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posted by [personal profile] blackwidow at 01:46pm on 24/04/2009 under , , , , ,
Title: Zodiac
Rating: PG13 this chapter.
Warnings: None really.
Pairings: KuramaxHiei, Karasu xKurama. Triangleish.
Summary: Rule Number One: do not fuck bandmates or members of other bands.
Notes: The fated meeting. I think I’m bouncing a little between purple prose and artistic license. Thoughts?
Previous Chapters: Prologue 1 2


Chapter Three
The Invitation


He heard him. Watched him.

Oh, did he hear him.

This new album of Karasu’s was something darker than the others. It held a much more liquid and sharp quality, to the point where it slithered up his spine and settled in his chest. The lyrics made sense as much as the notes did. Infused with classical elements and as much modern day savagery that could be found in Kurama’s own work.

He’d taken a moment, one he sometimes spent with Hiei off in some quiet place, to stand backstage and listen to the hysteria of the crowd and Karasu’s deep calm voice as it sliced through the air.

Oddly the first thing Karasu had done was walk on stage stand beside his cello then listen and stare at the crowd for a full minute. Drinking in their chanting. His name alternating with A-C. Then he’d stepped up to the microphone, parted his lips and hushed them like children. When they didn’t hasten to do so, he barked at them, his hands grabbing the microphone stand and wringing it like a wet cloth.


The crowed obeyed, except for the usual few wails of glee. Still it was the quietest Kurama had ever heard a crowd of this size in an enclosed area. His sense of command on stage was amazing, his presence electrifying. He’d barely even spoken.

He looked down to his back boots, and ground his heel into the stage, his sable hair hiding his face from view. On the screens to the left and right of the stage, however; the thin column of his face that was not hidden behind the curtain of his dead straight hair was visible, the curve of his lips as he smirked, the blackness cast on the hollow of his eyes.

“Tonight I open for Spirit Virtuoso,” he eventually murmured, speaking at the perfect volume, letting the microphone carry his voice. There were some cheers from the crowd, some disappointed and furious baying. He’d spoken in perfect Russian.

He sighed, walked away from the microphone and its stand. Kurama couldn’t help but notice he moved with the grace of a panther, or at least one trained well enough to walk correctly. Kurama crossed his arms over his chest, and looked to his left at Yusuke when he heard his familiar tread coming up the ramp to the side stage platform. They greeted each other with a nod and Yusuke stood beside him, lightening a cigarette, the warm glow of the stuck match casting Yusuke’s face into light.

He came back to the microphone stand with his cello and bow in hand, then held his arms out wide, one in each hand. The dark wood of the cello pressed against the leopard skin print of his trousers. He raised his chin and swept his eyes over the crowd, grinning as he did so.

“But I know you’re here for me.”

They roared into life. Stomping their feet and screaming at him, in joy, in anticipation. The faceless mass made up out of their adoring, worshiping, fans.

Plucking the cigarette from his lips, Yusuke scowled and turned on his heel to head back down the ramp. “He’s stealing our crowd.”

Kurama only stared forward. His eyes fixed on Karasu’s fingers as he placed the cello before him and wrapped his arms around it like a lover, placed the bow on those familiar strings and neglected to introduce his first song, as he was sure they knew which one it was anyway.

Kurama worried his lower lip a little as he continued to watch.


During their own set, he stood up on one of the amps at the very front of the stage, elevated above his band and the audience, beloved Violectra placed between chin and shoulder.

He ended the song with an off key shriek which rang out longer than Yusuke’s rhythm guitar or Kuwabara’s haunting mix of digital sounds. Panting, hair sticking to his face, he tilted his head up into the heat of the lights and dropped his hands by his sides, loosely gripping his instrument and bow. Sweat covered his body in a fine film, he’d long ago let Kuwabara toss a bucket of water at him between songs, so his hair clung to him more so, down his neck and chest. He’d abandoned his shirt.

They had one last song to go.

For now he drowned in the cheering of the crowd, reassured that they hadn’t suddenly found a new interest in Karasu, but that it was they, Spirit Virtuoso, who dominated them and demanded just as much respect and adoration.

He raised his bow and placed his Violectra under his chin once more, and waited for Yusuke’s conversation with the crowd to cease.

He took a deep breath and allowed his eyes to close.

They broke into song, slithering towards the peak of the wall of sound, brick by brick. It was a complex and most difficult tune, catchy and rhythmic in its eccentricity. Yusuke’s voice could only ever be described as unique, just like Yusuke himself. He had the quality of being able to constantly surprise those around him.

This was a new song, off their new album. The audience loved it. When Kurama’s eyes slithered open, just the barest of margins, he could see the sway of the crowd past the pyrotechnics and the lights shining down on them. It was like a thunderstorm, the constant flicker of strobe lights and rhythmic flood of sound like the currents of open water.

This moment was what Kurama had worked his whole life for; to be frozen in this moment, where everything became natural and he merely became one with his instrument, his bandmates, and the audience.

When it came to a close, and he gasped for breath as the lights cut out, and the loud roar of the audience took on a somber, adrenalin fueled tone, he felt almost sad to realise that this was all he had now. That fleeting moment of being in perfect unison with everything within himself, a feeling that deemed difficult to put into mere words that marred the spirit of what it truly was.

Things could never be perfect as they had been before. Attachments were a cause for trouble.


Later, as he stood by the bus. Waiting for all their instruments and the like to be packed, watching the roadies packing away the stage equipment that they didn’t have with them personally at all times and the devolution of the stage itself.

It was a cold enough night for him to wish for a jacket that was a bit thicker, however his knee length black coat was enough. He waved at Yusuke as he asked if he was going to ‘hurry his ass up’ indicating that he’d be there in a minute. Yusuke shrugged and disappeared into the white limousine, crawling over Botan’s lap rather clumsily.

There was a loud slap, and Kurama smiled despite himself.

Another limousine idled nearby, waiting. Kurama narrowed his eyes slightly when a small group of people appeared from the backstage door, silhouetted against the inner light of the building for the long moment it took for the door to slide closed behind them.

That man in the centre was unmistakably Karasu, however. With hair that long, and clothes that outlandish, it was hard to mistake him for anyone else. Rather than heading for his limousine, Karasu broke off from his entourage – a tall blue haired man and a shorter sickly looking man – and made his way towards Kurama. Smirking in greeting as he pulled black leather gloves on long thin hands, the heels of Karasu’s shoes announced his presence long before he was close enough for Kurama to see him in detail.

He steeled himself and placed his hands in his pockets, raising his chin as Karasu advanced. He’d be lying if he said that he hadn’t been waiting for the man to appear. Why? He didn’t know. There was something about him, his music, the way he moved, that was interesting.

Reminded him of…the past. The sweet darkness that he had been engulfed in before his old band had broken up.

“Kurama Minamino,” Karasu purred once he got within earshot. Kurama took a few steps towards him, but otherwise didn’t move too far from his band, who surely watched from within their own limousine.

“Karasu.” He watched him wearily; the smirk on Karasu’s lips was unnerving in a way. His general air, the knowledge of his reputation, added to the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. And then the undercurrent of want apposed all else he felt from the simple presence of the man.

Karasu closed the gap between them and tilted his head to the side as he considered Kurama, his odd coloured eyes flickering back and forth slightly. “You’re an interesting man, Kurama. I have heard a lot about you.”

“I could say the same about you,” Kurama replied tersely.

Karasu’s hand cupped his face, the palm of his hand, warm in the chill of the night air even through the soft leather of his gloves, slid along his jaw and his fingertips dug into his cheek slightly, tracing his cheekbone and temple. Then his fingers curled in his crimson hair, combing through his forelocks almost reverently. He hummed, deep in his throat, a darkly amused sound, and his piercing eyes didn’t leave Kurama’s. “We’re a lot alike; you and I.”

Kurama’s lips twitched. He considered his words a little more seriously. “Indeed.”

Kurama had to admit, he would like to at least talk with the man in relative privacy about some things. They both had minds that could meld into something that could be a pure creative destructive force. Though he was loyal to Spirit Virtuoso….

He was tempted.

Botan called for him, poking her head of the limousine and then stilling, her eyes flying wide and her face flushing red. She stilled, her hand poised on the still open back door of the sleek white limousine. Her words died out suddenly.

Karasu’s attention didn’t waver, but Kurama could see the blue haired man shifting uncomfortably, his face hidden behind the hood of a thick black hoodie, his leather jacket overtop shinning in the industrial lights about them. The loading dock near by was coming to life already as the stage was dismantled piece by piece, moved on to the next city.

“I’m staying at the Ritz Carlton.” Karasu smiled a bit, but it failed to meet his eyes. His eyes were empty, lifeless. His fingers left Kurama’s hair, and instead traced down his cheek. “We should talk more, if we’re to be traveling together for a while.”

Kurama raised his chin a little, blinking slowly. A breeze swept through the large open area, blocked mostly by their buss close by. Karasu’s hand dropped back down to his side. The cane in his right hand clicked on the ground as he let it rest, his hand curled around the handle.

“Relations between us should not be distant, because of them.” Now, his eyes did flicker over Kurama’s shoulder briefly before falling back to Kurama. “Come by, at least.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Kurama took a step back. “I will consider it.”

“Excellent,” he purred. With a quirk of his lips that spoke of all the dark sin deep within Kurama, he bowed his head slightly, mockingly, and returned to his black limousine. The black, butter-soft leather of his jacket leaving little to the imagination on just what sort of body was hidden beneath.

Kurama returned to his own band, his expression as blank as he could manage. He didn’t meet Hiei’s eyes as he climbed into the limousine, beside Botan, who shifted aside for him. The door closed with an odd sort of finality.

He took a deep breath and turned his eyes to Yusuke and Kuwabara, who sat forward in their seats.

“Nice of the jerk to say hello to us too,” Yusuke grumbled, making a rude sign in the direction of the black limousine.

Kuwabara snorted, leaning back in the seat. It squeaked against the white leather of his pants. “Like I’d want to say anything to him anyway, he creeps me out.”

“The Count off Sesame Street would creep you out.” Yusuke laughed, then dodged a punch before corking Kuwabara in the thigh.

“Ow, shit! Yeah…. Well he looks enough like him.”

Kurama turned his head to stare out the window as the car began to move, and Yusuke picked up one of the remote controls to the Playstation imbedded in the wall while Kuwabara writhed in pain a bit, cursing. Botan, stuck as the mediator, held her head in her hands for a moment before her mobile rang. Keiko, no doubt.

Kurama sunk in his seat a bit and placed his hand on the armrest to prop his chin up, moving only when Botan offered him a glass of complimentary red wine with one hand, holding the mobile to her ear with the other. The others rarely drank wine, if ever, but Kurama had always had a kind of fondness in his heart for it. Botan seemed to share his tastes.

Hiei’s red eyes locked on his through the reflection of the window. His black hair hanging in his eyes, having had a bucket of water poured over him nearing the last song. None of them had had a chance to change yet, they’d be going back to their hotel and they’d decide there if they were to go on to a nightclub of some sort, or if they were going to stay.

They stared at each other.

“What were you talking about anyway?” Yusuke asked, mildly distracted by the small screen, pounding the buttons with some skill. A fighting game, it seemed.

Kurama looked down at his glass, and then up at Yusuke. “It seems he wants to talk more.”

Yusuke snorted, clearly thinking otherwise. However it could have been mistaken as thinly veiled contempt for a man who he seemed to have marked as the enemy for stealing their audience. Kuwabara seemed to agree.

Botan snapped her phone closed and leant back in her seat. “Keiko says ‘hello’, everyone. She’ll be in Russia tomorrow; it’ll take her a while before she gets to Moscow. She’ll be here around 12pm…So we’ll have plenty of time for sight seeing!”

Kuwabara’s head snapped to the side. “Are you serious? We’ve been here before…I think. There’s only so much you can see.”

Yusuke groaned and leant back in his seat. “All I need right now is a good long sleep. A few days worth. We have a few days before we get to…wherever it is we’re going next.”

Botan got that determined look in her eye. “Well Keiko hasn’t, so you’ll just have to put up with it. She’ll want you to come, Yusuke. She’ll only be with us until we move on to St. Petersburg.” She beamed a smile at him and then raised her glass to her lips.

“What about Kuwabara?!” he protested.

She blinked, surprised. “Kuwabara’s free to do as he likes, as is everyone else.”

“This sucks!”

Kuwabara snickered, then yelped in pain and punched Yusuke back.

They had three days rest before they moved on, where they would be doing a performance a night, city to city, until they arrived in Germany. Avoiding Scandinavia completely, as per Kurama’s wishes.

He returned to staring at his now empty glass; replaying Karasu’s offer as his bandmates and friends voices became drowned out by his own thoughts.

He was…tempted.


Music:: 20.000 Members - Somedy From Rotterdam
Mood:: 'amused' amused
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