hand clasped on Muraki's arm.

A moment later, the four are gone.

***

|Terazuma|

They arrive in Tokyo, in a secluded part of a park. Above, the afternoon sun lazily filters through the scarlet and gold treetops.

"Mm, good choice," Terazuma says, letting Muraki go. "Where are we?"

"Just a little park northwest of the city center," Muraki says, straightening his rumpled sleeve. "I thought that this would be more appropriate than suddenly appearing in the middle of Shinjuku."

"…Which wouldn't be a problem if you knew the right technique," Tatsumi adds.

"Right." Muraki makes the logical decision to shut his mouth before he can say more.

"Um…where's the hotel?" Wakaba asks before more can be said. "Let's get this stuff put away and we'll go get some ice cream!"

"Sounds good. You paying?" Terazuma says with a grin.

"Yep!" Wakaba replies.

"Great. So why don't we do this," Terazuma suggests. "If you guys don't mind, can you take the bags and stuff to the rooms? I'll take the kid around the park for a stroll, see if we need to work some bugs out in his training." Muraki suppresses a scowl, turning his attention as if to look at the autumn trees above.

"That's fine with me," Tatsumi says, as the bags switch hands. "Let's meet in an hour at the rooms."

***

|Wakaba|

"Ne, Tatsumi-san," Wakaba says, once they're on their way. "You don't like him very much, do you?"

"This is business," Tatsumi says stiffly. "Nothing more."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean it should only be business," Wakaba says. "Tatsumi-san's older than me, so you know what it's like when partners don't trust each other. Remember when that boy from division eight was killed?"

"Of course. June 1951. He and his partner both went for the demon at the same time, and one of them didn't make it." Tatsumi says. "I fail to see the point."

"The point is, they didn't trust each other to protect each other," Wakaba says, her tone turning thoughtful. They cross the street. "So it killed one of them because they weren't trying to help each other. They were just focused on their own goals instead of thinking about their partner too."

"So?" Tatsumi says, as they walk into the hotel. It's only about a block or two from the park "If he dies, it's not my problem."

Wakaba's about to say more, but they're at the check-in counter.

***

|Terazuma|

"Good. Now let me see you fly up to that branch up there." Terazuma stands with one thumb hooked in his belt, looking up toward Muraki, his hand shading his eyes. Muraki moves swiftly, touching the branch before he makes his way down.

"Looking good." Terazuma nods in approval. "Notice how everything feels heavier?"

"Yes," Muraki says, dusting off his hands. "It was easier to do this in Meifu." Muraki's been practicing various Shinigami-related abilities since he's adjusted. The other morning, while he was in the shower, he even managed to cut himself to see how quickly it would heal. The marks disappeared faster than the blood swirling down the drain. Muraki is planning on taking some time to buy a watch with a stopwatch function so that he can time it properly the next chance he gets to try it. Waterproof too.

"That's because reality makes this place heavier," Terazuma explains. "I don't know all the technical details - you gotta ask Watari about all that. But the way I learned it, Chijou's the real. Meifu's the mirror image. The mirror image is 'lighter.' Things are more flexible, magic works better. Chijou, you're going against a lot of constraints, so things feel…'heavier.'" Terazuma gestures vaguely with his hands. "It's hard to explain."

"I think I understand," Muraki says. "I can sense there's a difference."

A bird flits up to the branch that Muraki just touched, stealing their attention as it darts through the leaves, chasing a moth. The moth gets away.

"You've been awfully good these last few days, Muraki." Terazuma says, after a few minutes of silence. "Haven't tried anything stupid like pissing me off. Kept your mouth shut when Tatsumi gives you shit. Didn't even say anything when I call you 'kid' in front of the others."

Muraki's eyes harden just a little at Terazuma's last words. "I'll do as I'm told." Muraki says, his voice tight with tension. "I've been reminded that more than once since I woke up."

"That's right." Terazuma says, as he taps out a cigarette. "Want one?" He offers, tucking the cigarette between his lips.

"Thank you." Terazuma extends the pack toward Muraki, who pulls one out. Terazuma lights Muraki's, and then his own.

"But you know, as long as you behave - that means following the rules, no harassing Tsuzuki or Kurosaki, and doing your job - you don't need to put up with shit from anyone." Terazuma's Shikigami settles happily as the smoke touches his lungs. Terazuma exhales. "Even me."

"I'll keep that in mind," Muraki says.

They stand in silence, smoking. A breeze picks up a little, scattering the little puffs of cigarette smoke into the wind.

"One thing though," Terazuma says. He stubs his cigarette out against the bottom of his shoe. "What I said to you about the whole taking shit thing. Just remember, as long as I'm babysitting, you *will* put up with my shit," Terazuma grins. "Now let's go meet Kannuki. I've got mint chocolate chip on my mind, and I wanna to do something about it."

"Understood."

***

|Tatsumi|

Later, after dinner, Tatsumi sits at the little table in the hotel room with a stack of files before him. They've got three cases that need to be resolved by the end of next week, but they're all very routine and he thinks they can do it in half the time or less, easy. The hardest part about these cases is access - all of them involve people who have slipped into comas and died, leaving their physical bodies alive behind them, hooked up to various life-support mechanisms. Their job is two-fold: to resolve the status of the still-living bodies, and to find the confused souls and guide them to their proper rest. It's all very low profile; these are the kind of jobs that the Shinigami usually take care of.

It's usually nothing as exciting as chasing down serial killers with occult powers.

Tatsumi looks over at the said serial killer with occult powers in question. Muraki is sitting across the room on his bed (his, because Tatsumi would never sleep on it now that Muraki's touched it), drawing up lists of possible places that the bodies of the missing souls could be, based on the time and place of death and Muraki's knowledge of the hospitals of Tokyo. It, Tatsumi thinks begrudgingly, is about the only thing that Muraki's been useful for.

Muraki looks up, as if sensing that Tatsumi is staring. "Yes?"

"Nothing." Tatsumi looks back down at his files. "Actually, I'd like to know if you've made any progress."

"I finished a half hour ago," Muraki says smugly.

Tatsumi looks at him suspiciously. "Then what have you been doing?

"Calculations."

"Care to elaborate?" Tatsumi's tone suggests that lack of details would be hazardous to one's health. Muraki's eyes narrow slightly.

"I'm working on adjusting some of my spells so they fall within accepted parameters," Muraki says, after a long pause. He taps his fingers against his notebook. "As many have a strongly mathematical base, the numbers need to be recalculated accordingly."

Tatsumi and Muraki glare at each other for a long minute, as if trying to make the other back down. Finally, Muraki looks away.

"I'd like a breakdown of your findings, if you're done," Tatsumi says coolly.

Muraki catches himself on the verge of a scowl, before taking a deep breath. He starts flipping through his notebook, searching for the right page. Muraki absently raises his hand to adjust his glasses. They're new. He feels more comfortable with them on. He holds up the notebook, hiding his face from Tatsumi.

"Case one." His voice is bland with professionalism. "Age 89. Stroke victim on the Marunouchi line through Shinjuku. Probable admission in the International Catholic Hospital in Shinjuku. Case two. Age 34. Attempted suicide. Probable admission in the Japan Red Cross Medical Center in Shibuya, only three blocks from the site. Case three. Age 54. Car accident in Chiyoda, near the Diet building. Probable initial admission in the Imperial Clinic." Muraki sets the notebook down, and makes a quick note with his pen, before continuing.

"However, this last one could be in either the International Catholic Hospital or St. Luke's International Hospital in Chou. The Imperial Clinic wouldn't have the facilities, and the family history suggests that they would be inclined toward a Catholic established hospital. I will have to make calls in the morning to find out for certain," Muraki says.

"Good." Tatsumi nods in tacit approval. "Give me the numbers and I'll call tomorrow morning."

Muraki frowns. "I think that given my experience in the medical field, it would be best to leave that element to me."

Tatsumi raises an eyebrow. "How well do you know the hospital staff in these hospitals?"

"Not well at all," Muraki counters.

"How well do they know you? Unless young white-haired doctors from a well-known family line of doctors is the norm around town," Tatsumi states.

"I…I suppose my reputation's preceded me more than once," Muraki concedes.

"Tomorrow, I will make the appropriate calls. You will follow me where we go, and stay invisible to mortal eyes. You will shadow me and guide me when appropriate. Unless you can somehow manage to not run into someone in the hospitals who would recognize you," Tatsumi says, adjusting his glasses. "You do realize you're dead, right?"

Muraki scowls. There's not much he can say against that logic.

"I'll work something out," Muraki manages, looking away.

There's a long and tense silence.

"It's getting late," Tatsumi says finally. "Go to bed. I want to get started early tomorrow."

"All right." Muraki's hand trembles as he sets his notebook down.

***

Tatsumi can't sleep. He knows Muraki is still awake. His breathing gives it away.

The room is awash in shadows. Tatsumi isn't uneasy - he's got the advantage here. No matter what Muraki does, if anything, he can counter it without any trouble. After all, at the height of Muraki's powers Tatsumi was able to force him to retreat. Now that his wings have been clipped, Muraki is definitely no threat to Tatsumi.

What bothers Tatsumi is that after so many years, he's been assigned a new partner.

Tatsumi remembers his first partner. When he first met Sato, it was the moment he woke up in Meifu - he had nearly fallen right into Sato's arms as he appeared. Sato had nearly killed Tatsumi before he realized what had happened.

Sato was stern and cold, initially unapproachable. Tatsumi recalls likening Sato to a winter blizzard in Hokkaido, because underneath his rigid sense of order and control, he was a furious storm waiting to be unleashed. It was unwise to say much around Sato; it was suicide to seriously anger him. All Tatsumi did for the first year was file papers, mostly in Meifu, until Sato decided that he was ready for a case. It wasn't the standard procedure, but that never bothered Sato who seemed to make it a point to try to cross authority at every possible turn. In the end, even Enma himself allowed Sato to do as he pleased.

But then, somewhere along the lines, Sato changed. Or maybe Tatsumi himself did; Tatsumi still isn't certain about how things progressed. All he knew was that one day, it seemed their partnership was just business as usual and the next, they were closer than Tatsumi had ever been to anyone before in his existence.

Being Sato's partner was completely reasonable and Tatsumi handled it well. But being Sato's lover was an entirely different thing. In that Sato was, as he was in everything - terrifyingly intense. Tatsumi never knew what to expect; Sato was unpredictable and demanding, controlling every aspect of their relationship. No matter what Tatsumi wanted out of it, no matter how Tatsumi felt, Tatsumi couldn't pull away even when he tried. Tatsumi was utterly ensnared.

The whole affair had left its marks on Tatsumi. Especially when suddenly without warning, Sato retired, saying that he didn't want to be around Tatsumi anymore. Following Sato's last day, they never spoke again, even though Tatsumi knows where Sato lives in Meifu - after all, he nearly lived there for almost a decade.

After that, Tatsumi didn't want another partner. He still doesn't.

Muraki is completely still, but Tatsumi can hear his quiet breaths. They're relaxed, but they're not the kind of breaths that sound like sleep. Tatsumi knows this because of Sato.

Because of Sato, Tatsumi had Tsuzuki transferred after only three months. They were getting too close. Tatsumi didn't want that; he couldn't stand the thought of being hurt again, or worse - hurting Tsuzuki. Tatsumi even took a position as the department secretary, so he wouldn't have to face Tokyo alone. But even that isn't an option anymore.

On a certain level, Tatsumi thinks this is probably the safest partner that he'll have - one who he definitely won't like. One he doesn't want to be friends with, and who doesn't like him in return. He'll make sure this continues. Besides, Tatsumi cannot forgive Muraki for what Muraki did to Tsuzuki.

But part of him is afraid.

The other day, Tatsumi saw Muraki reading a book at the office. Muraki didn't know Tatsumi was there - he was too engrossed in what he was doing. That slight hint of cruelty in the smile on Muraki's lips, the set of his eyes as he scanned the page. For a brief moment, it reminded Tatsumi of someone else. It was so disturbing that he had to leave the room.

Tatsumi is not happy with this arrangement.

Tatsumi closes his eyes with a little sigh. After a while, he does fall asleep.

Muraki, on the other hand, is still awake.

***

|Terazuma|

They're riding the eastbound train on the Marunouchi line. As Tatsumi promised, it's early. About 4 A.M., to be precise. At this hour, there are only a handful of scattered people. They're in a car by themselves.

"Sleepy." Wakaba curls up on one of the subway seats. Her eyes close as she snuggles into her coat. Terazuma stands to one side of her, leaning against the window and Muraki sits on the other side, his hands folded neatly in his lap. Across, Tatsumi stands, holding onto the back of a seat for support.

"I told you Kannuki, you could have stayed in our hotel room," Terazuma says, holding onto the pole as the subway sways along. "It should only take an hour, maybe less for us to find the guy." Wakaba moves her head just enough so that Terazuma can see her sticking her tongue out at him, her eyes still closed. She resettles herself and dozes in the seat.

Muraki and Tatsumi seem to be in some sort of silent competition to see who is more alert and minds the least that they're riding the subway at 4 A.M. looking for a lost soul. At this point, it seems to be an impasse. The lights flicker as the subway races through the tunnel.

"According to the records we obtained, the man was sleeping in the third car on the eastbound. When his family tried to rouse up, he wouldn't wake. That's when they called emergency services," Tatsumi says, filling in on the details.

"Chances are, the soul's probably either still sleeping, or walking around thinking that he's alive," Terazuma adds. "But since it's within ten days, he's probably still tied to his place of death." Muraki looks up at Terazuma questioningly. "It's just what souls do," Terazuma shrugs.

"That's right. Let's walk the train from end to end, and we'll see if we can't find him." Tatsumi begins making his way toward the next car.

"How will we recognize him?" Muraki asks.

"He'll be dead," Tatsumi says irritably, without turning around. "You'll know when you see him."

"Ah." Muraki nods. They leave Kannuki dozing in the subway car, and begin their systematic search. A few minutes later, Terazuma's found him.

An old man, huddled in his seat, sleeping. Muraki can see through him. So it was obvious, after all.

"Well, that was easy," Terazuma says, fiddling for a cigarette. He finds one, and shoves it between his lips. "You wanna do the honors, Tatsumi?"

"Of course," Tatsumi replies. "But next time, you will send the soul on," he says to Muraki. "Please watch closely."

Muraki nods.

"Excuse me, grandfather." Tatsumi taps the man on his shoulder. He stirs awake. "We're here."

"Hmm? Who are you people? Where's Arisu?" The man's voice is reed thin and brittle sounding. He looks tired.

"We're here to help you move on," Tatsumi says gently. "It's time for you to go."

The man looks at them blankly for a moment, before understanding comes over his expression. "I see. Can I really go?"

"Yes." Tatsumi says with a soft smile. "We're here to help you with that."

"That…" The old man smiles weakly. "Thank you. I'm ready."

Tatsumi nods his head courteously. He reaches out with his hand to touch the man. As he does so, there's a slight shift of power - both Muraki and Terazuma can feel it. When his hand settles on the man, an inch over his heart, the stray soul wavers for a moment, before disappearing in a trailing wisp.

"That was pretty painless," Terazuma says, the cigarette in his mouth quivering.

"Let's get Wakaba and go back to the hotel," Tatsumi says. "We'll break for an hour and then go have breakfast. After that, we need to hunt down the bodies and resolve their statuses. We'll try to finish the last two souls tonight."

"I'm curious," Muraki asks Terazuma as Tatsumi walks out of the subway car back toward Wakaba. "What's the hurry? I thought we had a total of ten days to wrap things up."

"Eh, part of that's just Tatsumi's style," Terazuma says with a shrug. "But mainly, since they allocated budget until the end of next week for us to finish this case, if we finish early, it's like a free vacation in Chijou. All we have to do is show that at the end of the case, we made all our goals without too much property damage."

"Property damage?"

"Yeah. This one was easy - pathetically easy," Terazuma gestures at the now-empty subway seat. "Most of them, there's a lot of kicking and screaming going on. And fire. Or things breaking."

"I don't understand."

"Yeah, they don't put this in the official policy stuff," Terazuma says, gesturing for Muraki to follow him. They start walking through the subway cars, making their way back over to Wakaba. "Because of Japan's history, there are a lot of people born with strong spiritual powers. 'Course, it differs in ability or amount from person to person, but even someone with a little residual ability can kick your ass good once they're dead. That's why Shinigami here have to be so powerful." Terazuma explains. "You know that guy you nuked in New York? If he had been Japanese, it would have been your ass that went first, not his. The other countries only pick bureaucrats, not fighters."

"How did you know that?" Muraki's voice flares with anger.

"Eh, read your file." Terazuma says. "When you were chatting with Watari the other day. You've got an interesting past."

Muraki clenches his fists, his eyes growing dangerous. "Never bring this up to me ever again. And if you tell anyone, I will…"

"Relax, Muraki." Terazuma says seriously. He looks Muraki right in the eye. "I'm not telling anyone. The only people that are ever allowed to read your complete personnel file are your mentor, Enma, and maybe the Hakushaku, if he requests it personally. Otherwise, it's not anyone's business. Not even your partner's."

Muraki visibly relaxes.

"Now let's get the hell out of here. I can't smoke on the train," Terazuma says. "Hey, you know of any good breakfast places?"

***

A few hours later, they're at the International Catholic Hospital in Shinjuku. As luck would have it, the third victim was sent here too, so they'll save time by being able to finish them both at once. Tatsumi's posing as a visitor, and Wakaba is posing as his daughter. Terazuma and Muraki stay invisible, following the plan. They've got a bouquet of yellow carnations, which Wakaba is carrying.

Muraki, thankfully, knows his way around the hospital and knows every possible aspect of procedure. He stays close to Tatsumi, murmuring directions in his ear, telling him where to go, when to pause - all of it based on timing their entrance perfectly to minimize Tatsumi and Wakaba's exposure to the hospital staff. This tests Tatsumi's patience - of course, it's part of the plan, but that doesn't mean that he likes Muraki standing so close to him, making little observations and suggestions as they go along.

Tatsumi is getting annoyed, and it makes some of the shadows in their wake tremble when they pass.

Finally, they enter the intensive care unit. It's this point that Tatsumi too becomes invisible. Tatsumi and Muraki are now visible only to their fellow Shinigami; even their voices are masked from mortal hearing.

Terazuma and Wakaba wait outside, standing guard. Wakaba's got the flowers and looks like a young woman in the hallway waiting by herself for a relative. She even manages to look sad. Terazuma grins at her and makes faces at her while they wait in the hall, as if trying to break her composure.

It's an old joke between them when they have to do things like this. Because Terazuma's so strange looking, Wakaba is always the visible partner in their cases. Once upon a time when they first started, Terazuma managed to stumble over a cat that had walked in while he wasn't looking and land on his face, making Wakaba laugh in the middle of a serious conversation about a murder investigation. Ever since then, Terazuma becomes occasionally silly with her while they work, to keep her company, to let her know he's paying attention. It's a good way to pass the time.

"How shall we do this?" Muraki asks softly, as they slip into the room when someone opens the door and make their way around the various family members that have been waiting by the old man's bedside. The old man looks even sicker in the hospital bed than he did a few hours ago when it was just his soul. "Do we interrupt power to the life support? I think if I got close enough, I could change the balance of solution in his IV drip…"

"No, nothing that leaves any physical traces," Tatsumi replies tersely. "It must seem natural, or else the hospital staff will come under suspicion. We cannot ever leave any traces of our presence or influence. It was in the manual," Tatsumi adds impatiently.

"Right." Muraki frowns to himself, annoyed at forgetting that detail. "What will you do then?"

"Just watch." Tatsumi opens his hand, and his own shadow seeps into his palm like a rush of black ink. He concentrates, and it forms into his hand, a long dagger of shadow. He walks over to the bedside, into an empty space where there are no bystanders.

He closes his eyes momentarily, as if in prayer. Tatsumi opens his eyes, and searching for the edge of the man's shadow, slides the blade in.

The body convulses for a moment. The room suddenly bursts into action as the heart monitor fluctuates wildly, sending off its alarm to the hospital staff, before falling into flatline. No one will get there in time to resuscitate the body. It's done.

"That's it." Tatsumi says, as they walk away. "The next one's yours."

Muraki frowns, because he realizes he's been holding his breath.

He takes one last look at the grieving family as he walks out of the room. A high wail fills his ears, and he steps quickly down the hall following Tatsumi and the others to avoid hearing it.

*******

|Oriya|

This is wrong.

Everything about it is wrong. It's Thursday evening. While elsewhere, the Shinigami are chasing down two lost souls, Oriya is letting Saki into Muraki's apartment. Tonight was the third night they had dinner together. Earlier today, they even met for lunch.

Saki is charming - kind at the right moments, scathingly witty at others. Saki and Oriya are on a first name basis. It was never the case with Muraki.

It's wrong.

Oriya feels like he's being played. It's just a feeling - he can't really pin down where the manipulation is taking place, only that it's happening. But he can't seem to resist. The more he struggles, the more he's entangled. He doesn't know what to do.

Saki is what Oriya has always wanted Muraki to be. They've got the same eyes. Similar senses of humor. The same little smile that verges on something brittle but cruel at the same time when something bothers them. But Saki knows when to back down. Knows when to press for more details. Doesn't do anything that could cause Oriya to lose sleep at night. Doesn't have that same sense of fatalism.

Saki's even convinced him that Muraki was the one who killed his own parents. He doesn't want to believe Saki, but it's so very plausible. Even when Oriya first met Muraki (half a life-time ago, wasn't it? About eighteen years come spring) there was that taint of insanity and murder along the edges of Muraki's personality. Oriya doesn't know who to believe anymore.

It's as if Saki is replacing Muraki.

It scares Oriya. He's been sleeping with his katana next to him on Muraki's big bed. It gives him a sense of security to reach out at night and feel the solidity of metal under his hand, grounding him to the reality. He feels like any moment, he could be stolen. Stolen from himself. From his memory of Muraki.

Not in many years has Oriya felt the need to protect himself. It unbalances him. He feels like he's wavering in his intentions, and it bothers him. Oriya prides himself on his focus, on his resolve.

And now, he's making tea for Saki. They're sitting across from each other in Muraki's living room with a low table between them. The white and crimson orchids are in a vase on the table; Oriya's amazed they've survived for so long.

Oriya pours the tea for Saki. It's a barrage of memory. As Saki takes the cup from his hands, their fingers brush. It's not tea ceremony, yet Saki turns the cup twice. Just like Muraki would have. It was one of Muraki's odd little habits when he had tea with Oriya, even if it was just something as simple as hot water steeping a teabag in the university dormitory. Oriya never knew if it was sarcasm, or if it was Muraki's way of complimenting his abilities. But the deference in Saki's movements tells Oriya that it's definitely a compliment, respect to a master.

Oriya's trembling.

"Is everything all right?" Saki asks solicitously. "Here, let me pour you some tea." Saki reaches out, untwining Oriya's fingers from the handle of the pot. He pours Oriya a cup. Muraki would have never done that for him.

"Thank you." The heavy ceramic cup is hot in his hands. Oriya uses the pain as a focus, forcing the rush of emotions aside.

"If you're not feeling well, I can go." Saki says. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No." The word comes out of Oriya's mouth before he can stop it. "That is…if you want." Oriya adds weakly, staring at the tea. The stem floats. He should make a wish. He takes a sip - it's jasmine in green, scented like perfume. The steam rises lazily off the surface.

"I won't leave you unless you want me to," Saki says looking straight into Oriya's clear brown eyes. He leaves the rest to Oriya's interpretation. Saki then looks down at his own cup of tea, giving Oriya some privacy.

There's a long moment of quiet. But it's not uncomfortable - Saki seems to be completely content not saying anything. His silence is devastating. They used to sit like this together, Oriya and Muraki, drinking tea, saying nothing. The conversation was only between their souls. There didn't need to be anything to fill the stillness, because they knew each other and the words never had to be spoken. Knew. Spoken.

The past tense sends little surges of pain through Oriya. He closes his eyes, trying to will them away.

"Why did my brother leave Kyoto?" Saki asks. The pain intensifies.

"I…don't know." Oriya murmurs. His hair's slowly coming undone, and it's slipping toward his face. Oriya impatiently brushes it back with one hand.

"Was that the last time you saw him alive?"

"Yes." The word is like a whisper. Oriya's heart clutches painfully; cold shivers sliding through him.

"I'm sorry." Saki says softly. "I don't understand why he would do something like that. I would never leave my friend behind without an explanation."

It's too much. The cup slides out of Oriya's hand, leaving a hot splash of tea on the ground. It doesn't break, but rolls under the living room table with a clatter. The sound jars Oriya out of his thoughts.

"Ah…" Oriya begins to get up to clean up the spill.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it." Saki says, getting up and moving toward the kitchen. He returns with a kitchen towel and crouches down beside Oriya wiping up the spilled tea, retrieving the cup and righting it on the table. "Fortunately, the floors are hardwood," Saki says, his hand is on the sofa next to Oriya for balance. Oriya stares at Saki's fingers blankly. They're slender and graceful, just like Muraki's. Saki makes a final wipe. "There."

"You didn't have to do that." Oriya says softly. "I could have handled it."

"I know. But I wanted to," Saki replies, looking up at Oriya. He sets the damp towel on the table, and straightens up, sitting down next to Oriya. "You don't have to be responsible for everything all the time."

Too much. Oriya's hand goes to cover his eyes. Tears are welling up. It's wrong. Saki is too good, is too kind. He needs to run. Oriya starts moving to get up, but Saki's hand stops him, a steady pressure on his shoulder.

"Let me help you. You've already done more than enough." Saki says. The words bring the funeral back to mind. The eulogy. The lawyers. Two weeks of unending reminders that his closest and only true friend in the world is dead. It's all coming back to him, all at once.

The blood-red earrings cutting into his palm. Muraki's ice cold hand beneath his in the morgue. Muraki under the light of the crimson moon, untangling Oriya's grasp from his coat, a last farewell. His parents' graves, tiny flakes of pure white settling on the dark broken earth. The fact that he didn't meet them at the airport before they left to say goodbye. Oriya chokes on the grief.

He needs to run. Oriya needs to get away. He wants to, but he can't. Saki's gentle touch is stronger than any chain, binding Oriya to him, stronger than the kidnapper's handcuffs when he bound Oriya to that pipe in the filthy basement.

Oriya has lost, but he doesn't know it yet.

Wordlessly, Saki pulls Oriya close against him, letting Oriya's tears soak the silk of his shirt. Oriya's arms move hesitantly, before they wrap around Saki. They smell the same, Saki and Muraki, but without the metallic taint of blood. Saki smells clean.

Before long there are no more tears. Oriya feels himself being guided. He doesn't know where he is anymore, nor does he care. All he knows is that he's being sheltered, being protected. No one's ever been able to do that for him in his life. Not even his parents.

His coat is coming off, and the neck of his shirt is loosened. Someone's undoing his hair for him. It feels good.

Suddenly, he's lying down. Covers are being drawn up around him.

"No, don't leave." Oriya clutches at the hand that is pulling the covers up toward his throat. The fingers are warm.

"I said that I won't leave you unless you want me to," a voice says to him, soothingly, an assuring reminder. "I always keep my promises." He imagines that it's Muraki. After all, it sounds almost like him, especially when Oriya's eyes are closed.

A moment later, the pressure of another person's weight against the bed.

"Just sleep." It's the most rational suggestion he's heard in a long time. Strong arms twine around him, pulling him close. It's warm here, and safe.

Oriya can sleep now.

***

Stray sunlight is making its way down Oriya's face. The brightness is intense, and it nudges him toward awareness.

Drowsily, he reaches for his sword. It's usually to his right.

It's not there. But Saki is, and he's awake. Oriya blinks in confusion for a moment, before he remembers what happened last night. He looks at the clock. It's after nine. He sits up with a start.

"The movers. I need to…" Saki's hand touches his arm, interrupting him.

"It's all right. They called earlier. The truck broke down, so they won't be able to come until Monday at the earliest." Saki says as he sits up, the sheets winding around him. His hair looks a little rumpled, and he's fully clothed.

"Thank you." Oriya looks confused. He thinks that he should have heard the phone ring. He wonders how he managed to sleep this deeply. Oriya is usually a very light sleeper, waking up with the slightest noise.

"Don't worry so much," Saki says softly, his hand capturing Oriya's face, turning Oriya to look at him. "I said I would help you, didn't I?" He smiles, very genuinely.

"Thank you." The words are like a whisper. Oriya lets his eyes shut. He's been so tired recently.

There's a pause. He can feel Saki's weight shift on the mattress.

Suddenly, Saki's lips are on Oriya's, insistent but gentle at the same time, his hand sliding along the back of Oriya's neck, stroking his long hair. Oriya's eyes flutter open. He pulls back with a start, before he recognizes what's going on.

"Saki." The word's just a breath, an exhalation formed into sound.

"You and Kazutaka…?" Saki asks, his eyes searching Oriya's.

"He never asked. I never offered." Oriya touches his lips with his fingertips, as if not completely understanding the implications.

"Is it all right then, for you and I?" Saki asks, his dark eyes meeting Oriya's, moving closer to cup Oriya's face in his hands. Oriya's long hair slides around Saki's fingertips. "May we be friends?"

Oriya trembles.

*******

|Saki|

Sorry I'm late. I was caught up with my blossom.

So how have you been? Good, I'm glad for you. I like it better when things are slow. It's nice to just stop and smell the roses.

Ah, right. I didn't forget about that part. I just haven't had the time to really tell you everything. It's been a busy week.

Last night and this morning's visits with my blossom were especially fruitful. I think I might be getting what I want after all. My blossom just needs a little guidance. He's so delicate right now that just the slightest bit of effort on my part leads him straight to where I want him to go.

Oh, but you wanted to hear more about Kazutaka's past. We can save Oriya for later; he's not going anywhere anytime soon.

Kazutaka it is then.

His mother was scary. Her eyes were completely colorless. I don't mean white or something like that, I mean clear; if you looked closely you could see the inner workings of the tiny blood vessels in her eyes. The only real color on her was the dark of her pupils. Even her hair was completely white. Not like Kazutaka's silver. He looks like if you took his mother's looks and slightly tainted them with black, making a silver, silver-gray coloring. She was perfectly, perfectly white. It wasn't normal for a human being, but it was natural for her. They didn't really let her out too much.

Then, there's our father. The man was a total bastard. I'm glad he's dead. I'm glad both of them are dead. They both had selfish streaks a mile wide. Kazutaka never saw it though. He was too brainwashed by those people to know any better.

My father. The one who impregnated my mother and ruined her life. I bet you didn't know that she was training to become a nun. Most people don't. I never even knew it until I looked it up myself. I don't think she was more than fifteen, sixteen years old when he seduced her.

They threw her out of the convent after they found out she was pregnant. She was the best of all the novices, extremely intelligent and responsible. She really, really believed in God and His love. But I think in the end even her faith in Him couldn't protect her from sin after sin.

Not even God could protect her from the Murakis.

When I was five, he drove her to suicide, because he wouldn't acknowledge me and let me be brought up with his name. He showed absolutely no interest in my existence until I was fourteen and my high school entrance scores were so phenomenally high that he couldn't ignore me anymore. Then he had me taken out of the orphanage and took me home to live with his family as if I was a charity case. As if I was his pet genius.

Muraki. The name tastes like poison on my tongue. I swore vengeance on my mother's cold hand before they nailed her into her coffin. I was only a child at the time, but that doesn't mean I won't keep my promise. I always keep my promises.

Mother wasn't allowed a decent church burial. She lies in unhallowed ground with aborted infants and the other suicides, with murderers and sinners beyond the pale of God's love.

Sometimes I imagine that she's crying out for me from hell. The flames lick at her tears, turning them into a vapor that rises up from the ground like the steamy subway grates in winter.

Don't tell me that it's cruel to say my mother is in hell. It's true. God hates nothing worse than a suicide who takes His gift of life in vain.

My father sentenced my mother to an eternity in hell.

That was my promise. I would, for her, get revenge. That meant that I would erase the Muraki line once and for all. Make sure they couldn't hurt anyone else again. It's a small price to pay, my immortal soul. And I did fairly well up until the moment I was shot.

Recently, it looks like someone beat me to it and killed Kazutaka before I could try again. Good for them. It's a hollow victory, but at least he's dead now. One less murder on my hands. It makes things a little trickier for my long-term plans, but in some ways, it might be easier. After all, the blossom is so very fragile and pliable right now.

I have my life to live again and I'm no longer constrained by my promises now that Kazutaka's dead. This means that I'm as free as I can be, given the circumstances. It's just a matter of waiting at this point.

Someday I'll join my mother, as a murderer and a sinner beyond the scope of God's grace. We'll be together again one day. I can't face eternity without her.

I would rather burn in hell with her than be in heaven without her.

But first, there's something I have to do.

I have to go now. I promised to meet my blossom again today. Things are picking up.

But we'll talk soon. Ja.

*******

To be continued…

Disclaimer: Yami no Matsuei belongs to Matsushita Yoko

Thanks: Thanks to my pre-readers, Cyrus Marriner, Ruby Dian, and Danceswithelvis. You guys are awesome. Tatsumi's shadow blade is borrowed from The Myriad Creatures, by Cyrus Marriner (Rowsdower on fanfiction.net - check it out, it's in my favorite stories list.). He also contributed the idea about the IV drip. Big thanks to D for her suggestions in rewriting some of the scenes involving Sato and Saki.

Thanks also to you, the reader, for following me in my merry (and crazy) path. You guys are awesome too. Thank you so much for your kind reviews and support. *___*

Author's notes: Amgen's corporate headquarters are in Thousand Oaks, about a half-hour north of Los Angeles. If you're curious about my sources, check out my livejournal for reference sources for this last chapter - I post all that plus additional notes there. I'd put the url here but ff.net isn't allowing me - just look for the username 'eag.'

Well damn. Fast and furious writing for these last few chapters. I didn't know it was going this direction either, I swear. I've pretty much been writing what I think is interesting and developable. So unfortunately for now that means no Tsuzuki or Hisoka, but they'll be back eventually, I think. I noticed Oriya and Saki keep hijacking this chapter, but I'll see if I can't work it together a little better in the next chapter. I really like writing Oriya though. ^_^

Next chapter: An unlikely key unlocks the path. Saki's plans are revealed and Oriya meets the Shinigami.

Behind the scenes:

<Cyrus> You should do a scene where Oriya and Saki try to outdo each other, but with sex. Like: "I know you like that." "Oh yeah? Well, what about this? You like this, don't you?"

No omake this chapter. Let's try something different.

The Path of Stones

It was only after he died that he truly lived.

Sato was born blind, deaf, and mute. He had lived always in a world of darkness defined by touch. His favorites were silk and steel. One, because it was slick and incredibly light to the touch. The other, because it could cut him. Both of them were items that were forbidden to his hand.

He was born the only child of an old samurai family, the last of the direct line. They had grieved when they realized their black-haired boy was handicapped beyond repair, but they had made sure he was well-cared for. All his life, he was helpless, controlled by others who he could not see, hear, or speak to.

But then one day, a jealous member of a branch family poisoned him to gain the heir's position. So he died, unable to tell anyone about the bitter tea that tore his innards asunder and stole his life.

Sato knew who killed him but even as a Shinigami, he couldn't do anything about it. When he thinks about it, he can still feel the heavy embroidered edge of their robe and the rough calluses of their hands brushing his cheek as they lifted the cup to his lips.

For over a hundred years he had lived in the world of Meifu, one of the top Shinigami of Summons division. With his powers, he could make the sakura petals dance to his will, their minute shadows pulling them this way and that. When he had a mind to, he did the same with individual snowflakes. It was just something he liked to do. Sato loved precision and order.

He didn't like the others. He especially refused being partnered up with anyone that he didn't have an interest in working with. Even then, his partners had a messy habit of dying on him. Of course, it was never his fault.

This was true until Tatsumi.

Sato liked him from the start, but he never said anything. After all, it wouldn't do to have his partner or any of the others think that he was soft. It just wasn't good for his reputation. He trained Tatsumi by his own hand, and secretly enjoyed watching Tatsumi's progress, his potential bursting forth like a raging river behind his cool blue eyes.

Sato always liked Tatsumi best. It was because of Tatsumi's graceful nature, the way his kind spirit was tempered with a resolve of iron. They were traits that Sato liked most about certain people, but in Tatsumi, they were all together in one person, bundled in a charming visage, topped off with these sharp looking modern glasses that corrected his vision.

It was truly love. Sato could gaze forever into those perfectly cerulean eyes.

Their affair had lasted nearly a decade. Looking back, Sato always thought of it as the best time in his existence, the only time that he had ever been truly happy. For Sato, it was his first love. For Tatsumi, it was his second. They had shared everything.

But even then, Sato knew that eventually it would have to end. It wasn't that he was growing tired of working for Enma - he could hunt down souls all day and not be disinterested. It was because he was hurting Tatsumi.

Sato never liked to admit it to himself, but he knew that his love was slowly destroying the younger man. Sato's affection was not something that Tatsumi found easy to accept, nor was it something that really made Tatsumi happy. Sato had pursued Tatsumi relentlessly until he captured him, and even then, it was not enough.

Sato learned that it was the one thing that truly marred his character, aside from his impatience and temper, aside from his need to control things. Those were tiny imperfections compared to the real problem.

His love hurt Tatsumi.

And no matter how much Sato wanted Tatsumi, Sato could not stand to continue hurting him. So he gave him to Tsuzuki when the time was right, and left.

This is why they don't speak anymore. It pains Sato to think about it, but he knows it's what was best for Tatsumi. He refuses to see Tatsumi anymore, because he can't stand to see the pain in Tatsumi's eyes. Better this small hurt than a larger one.

***

Today, Sato is visiting Chijou. On the eastern coast of Siberia north of Japan, it's snowing. He stands on the boulder-strewn shore as snowflakes fly down from the sky, a flurry that obscures the dark sea before him.

His breaths leave plumes of vapor in the air. He takes a step, then another, moving quickly from one stone to another, climbing across the expanse of the shore. He picks a path along the rocks, refusing the fly, concentrating on maintaining his balance as icy bits of snow score his cheeks with their chill.

The roiling sky is the color of slate, a dark gray-blue. The waves slam against the rocks around him, their white plumes misting up into the air. The taste of salt in the air, the strong smell of the sea - it's all very wonderful to Sato.

Sato's mind is a blank, because he wills it so. Otherwise, he might think of his lovely Tatsumi, whom he hears is back in Tokyo with a new partner. It takes every last bit of effort to will himself not to fly off to Tokyo and find Tatsumi.

Sato wonders if he's allowed to change his decision and come out of retirement. If he can, maybe he'll arrange an accident for this new partner. He'd like his Tatsumi back.

He pushes the thought from his mind as he moves along the rocks. It's a pretty idea, but he won't bother Tatsumi ever again.

Tatsumi deserves better, after all.

Sato stops, perched precariously on a large rock, and raises his hand.

Before his outstretched hand, the snowflakes pause and then coalesce, swirling into a miniature storm over his palm, each individual shadow completely under his control. It begins rotating faster and faster, making his dark hair whip around him. Finally, it reaches an almost dangerous climax - the snowflakes are moving so fast that they've become sharp enough to cut. Sato smiles and with a flick of his hand, lets go his hold on the shadows. The snowflakes fall gently to the ground, melting into the seawater.

It's such a beautiful day today. Sato smiles at the stormy sky as he continues his way along the path of stones.

Thank you very much for reading! Questions? Comments? Corrections? cori_ohki@hotmail.com
Extras may be found on http://eag.squidkitty.org/