Three Days of Blood
TITLE: Three Days of Blood
CHAPTER: 2/4
AUTHOR: Ankh Ascendant ( setosgirl0 / neferseti0 )
DATE: 10-10-09
FANDOM: Rurouni Kenshin
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own Rurouni Kenshin, or make any money from it.
PAIRINGS: Saitou/Aoshi
TYPE: Action
RATING: hard R
WARNINGS: gore and sadism and torture
OCs: none
BETA: none
WORDS: 4376
SUMMARY: Saitou goes after Aoshi a second time to answer the challenge he left him
NOTES: Okay, so I know Rurouni Kenshin fanfiction is about as relevant as Kato Kaelin, but I like it anyway, and I shall write what I like, whether I am shooting my review count in the head or not. This was written (kinda) for the prompt ( http://yaoigirl.com/?p=373 ) “justice”.
* * *
Three Days of Blood
The Second Day – Soku
Darkness sat still as death over Kyoto, so deep it seemed it might never be lifted, and the Wolf of Mibu hunted.
Sheep on the streets and in their homes, reeking of sin, crying out to be slain, put out of their misery… He passed them all, because it was not sheep’s blood he wanted tonight. There was another predator in Kyoto, and hunters always made the best prey – blood that had fed on the blood of others was always sweetest, and a killer was always the most satisfying kill.
Shinomori had judged him evil, but had refused to pass sentence… in doing so, he had issued a challenge that could not be denied. He would not give him the chance to back away from it now. The blood of the hunter called to him, and the challenge issued, and this matter would be settled. Tonight.
Tonight he would feast on violence and killer’s flesh.
His tongue flicked out and slid over the cool metal of his blade, tasting the faint tang of the blood of its previous victims that had soaked indelibly into the metal, letting the echo of battles past linger in his mind. A vicious smile curved his mouth; it lacked only the fangs to show the soul behind it. His body wore the clothes of a policeman, but tonight the clothes were disguise and no more made the man than draping wool on a wolf made it a sheep.
The disguise let him drift among the sheep, unmolested and unremarkable, unquestioned and unstoppable. Perhaps the grin that knew it would taste blood soon gave something away, or the way he held his sword so openly and in the heights of anticipation would allow himself to taste it, or perhaps his ally the darkness spared him from the sight of anyone who did not need to see him. He did not know, and not knowing did not bother him. It only mattered that he was not interrupted.
In the shadows he approached the lair of his prey, anticipation growing, sword twitching eagerly in his hand. And yet, for all of his anticipation, he might have bypassed his prey entirely if the shinobi had not raised his head as he approached and looked directly at him. The flickering light of the streetlamp he stood under was absorbed into the black garb he wore and reflected only from the unsheathed sword in his hand and the sling that held one arm against his chest. Until he moved, he could have been part of the scenery.
When his prey saw him, he grinned to himself and drifted closer, sword held lazily in the air at his side. “Are you looking for someone, Aoshi? Hunting?”
“Waiting.” He pushed himself off the lamp post and faced him. “I thought you would come this way.”
“And you came to face me.” His eyes traveled slowly over his body, lingering on the wounded arm. “What do you plan to do with that?” he wondered. “Don’t you think I know you? You’re a two-handed fighter, Shinomori, even your single kodachi style uses kempo with your other hand. You barely bested me last night… Even with your sword, you’re half the threat now.” His sword drifted to his shoulder, blade edge up, eying the shinobi’s muscled body. Where to stab first…
“Half the threat or not, you won’t come any closer to the Aoiya than this.” The kodachi flipped into a backhand grip.
“Thank you for reminding me what I said yesterday. Same stakes… Beat me or your precious Oniwaban will suffer.”
It was a beautiful thing, how that threat could pierce Aoshi’s cool like a well-aimed Gatotsu and let the violence bleed from within. If he had not had so much experience against the Battousai, the speed of Aoshi’s sudden attack might have overwhelmed him.
The backhanded grip had prepared him for the kaiten kenbu, but he realized that had been misdirection when the attack came from above. Very good then, Aoshi had rightly recognized the blade-up second stance as a downward thrust, but did he really think he was so locked in his ways he couldn’t compensate? He saw the foot coming for his face and stretched, bringing the sword down sharply.
The blade impaled Aoshi’s leg below the knee, and pushed his kick away from his face at the same time; he felt it skip off the bone on the way in. The smell of blood was suddenly very sharp…
Then Aoshi’s other foot caught him in the cheek and flung him away; he ripped the sword from his leg and almost didn’t manage to keep his feet. He saw, for a moment, Aoshi land in a crouch with his injured leg on the ground, then he was attacking again, kodachi whirling in a true kaiten kenbu this time. He deflected all three slashes, and retaliated with a zero stance, but hit only air. Aoshi’s blade slid over his arm, and back, drawing blood, but he barely even felt the pain as he slid out of reach.
He found he could not stop grinning, even as another slash caught him shallowly across the chest. This was a great fight, nothing at all like doing battle with yet another swordsman. Aoshi was a martial artist who happened to use a sword, and the difference was enormous. Swordsmen wanted distance, for charges, thrusts, battoujutsu – they liked it quick, clean, a hit and then a retreat and then another attack. Aoshi liked his fights up close and personal, inside his opponent’s comfort zone, absolutely relentless, and when it came down to it he could drop the swords and just beat you to death.
Maybe it should have put him at a disadvantage – his sword was long and his technique loved distance.
He thought it was fucking wonderful.
He chuckled as the blade slid shallowly across his other arm and was deflected. Aoshi’s injured leg was slowing him down, enough that he couldn’t get any serious blows past his defenses… but not enough to make this fight easy. Just how he liked it.
The kodachi flipped backhand again and he brought his sword up to block the blows as Aoshi spun again. The first one glanced off his blade. On the second one, his blade hit not metal but the muscles of Aoshi’s arm, and his eyes widened in surprise as he felt the pain in his throat. He pushed himself back, hitting the ground inelegantly, but the fall kept his head attached to his body. The wound bled freely, but, he knew, not lethally, so long as he did not get hit again.
A sword flashed in the darkness and he rolled out of the way as the kodachi kicked up dirt where his chest had been. This was getting exciting. He brought his sword up off the ground in a fierce swing toward the shinobi’s chest; it was deflected, but it separated them again, and gave them both that moment to recover and reset that swordsmen so loved.
And then of course Aoshi attacked him again, his sword swinging down in silence, angled to try to take off his head again.
He parried the blow and pushed the blade arm up, using his greater reach and the other’s shorter sword to his advantage to grab his wrist. In one quick movement he slammed his shin into the back of Aoshi’s injured leg, sending him to his knees, and stepped on his other leg to stop his attempt to sweep him to the ground in turn. With one arm in a sling and the other stretched out above his head at an awkward angle, he was trapped on his knees with his back to him.
“Take away one of your arms and you’re not even half the threat,” he noted with a small smile, and placed his foot between Aoshi’s shoulders. “And no threat at all with none.” He kicked him forward viciously and yanked his arm back. There was a small ‘pop’ muffled by the flesh, but it was more a feeling of instant looseness as the joint was suddenly and completely dislocated.
Aoshi gave a small hiss of pain and bowed his head as the sword fell from nerveless fingers, narrowly missing Saitou’s foot. With a smirk he let go of the useless arm and dropped himself to his knees between Aoshi’s legs, laying his sword across his throat as the wounded arm moved toward the dislocated one.
“Put it back and I’ll slit your throat,” he promised. Aoshi paused, but he could feel his mind still working, deciding. He knew it was because he knew his own would be. “Don’t,” he advised. “Don’t be an idiot. You know you’ll be dead.”
Aftrer a moment, his arm relaxed in its sling again.
He’d given in. With a private smirk, Saitou raised the sword to force Aoshi’s head up, then pulled it away and licked the blood from it as he enjoyed the heady scent of it around them. He pressed himself against Aoshi’s back, throbbing and pleasantly aroused, considering where to go from here. His body had some vague ideas. He had never actually mixed sex and killing before… no one before Aoshi had lived long enough.
To be inside him when he killed him… that would be a new high altogether.
His fingers found his hair and pulled his head aside. He could feel him wanting to resist, but forcing himself to submit because he knew his other choice was death. It would be pleasant if he did still try to fight him… But really, what sort of fight could he put up with only one leg to use? It might be better this way.
As he slowly licked blood from Aoshi’s neck, his eyes wandered down and admired a scar that straggled from his tattered shirt, over his shoulder. The sight of it gave him pause. How many could he have…?
Suddenly, instead of pushing him forward as he had intended to do, he threw him back onto the ground and in a motion was straddling him. The shinobi’s one good leg came up to kick him away, but he had no patience for this, and he scooped up the kodachi from the ground, ramming it through his thigh. There was a gout of blood; Aoshi made a noise of pain and stopped fighting again.
He ignored that and sat across his lap, feeling the sword behind him sticking out of his leg, and deftly sliced through his clothes to expose his skin from throat to waist. The sight that met him was beautiful.
“You’ve been cut before,” he murmured, eyes hungrily following the maze of scars that crossed Aoshi’s torso. Twenty-five years of fighting were spelled out in those scars… twenty-five years of spilled blood and pain and violence. Two fingers caressed a sprawling cross from a pair of gashes that must nearly have killed him. “Tell me about this one.”
Silence answered him. After a second he looked back up to Aoshi’s face, finding only a cold stare that bored into his eyes. He was defying him yet? The man was helpless, every one of his limbs pierced or dislocated… yet he was defying him. That showed spirit, and a touch of stupidity he hadn’t thought was in Aoshi.
With a narrowing of his eyes, he laid his sword across Aoshi’s chest. The shinobi didn’t react. “Tell me about them, or they’ll become my scars…”
Aoshi’s eyes were cold as he watched him, helpless but not submissive. That glare made his whole body throb. He wanted to break him so much…
“Fine then.” He pressed the sword viciously down, driving the edge of the blade into the scar tissue with no more resistance than wet tofu and reopening the old wound. Perhaps it was not so deep as the original, but that was only because he wanted Aoshi to live a little while yet. Blood, deep and dark in the night, welled from the cut and pooled on his skin, sliding down the side of his stomach like a single crimson tear.
He wasn’t surprised that Aoshi didn’t make a sound of pain, but he wished he would. There would be time yet for that, though… Would he get a scream? He thought maybe he would, before this was all over.
His tongue cleaned blood from the edge of his blade, rich and salty and familiar, and then he lovingly replaced it on his stomach and reopened the second gash of the scar. More blood flowed out, running down his side while the immobilized shinobi continued to glare at him. It didn’t faze him in the slightest.
“When the lord of Hell asks about your scars…” he murmured, drawing the blade slowly over the trinity of marks above Aoshi’s heart, “you can tell him you were attacked by a wolf…” The sight of the blood flowing so freely moved him, stirred him… He could cut just a little deeper and watch the light go out of Aoshi’s eyes forever…
His sword slowly traveled over his victim’s chest, leaving a thin red line in its wake before it slid into another scar. So lovely… He bled so nicely… The smell and sight of all that blood was better than any aphrodisiac he had ever heard of. Licking his lips, he let the tip of his sword slide down, over Aoshi’s stomach and between his legs, enjoying the way his stomach muscles grew tense, almost flinching because he knew he could pierce his most vulnerable areas any time he chose, and he was helpless to stop him… Saitou smiled as he watched, but he didn’t cut the clothing or anything else… yet.
He was pressing hard against Aoshi’s hip, already anticipating the next few minutes… the fucking, the blood, the killing… He only wished he could make this last longer. The sword twitched up a touch, eager, like it had a mind of its own.
He leaned over and licked blood from Aoshi’s chest, then slid over him to whisper in his opposite ear.
“I don’t know which one of these I want to put in you more,” he murmured, his lips brushing Aoshi’s clenched jaw as he spoke. “So it’s going to be both… until you die…”
There was no response for him. He took a deep breath of Aoshi’s scent and slowly toppled over.
_ – =*= – _
The world slowly came back into focus, no longer the dark blood-drenched night, but warm diffuse light that showed the wooden beams of a ceiling, almost too bright for his eyes. Through his hangover he could see that he had no idea where he was.
He immediately sat up, hand stretching out blindly, only relaxing a little when he found his sword beside him. His eyes swept the room – small, but empty, obviously some sort of spare room. His uniform was folded beside the door, the greater part of the blood cleaned out of it from what he could see.
That made him look at himself, startled. The cuts on his chest and arms, and from he could feel his throat, had been bandaged, and he was wearing someone’s spare yukata, which was amazingly enough not too small. The wounds throbbed today the way they hadn’t last night through the haze of alcohol, and he grimaced in pain as he slid off the mattress. Aoshi’s cuts he gone deeper than he thought… he had been closer to dying than he realized.
That gave him pause, as he changed back into his uniform. Aoshi had paid too dearly for these cuts… He wasn’t proud of his actions under sake’s influence. Aoshi had of course not lived long after he passed out, but he had not deserved to die, he knew that – he might have been something like a vigilante, and that was against the law, but he had been an asset to the police and forces of ‘order’, for lack of a better term.
Damn the man for playing into his impulses, anyway. Why couldn’t he have just refused to fight?
His head throbbed accusingly, and he irritably reaffixed his sword to his belt. Yes, he had been drinking, but he wouldn’t entirely blame himself… It had been Aoshi’s choice to fight him, while he was injured, and he knew it was to the death. If he valued his life he should have finished it the first time.
But still, that was another life he would have to answer for eventually.
“I thought I heard you moving around.”
He faced the door with his hand on his sword. When he saw that it was the Oniwaban girl, his blood ran cold, and his headache faded into the back of his mind, letting him focus. He was in the Aoiya. Damn it, he didn’t want to have to fight his way out. They weren’t his enemies.
If they knew that he had killed Aoshi, however, he was theirs, and that was a very dangerous position to be in. They might be innkeepers now, but they had been the Shogun’s spies, and that meant they were well versed in torture and creative ways to cause pain… and could probably keep him alive for days as they did it.
Damn his own idiocy for getting him into this. After he got out of here he was not touching the drink again.
“Are you sure you’re up to walking around already?” she asked, and she looked… faintly concerned.
Could they not realize that he was their Okashira’s killer? He wasn’t sure how that was possible, they would have been together when they found them. Unless they assumed that they had been attacked together, and he was the one who had survived?
Or they had hidden Aoshi’s death from this girl…
Either way, it was to his advantage. “Yes, I need to be going back to work,” he said calmly, and started to move past her.
She put her hands on either side of the doorway and shook her head, her braid flying. “Nope.”
“No?” Not so oblivious after all… His hand went back to his sword.
She seemed not to notice. “No, when Aoshi-sama brought you back here he was pretty clear that he didn’t want you to leave until he said so.”
He stopped at once. “He lived?” His eyebrows rose a touch. He should have bled out almost immediately. If he hadn’t hit the artery in his leg when he stabbed it, it was a miracle…
“Of course!” she said brightly. “Even Kenshin couldn’t kill Aoshi-sama!”
“Right,” he agreed neutrally. He decided not to point out that if Himura had still been a killer, Aoshi would be dead several times over. Or maybe not – the man must have miracles in his pockets to have not only survived last night but dragged him back here with a sword through his leg and a dislocated shoulder… that after yesterday taking the same Gatotsu that had ripped Usui in half. Maybe even the Battousai wouldn’t have been able to do him in. “Where is he?”
“He’s resting. The doctor just left.”
“Then I suppose I should talk to him, if I want to get out of here.”
The girl – weasel girl, what was her name? Misao? – eyed him speculatively, then nodded. “Come on,” she said, grabbing the yukata and then running off down the hall. He followed her silently, finding his cigarettes in his pocket.
“Aoshi-sama!” She burst into a room cheerfully. “Saitou woke up and wants to talk to you.”
“Aa.”
He followed her into the room and glanced around. Misao was on the floor, quickly folding up the yukata, and she put it away as he watched. Another of the shinobi girls was there, pouring tea for Aoshi, who was very much alive and even conscious. He was sitting up in bed, one arm still in a sling, the other shoulder put back in its socket. His entire torso was wrapped in bandages that he could see under his yukata. His legs were under a blanket, but he could only assume they had had stitches.
“Go,” Aoshi said, not unkindly. “I need to speak with Saitou.”
“Hai, Okashira.” The woman stood up with her tea. “Get some rest, and please, don’t forget to call us if you need anything.”
“Aa,” he agreed mildly, gingerly picking up the cup, trying not to move his shoulders too much.
“Come on Okan.” Misao left with her, but stopped and glared up at Saitou. “And you, don’t keep him up too long, Aoshi-sama needs to sleep.”
“Sure,” he said in disinterest, and closed the door between them. He looked back at Aoshi again. “That’s cute, they like to mother you.”
“They don’t get to take care of me very often.” Aoshi didn’t bother looking at him. “Sit,” he invited in that same not-unkind but overly blunt manner he used with his Oniwabanshu.
He did, regarding the apparently unkillable shinobi. “Why are you alive?”
Aoshi glanced at him, and took a drink of his tea before he answered. “Willpower,” was what he said. “It’s as Himura said, nothing is stronger than the will to live.”
“Himura’s a fool,” he pointed out, fingers toying with a cigarette. “If you really do have a will to live, do yourself a favor and don’t fight me again.” He pulled out his matches and considered them. “I don’t really want to kill you,” he admitted. “You’re too useful.”
“As you say,” he agreed. He didn’t have to say any more… They both knew Aoshi wouldn’t be fighting anyone for a while. “How are your injuries?”
“Fine.” He waved away the question. “Why are you showing so much hospitality to your rapist and killer?”
Aoshi sipped his tea awkwardly. “I have been neither raped nor killed by you,” he said evenly.
“It was a matter of seconds on both counts,” he pointed out without conceit. “If I had passed out one minute later, you would be dead.” And rape was a matter of perspective in this case. Maybe Aoshi didn’t consider the cutting and torture to be sexual, but he did… and it had definitely not been consensual.
He probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it if it were.
He found Aoshi looking at him with a blank, unreadable expression as he set the tea aside. The hard edge in his eyes was dulled – not gone, but covered for the time being, leaving him calm and cool again. “What are you doing here?”
“According to the weasel girl, you’re the one who brought me here. You don’t remember?”
“Yes,” he said. “I brought you because I wanted an answer.”
“Then you’re going to have to explain the question a little better.” He sat back, watching Aoshi more curiously than anything.
“You have a home,” he pointed out. “You have a wife… a son, and another on the way.” Something must have showed on his face, because Aoshi paused his explanation to say “My intelligence network is not as amateur as you might believe.”
“Granted that’s all true,” he admitted readily enough, ignoring how much it bothered him to know he could be researched so easily. “What’s your point?”
“You have a home,” Aoshi repeated. “And you have abstained from drink for eleven years. Why are you suddenly spending your nights getting drunk and looking for victims?”
“Hn.” He occupied himself lighting a cigarette finally, considering avoiding the question. If he got up and walked out, it wasn’t exactly as though Aoshi would be getting up and following him; he probably wouldn’t be getting up at all for some time.
He wondered if Aoshi were going to fully recover at all… If even one of his limbs were permanently damaged, he would go from prodigal swordsman and brooding vigilante to prodigal tea-maker and brooding innkeep instantly. For a brief moment, he almost felt guilty, but it disappeared as soon as he acknowledged it. It had been Aoshi’s choice to fight him, and he was lucky to have escaped alive.
“The first time was for fun,” he finally said, exhaling smoke. “The second for revenge.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He scowled and flicked the burnt out match away. “It’s a reason.”
“A reason for fighting me, that’s all.”
“One would think that would be the important part.”
Obviously it wasn’t. Aoshi simply watched him, and he met his eyes evenly. The silence forced him to be thoughtful. He had no love for this question, and Aoshi, although deeply affected by it, had no right to ask it. He had obviously done enough spying on him, surely he could find out whatever answers he wanted on his own…
“Fujita Goro has a wife,” he said. “Fujita Goro is a humble man who actually loves his wife and enjoys his work.”
“And Saitou Hajime…”
His eyes flicked over Aoshi’s face. Perceptive. “Saitou Hajime is a wolf who can’t stand the reek of sheep’s clothing and enjoys the taste of the blood of evildoers.”
“Ah.” That was all Aoshi said as he awkwardly picked up his tea again, favoring both shoulders carefully. Saitou wondered if he had ever been informed how frustrating that particular form of converse was. Nothing to reply to. No indication of his thoughts. Just a damn noise.
And of course he had no problem with stretching out the silence when he didn’t answer. It spun out heavy and thick between them, Aoshi drinking, Saitou smoking, until finally he crushed out his third cigarette and stood up.
“Thanks for your hospitality, but I have things to be doing… Conversations to have that might actually be reciprocated…”
“Aa,” Aoshi agreed mildly. “Forgive me for not seeing you out.”
That was one underhandedly rude son of a bitch, he decided. “Don’t worry about it.” He turned to go, hand on the door. His wife hadn’t seen him in a couple days now, he might surprise her and go home…
“Saitou.”
He paused and looked over his shoulder. Aoshi’s eyes met his seriously.
“Decide who you are before you destroy yourself.”
Wordlessly, he met Aoshi’s eyes a moment longer, then simply walked out.
~TBC~