Yami No Matsuei Fan Fiction ❯ Tobacco Flavored ❯ Intoxicated ( One-Shot )

Disclaimer :Yummy no Matsuei… duh! Yami, it's Yami *sigh* Yami no Matsuei belongs to me not. Bow down to Youko Matsushita!

Author's notes : Do you realize that Oriya's pipe is a very lethal thing? Oh well, I do, and so does Muraki in this fic ^_* Takes place at the beginning of the Kyoto Arc, when Muraki arrives at KoKaKurou. Enjoy!

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Tobacco Flavored

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Apparently this is not a very nice morning for you, if not at all. That tousled midnight locks, that way your obi is tied, and that amusing annoyed expression of yours… you didn't get some sleep last night. I guess at this very time, some important politic pigs are lying wasted on your main hall or on the hired embraces of those skillful women of your employ. Probably the fattest of the herd even asked for your direct service, but then I guess that you managed to knock him drunk first, for that whiff of old sake in your breath as you greet me with a frown. Like lifting your head just to gaze me take so much of efforts. Annoying isn't it? The vague state between drunk and conscious.

Taking a nice hot bath or some rest should do you better. But you don't do it; KoKaKurou has another guest for you to company. Yes, You still consider me as guest that ought to be accompanied, even though you don't realize it. See? That's why I like you; you are mannered.

"You could leave me here and take a nice bath if you want to." I say, taking a sip of the usual tepid green tea you always serve me.

A sake-scented snort from you, "And leaving you free to wander in this place? No way Muraki. My employees have been enough molested for the day."

Or so you say. Fine then. But even though I just drop by to leave a suitcase in one of your rooms, your tea is into my taste and I will take a time to finish it. My business can wait. Can your headache?

You don't speak and don't ask anything. Is it because you know me almost too well? Or just because you don't want to know? Or the hangover just pushes you to the limit?

A sake-scented groan, followed by a sound of a sliding door being opened.

Ah, your beautiful garden.

You let out a sigh and lean to the paper door. That sweet late autumn air must have contented you.

A scarlet shade from outside falls into the ocher tatami. The momiji tree has outgrown the roof; has it really been that long?

"It's been long…"

Yes indeed, as you say it.

"…Just don't be reckless Muraki. I can't cover you forever."

You do know more than I thought you know.

"I'll try." I say.

You shift your eyes at me. That famous golden gaze, I forget how I like it too. A pair of clear ambers beneath the heavy eyelashes; no matter how disheveled your appearance is, those gems never fails you.

I enjoy that gaze… and the incertainity and accusation within it. But you don't let me have it for long; you need something to distract you from the throb wreaking havoc in your head. You reach for your precious little carved box, where you keep your treasure. Your pipe.

That little wooden equipment is one of the rare things that can trick your nerves to bent a smile on your lips. What is seemed so exquisite that a simple length of wood can soften your stark gaze? And is its wooden stummel so fragile that you hold it with such a care?

Taking a time like a curator handling an antique, you fill its porcelain bowl with tobacco. Javanese tobacco, you said to me once, not just some ordinary dried tobacco leaves. I couldn't tell the difference between ordinary and extraordinary ones until I turned myself into a smoker. Now I can say that you do have a taste… no, you always have indeed.

Scented air. Sake and tobacco. Rich.

Then you move your slender fingers up to your obi, slipping them inside its hidden gap where you keep a small pouch made of embroidered black silk. You bring it out and undo its bond of red ribbon. Soft noises of the crushed silk amongst your finger, and then comes that scent. The last one of those many fragrances that immediately describes the picture of you inside my head whenever I smell it.

Datura pollen. Powder taken from a plant named Datura metel, commonly known as thorn apple, or devil's trumpet. Devil's… for the poison it conceals beneath the ambrosial scent that made you taste a sweetness in your mouth's ceiling just by a sheer inhalation of it. Tropane alkaloids, its toxic principle, should be causing delirium, hallucinations, pupil dilation… in other word, a very heavy headache that destroys most of your braincells… I think I have told you this before, have I not, Oriya? I won't bother to tell you again, the dosage you use not yet fatal anyway, and you always said it works for the headache. Interesting. Doctors sometimes use poison to neutralize other kind of poison. I don't know if a headache could neutralize another headache.

Oh probably you just find another excellent substitute material for opium.

Sake, tobacco, thorn apple. Toxic.

Hands in wide yukata sleeves work to fuse the ingredients, looking busy like a pair of black patterned butterfly wings. One pour, then two, then three… you have added a dose since the last time I counted the portion.

Smoking habit kills. Datura pollen can kill. But together they work the other way for you. You light a match that you keep on the box. Fire flickers, furious golden vermilion, like the spark of interest mirrored in your eyes.

There goes complete, your special mixture. You feed the fire those flavoring inside the bowl pipe, then witnessing it devours them into a delicious smoke.

A world of you and your pipe there, with a half-opened sliding door in your back, colored by scarlet shade of autumn momiji leaves, and me here, clad in boring white with a formerly tepid green tea, completely forgotten.

You part your lips to welcome your pipe almost too hasty to be graceful; not letting the air catches its first whiff. You take a long drag of it with your eyes closed and hold it inside. You stay very still for a moment, as if listening to some inaudible whisper… then your hand draws the wood, leaving a narrow path between your lips. You open your lids and gradually exhale the tendrils. Your eyes are shut again afterwards. You are relieved, somehow consoled, at least you have taken something to ease the headache.

I never forget this ritual of yours. The first sip is always like that. I envy you, I could never find such a joy in my tea, nor anything; not even blood or desperate plea from my victim could seem to please me that way.

You slip the wood inside your mouth again and let it stay there while you stare at the gray sky between the scarlet leaves. It means you are projecting something inside your head, pictures of memories, probably from the previous night.

The memory is not a very pleasant one I guess, judging the way your teeth click with the wood… You are annoyed, and you let the wood take the blame, puncturing it with your teeth in small nips. Such an amusing sound.

You let out the smoke and reward me another suspicious glare. I guess my smile wasn't let go unseen.

"What?" you say , your tone bordered with accusation, as if I just had a dirty thought of you inside my mind.

"Nothing…" so I say.

You are seemed to say something else but hold it back, deciding that your pipe is more interesting.

The clicking rhythm again, faster than before. Having such a bad day are you? I wonder why… Is that because that bruise on your ivory neck? My, you must have let your guard down for too long to let a hog marked you that way…

"Don't ask Muraki…" you puff the smoke.

Sometimes I wonder if you are an empath. You have never really said that you aren't.

"My skin is sensitive. That's all." You say, clarifying something that has never actually been asked, placing the raven mane of yours to conceal the hideous mark.

Sensitive? Against touch, or against my gaze?

"Do you want me to send an avenger or two?" I offer.

You snort a laugh, "He's the fattest Muraki. The fatter the better to be sucked dry." You turned to sip your neglected pipe, "Thank you but that I can handle." You thank me with a cloud of smoke.

For how long? Oh I just can't wait to see.

Silence. Back on you and your pipe's world again, and me with my now empty cup as spectators.

No more clicking sound. Instead you form little gray circles from your smoke, watching them dissolve in the air with a childlike fascination. Your mood seems to improve a bit… Has my offer consoled you? Or is it the intoxicating powder taking a false ease at you? Is it me or your pipe again?

No verbal answer from you, either you're not an empath or you just don't want to answer. But your gesture answers it all.

You put the tip of the hollow stem on your lips but not pushing it inside the mouth. You just put it there, resting on the cleft on the lower lip, watching the smoke performs its brief dance, oddly bringing the image of an author having a writers block, waiting for inspiration to come… graceful.

Sake, tobacco, thorn apple, and fire. Intoxicating.

You moisten your lips. Then that stem doesn't stay still in the cleft anymore; as your lips are slippery, fun to explore. You move the wood down, trailing the lower outline…. A smooth line, the cleft, another smooth line… then up, forming a curve, down, a valley, up to another curve…

What is it like to be your pipe I wonder?

What is it like to wander on the curvaceous edge, to feel the yielding flesh, and slip inside the warm crevice…?

Oriya, Oriya, do you realize how suggestive the gesture you just made is? You teach and are taught to act that way in your lampion-lit world, should you act the same in front of an old friend? Has the lesson become a part of you?

Or are you doing this on purpose?

You don't flinch as you find my face in front of your eyes. Of course, you don't mind if I want to have a better sight of you, do you? Let's see… Not much change from the last year's picture of you I store inside my head. But I have only an eye normal anyway, maybe if I take off my glasses…

You don't flinch at the sight of my other eye. I don't see fear in your amber ones. If I move closer, will you back away?

You don't.

Your pipe separates us. The smoke blurs my vision like a dull old veil. Disturbing.

Your slender brows arch in protest as I put that wooden thing away from your lips. I smile. Oh don't be mad; now I can see you clearly. You, your defiant eyes, your proud cheekbones, your aristocratic nose, your tempting lips… You leave them gaped, can I consider that an invitation?

If I kiss you, will you refuse?

I close our remaining distance. I touch your lips with mine, trailing their outline with my tongue.

You don't refuse.

If I mark you, will you spurn?

"Muraki…" you hiss my name as I get into the place where that bastard stained you. Are you telling me to stop? Or calling for more? I feel your hand grasping my arm, but that's all. Better me than anyone else, isn't it?

That's one of the virtues of the mortals; if they're marked, the mark will stay there for a quite while.

You smell good, you taste good.

Will you mind if I taste more of you?

I kiss you again. You still don't refuse, but your eyes do. They stare at mine, those amber pools... So, they want to play staring game? Oh well, I'll play. But my tongue also wants to play with yours, then yours will have to play too, won't it? Let all be fair and square. Let me show you that your pipe is no better than me.

You lose the staring game as your lids flutter to shut. Chalk one for me.

Our other game is still running… but if you stay restrain like that I will likely to win again. I have no restraints; you're so sweet you've intoxicated me. Sweet sweet toxic thorn apple flavor.

But I forget something. Thorn apple for deceitful charm, so says the language of flowers... It's too early for me to feel superior, way too early.

I have underestimated you. You do bite back. I never thought it would be literally.

Sake, tobacco, thorn apple, ... blood...

Oh, I guess I was a little too excited, wasn't I? That you to have to stop me by bitting me.

"You are rude." You say flatly after breaking our liplock.

A pipe can't be rude; a piece of emotionless wood can't be carried away by lust. I can. Rude. My mistake.

But woods don't bleed if get bitten. I do.

My crimson blood suits your lips perfectly. Chalk one for you; you win. This time you win; you and your pipe.

"You've finished your tea."

Like I say, you are mannered. There's even manner to throw someone out, even if this certain someone is rude.

"Yes I have." I confirm, "Then I guess it's time for my business." To set a bait for my naïve violet.

"Yes it is." You confirm back.

"Ja," I stand up, "I'd like unagi for dinner."

"Will be served." You answer, your gaze elsewhere to find your pipe.

"Take some rest. I'm saying this as a doctor."

"Will do." You reply hastily, sighting the wooden equipment.

I can't help but smile. I'm sorry for interrupting your fondness. It was just a brief moment of jealousy, and perhaps I haven't used inhaling too much of that special intoxicating ingredient. But still my fault, I deserve this; I am rude today, so I will be rude outside your KoKaKurou, outside the world of you and your precious pipe.

I turn away and head to the exit.

"Don't be reckless Muraki."

Never bored to remind me are you?

"I'll try." I can never promise.

There's still your scent in my skin. I lick my bitten lips; there is a taste of you in my blood. And I'm sure there will be my flavor, my blood, on your tongue. Can that famous spiced smoke of your pipe erase that?

I doubt so.

Chalk one more for me.

***To Be Commented***

This fic is born from fondness of Oriya's pipe and a silly experience of getting a bad headache from smelling a thorn apple flower. Completely pointless ^.^*

IC? OOC? Hate it? Love it? Just tell me, push that button on bottom left.

This is trial on using a rather unusual POV, so any kind of feedback and criticism will be greatly appreciated. Watch for another Oriya/Muraki story from me sometimes this month. This one is my favorite pairing.

Tja, C'ya on other fics!! ^-^

Quincey