Yami No Matsuei Fan Fiction ❯ Pianissimo ❯ One-Shot

Title: Pianissimo

Author: Sarrasi

Disclaimer: I do not own Yami no Matsuei, it belongs to the infinitely talented Matsushita-sensei, Hakusensha, and Viz. However, the original portions of this fiction are the sole property and copyrighted to the author.

Challenge/Theme: 029: Thing left behind, 078: Mercy,088: Clock

Fandom: Yami no Matsuei (Manga/Anime)

Pairing(s): Kazutaka/Saki

Rating: PG-13, Metaphors, Incest

Notes: Part of “Sins of the Father.”

Summary: It began with a simple step, like a raindrop on the threshold of a ruined city, pounding out rhythms of soothing isolation; not a moment suspended, but a moment in which time held no meaning.

 

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It began with a simple step, like a raindrop on the threshold of a ruined city, pounding out rhythms of soothing isolation; not a moment suspended, but a moment in which time held no meaning. Another soon followed, and another, the sound of them ricocheting off the walls, and melting into peaceful infinity. And, in the faint afternoon light, cast violet through stained glass, the dust motes danced and tripped and played and told stories of things that once were, and people that once believed; of Greek myth and endless rain.

 

The faint scream of a violin wove through the building's hollow bones, a tune to match a tempo but enthralling yet the same; practiced, perfect timing that spoke of years of solitude. And, caught in that same, maddening tempo, shapes began to drift into being where violet flirted with dusky black. Tall, slender, and headless of their apparition, the shapes moved together in their elegant endless waltz, movements slightly jerky but fluid yet the same, like a puppet master's favorite dolls made alive but incomplete.

 

The dust formed creases in translucent clothing, the lines of a suit, perhaps even the body that moved beneath it. It lined his narrow eyes and longish strands of hair, once luminescent silver but now ashen and unkept with age. His partner was smaller, dwarfed almost; short auburn hair and eyes like hardened steal, unmarked by time or emotion, skin so white one might wonder if in life he had ever seen the sun.

 

Often, they spoke of things like the pleasure in war or the taste of old blood, of spirits that could never rest, and a battle that began underneath a red glass moon. But, sometimes, Muraki talked about the scent of tobacco; worldly things, salvation. Sometimes, Saki would rest his head on his brother's chest. Sometimes, they would say nothing at all.

 

“I hate you…So much…” Kazutaka spoke, a soft drawn whisper - a ghost whisper, but so very, very human. Saki smiled, wishing he could feel Kazutaka's fingers digging into his side. He wanted that pain… Only Kazutaka knew how much. That was why he taunted him, instinctually, always testing his bonds; they were two panthers in a cage of their own creation, fangs bared in a smile for this hellish sort of irony.

 

“You're bitter, little brother,” Saki kissed him. Muraki bit his half-brother's lip, and Saki's hand tightened at the back of his neck, forcing him to rest his head on the offered shoulder. “And disgustingly weak.”

 

Saki could almost taste the delicious tension in the beneath his fingers and, when he spoke, he let the words drip from his lips like honeyed poison. “So weak you couldn't even kill the man that murdered everyone you loved... So weak that you would blame me for your sins...”

 

“So weak that I could break you, because we are the same.” Kazutaka finished, his eyes bright and hard, like a fox that had just scented a trespasser in it's midst.

 

Saki rose to the bait. “We are not the same.”

 

“Said Satin to the Angel.” Kazutaka took a step forward.

 

“I am still pure.” Saki retreated, automatically following his lead.

 

“We are all pure...” Kazutaka mocked. “No matter how many sins we commit, if we purify ourselves, it is alright!” Another step forward and another step back.

 

“Isn't that what you told me, Shindou Saki?!?” Kazutaka's hand slammed through his brother's chest, where his heart would have been. And, as if on cue, the violin whined its last note.

 

“Are we still favored by God because we are his children?” The fury in Muraki's one good eye could have brought hell down upon them; the sentiment could have frozen it.

 

“You were never his child.” A drop of water trailed down Saki's cheek, not quite moving through it for a fraction of a second. When it did, soundlessly, it left an empty shadow in its place. Another fell onto his brother's arm; it felt cold. Muraki laughed.

 

They had long ago stopped dancing.

 

“I lead.” Saki said, wrapping an arm around his brother's waist, and the music began again, this time to the rhythm of the rain leaking through the rafters.

 

Spring was upon them, and when the rain started in earnest, the old building would finally fall. Some believed it was haunted, but in truth, broken angels found refuge in its wings.

 

~END~

 

A/N

 

-- You'll notice I switch between calling the good doctor Muraki and calling him Kazutaka. This is done on purpose.

 

-- “Said Satin to the Angel.” If I'm not mistaken, according to the bible, Lucifer/Satin/The Devil was an Angel that had fallen from the heavens because he loved God so much that he wouldn't bow to humans because it would mean putting them before God.

 

-- Please tell me if this is tedious, honest (and/or brutal) critique is very welcome.

 

-- I'm going to cheat and say that this counts as more than one theme because I worked my ass off. So there.

 

-- At this point, I'm very annoyed with this story so I'm not going to touch it again for a while. I will, however, take any suggestions into consideration and come back to edit later. *Passes out on the floor*