blackwidow: (Default)
posted by [personal profile] blackwidow at 11:23pm on 14/06/2009 under , , , ,
Title: Zodiac
Rating: M
Pairings: KuramaxHiei, KarasuxKurama. Triangleish.
Summary: Rule Number One: do not fuck bandmates or members of other bands.
Notes: This chapter is nothing but a really big tease I guess. But, plotplotplot. And I am dreadfully aware of how Australian this chapter may appear when I start saying 'mobile' or 'phone' instead of 'cell'.
Previous Chapters: Prologue 1 2 3


--

ZODIAC


Chapter Four

The Ritz


--


Camille Monet sur son lit de mort’ was playing on the radio as Kurama travelled alone in the back seat of a car. The driver, being a personal assistant of Botan’s, said nothing when he asked for it to be turned up. Only obeyed.

Kurama was far from uncultured. Monet had been a painter during the 19th century impressionist movement, Camille Monet – the painter’s wife - died, and so he’d painted her. The song was about the beauty of death, Karasu seemed to praise Monet through his lyrics, for sustaining her beauty in death, and not life. However, he condemned him for not killing her himself and enjoying in the sorrow, the despair and utter closeness that came with it.

But, he said ‘sweet pleasure in living in pain, the slow death, better than any other, dragged out from under your feet’. A living sample of pain was a welcome supplement.

It was a controversial song, played on an alternative radio channel, of course. It was hard to ignore. It had a simple tune that was damnably catchy too.

Kurama watched the lights of Moscow flash by, looking past his own pallid reflection. Beside him, on the leather seat, his mobile beeped once. Picking it up and flicking it open, he read the message Hiei had sent. Simple, more than anything, but clearly a warning and a reminder of their relationship, which was murky at the best of times. Admittedly, he cared for Hiei. However Kurama was insatiable, always had been. Hiei knew this.

You belong to Spirit Virtuoso.

He sent back, I know.

He turned his face back to the window, his reflection lit by the blue light of the mobile’s screen, shinning on the material of his jacket and strands of his hair.

There was no reply, so with a heavy sigh he flipped his phone closed and dropped it into the seat beside him. Looking forward, he could see the hotel Karasu had mentioned he was staying at. It protruded like a great golden lit monstrosity from the street, the buildings about it meagre in comparison. Flashy, indeed, expensive to be certain. Karasu had been rich even before he’d become a musician, he probably would have been able to afford it even without his fame.

He sighed again, closing his eyes for a moment.

Then he reached over, opened his mobile and turned it off.
-

“Where’s Kurama again?” Yusuke murmured around a mouthful of meat. Lounging back in one of the plush couches of his hotel room, his feet on the glass coffee table littered with bottles of alcohol and paper windmills.

Beside him Kuwabara shrugged and said something, whatever it had been was lost in the bowl he was currently jamming down his throat in an attempt to get the last of the juices.

He had said he was going to be out tonight, and he’d apologised to Keiko, who’d said it was fine. She had locked herself in the bathroom for now, Yusuke could hear her throwing up from here. She never had been able to hold her alcohol well. If she knew where Kurama was, Yusuke wasn’t about to go knocking on the door and demanding to know the answer. Kurama was a big boy now.

They’d stayed in Yusuke’s hotel room for the night, rather than going out about the town. Room service and free shit won over going to clubs where they couldn’t understand the music and being ambushed by fans any day.

From one of the bedrooms nearby, Yusuke could see Hiei sitting on Yusuke’s bed, legs crossed underneath him, his hands resting on his knees, staring at his mobile as it sat in his lap. “Hey Hiei! Where’d Kurama go again? I was preoccupied with holding Keiko’s hair back.”

There was a thump from the bathroom; most likely a shoe had been thrown at the door. He snickered a little and then turned his eyes back to Hiei.

“Revisiting his days as Youko,” was the only reply he received.

Lips pulling down, Yusuke’s chocolate eyes dropped to his fork. That couldn’t be good, Kurama went to all sorts of lengths to avoid everything about his old band, his old self.

Maybe Russia was just getting to him.

Yusuke had faith in Kurama; he was his friend, his bandmate.
-

Karasu fixed whim with a delighted smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You found me, come in.”

Opening the door wider and standing to the side, the cellist gestured into his room with an upturned palm, black claw-like fingernails stark against the white of his skin. The hotel room itself was certainly very stylish, the carpet a rich looking red and the curtains golden and extravagant in themselves.

It looked more like a house than a hotel room. The Carlton suite, so it was called, took up half of one floor. The rest was taken up by the only other Carlton suit in the hotel.

He wandered in, removing his shoes at the door in the Japanese way, despite being in another country, and whispering “Pardon this intrusion,” beneath his breath.

Karasu wandered further in, swaying in a fluid manner. Kurama followed after him, pulling at his sleeves and biting his lower lip a little.

He took a seat when Karasu offered one with a wordless wave of his hand.

“I’m very curious about you Kurama, you have quite the reputation within the industry—would you like a drink?” Peering past strands of dark hair Karasu help up a bottle of vodka, his lean finger strangling the neck of the bottle. His smallest finger tapped the glass.

“Please,” Kurama replied, swallowing thickly. That single glance that Karasu had cast him was matched along with a slight smirk, something that made Kurama’s stomach twist and heart race. He wasn’t in the practice of dancing around things, like the reason why Karasu had invited him in the first place.

Karasu was playing with his food cruelly, like a cat would a mouse. Petting it to a slow death before tearing into it. The final revelation of skin and bones, the awaited moment of absolution.

Oh, Kurama understood perfectly well just what Karasu wanted.

He forced himself to relax a little, tilting his chin up and crossing his arms over his chest in a relaxed manner. He exhaled slowly.

Karasu was wearing a black ensemble, the ends of which trailed along the ground as he walked, swishing about his feet. It was a jacket in a manner. Silver buttons ran down the centre of his chest. He looked willowy even covered in the black flowing material.

He handed a long glass to Kurama and peered down at him with amused, oddly coloured eyes. Their fingers brushed for a moment, the rasp of skin on skin unexpected and hot compared to the ice-chilled glass. Kurama curled his fingers around the glass a little tighter than he needed to as he accepted it.

“Many people have the same opinion. I prefer to leave the past in the past.” He sipped at the dark liquid, letting it roll over his tongue and fill his stomach. Dreadful stuff, vodka. It was mostly tasteless when mixed with certain, if not all, drinks. Karasu had made it strong enough for Kurama to be able to feel the tang of it slipping down his throat.

Karasu seated himself beside Kurama, too close. It was not necessarily unwelcome however. He smelt of musk and an odd tinge of something heavier. He kept his eyes on the dark liquid in the glass.

Karasu nodded slowly, making a sound that might have hinted at an agreement. Laying a hand over the back of the couch and twisting a little, Karasu’s fingertips sleuthed through Kurama’s hair lightly. That mere indirect touch sent shivers down Kurama’s spine.

He took another sip of his drink, ignoring the way Karasu watched him with half-lidded eyes. “Your music speaks to me in interesting ways, Kurama. As do you yourself.”

Blinking slowly, Kurama raised his head to look at Karasu. The long, thin fingers in his hair flattened and coiled through the airy strands of his hair, cascading like liquid silver.

“Is that why you invited me here?” he asked, tilting his head a little.

“I suspect there is a common interest between us,” Karasu purred, his lips twisting into a sly smirk. “Now don’t be shy, drink up.”

His hand slipped from Kurama’s hair and instead lifted the bottom of Kurama’s chilled glass, lifting it to his lips. Kurama narrowed his eyes for a moment, but did as Karasu suggested in his almost smug tone of voice.

“I have a high tolerance for alcohol, if you’re trying to get me drunk. I came here of my own free will.” He murmured when Karasu allowed him to lower his glass. His throat burned.

The cellist chuckled, leaning back and downing most of his own glass. He set it on the short table before them, his pale visage disappearing behind dead-straight onyx hair. “Ah, you caught me. See, Kurama, I have the feeling that although you came here, you still don’t like me very much. Neither do your bandmates. I have declared war on them. I want your fans, I want your talent. But do you know what I want most of all, Kurama?”

He looked over his shoulder then, allowing one of his eyes to peak through the length of his hair, along with half of his face. He looked calm, almost bored.

Kurama nodded. He knew, oh he knew. It was that...pull that had attracted him. Of course, Hiei would always be important to him. But Karasu...

Karasu...

Kurama swallowed thickly and raised his chin. His silver necklaces glinted in the lighting of Karasu’s hotel room. “I do.”

Turning to face him once again, Karasu lifted Kurama’s nigh empty glass from his hands and placed it on the table beside his own. Then he returned and placed his hands either side of Kurama’s face as he tilted his head.

Their noses almost touching, and their foreheads too, Kurama could all but feel the heat radiating off Karasu. He could see the want, the lust, the so very unstable look of hunger in his eyes.

He whispered, “I want you.”

Three simple words that made Kurama’s cock ache like he hadn’t been fucked to within an inch of his life by Hiei that very morning. His heart raced. He yearned.

He yearned for the touch that he had abandoned along with his other bandmates. The harsh, brutal touch.

Kurama had thought he’d left that all behind when he dropped his old band and lifestyle. But the yearning had returned. It had taken him a moment, just a small moment, once he knew just what Karasu wanted of him, to figure out what exactly it was he desired.

Karasu could give it to him.

He closed his eyes and felt his breath leave him in an unbidden rush.

Karasu shifted closer, almost crawling into Kurama’s lap until he urged him back onto the couch. With one of his knees planted between Kurama’s legs for balance and a hand now on the cushions either side of Kurama’s head, he lowered himself until the whole length of his body could be felt against Kurama’s and his breath tickled his ear and sent shivers spiralling down his spine.

“I know about you, Kurama. I know about your sick little habits that you thought you could turn your back on with a snap of your fingers.”

Kurama shuddered.

“We are very alike, you and I. Very alike. I’m good at finding secrets.”

Fingers traced their way down his neck and picked at the zip of his leather vest, the only form of clothing under his thin jacket which had slipped down his shoulders long ago. The knee between his thighs shifted up a little.

Kurama tilted his head back and let his mouth fall open. His carmine hair slid against the golden pillows beneath him, framing his face in a long flowing pool.

“But I had heard that you were a fiery little hellion. Something changed, didn’t it?”

Kurama let out a loud broken moan, his back arching at Karasu’s touch. He clawed at the sides of the couch, biting his lip when Karasu chuckled.

Yes...

Karasu could give him what he wanted.

Or at least, he could give him something similar.

-

Next?
Mood:: 'awake' awake
Music:: Death's Door - Jesus Complex

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