OMG_Maou: Cascade: Multiple.
Title: Cascade 1/3
Characters: Alarik (shinou_heika), Aki (maou_cupid), Murata Ken (IC & OOC) (the_great_sage & totalknowitall)
Summary: *points at Apa* She tribbled me!
The fight starts at breakfast.
Murata Ken chokes down the fried eggs because it will break Doria-kun's heart if he doesn't at least try her food. Across the table, his double smirks into his glass of orange juice and Murata wishes that his neutral smile worked on the other Sage. Beside him, Alarik cuts his food into small, precise pieces with sufficient force that the silverware leaves lines in the fine china. Conversation at the table is subdued, no-one willing to risk the Shinou's wrath and the possible consequences.
And this is how the avalanche starts.
They start to shout almost as soon as they leave the room; thousands of years of incidental bruises and slights exploding to a single, vicious flurry of words. Murata has the advantage, words come slowly still to Alarik while his lover has spent his many lives learning how to spin destiny with a single well-placed comment. Alarik is still terrifying in the sheer mindlessness of his rage and, though he knows that his lover would never, ever see him harmed, Murata flinches back from the blank, ice in violet eyes.
The more he pushes, the more angry he gets, the more Alarik retreats back into the cold shell of the Shinou. Murata can see it happening and it drives him further and further each time. The harder it is to make Alarik look away, or flinch, the sharper the words he throws and the more carefully he places his barbs to wound. Alarik retaliates, clumsy and crude against the urbanity of Murata's slurs, and draws further away.
A moment of silence and the heat dies into an appalled silence as they pant, nose to nose, and wonder what can come next.
Typically, it is Alarik who decides for them both. Executing a flawless half-bow, he sweeps away, mental shields snapping into place with a finality that ends any hope of reconciliation for the moment. Murata, left standing in the corridor, feels his cheeks burning and acid knotting his stomach. The fight hasn't cleared the air as he'd half-hoped for. Instead, it seems to have stirred up old injuries and bile until he feels like he's choking on it. He doesn't want to be the one left to lie to the castle through a plastic smile. Not again.
He hurries along the corridor, veering sharply to the right where Alarik passed on through and climbing the stairs. Only lifetimes of decorum keep him from running up the stairs and he offers a silent thank-you to his previous selves when he nearly bumps into a maid carrying a mostly empty tray at the top. He smiles and nods and hurries past her. pretending not to hear her cheerful chirp of greeting. He hesitates at the door but really, he has nowhere else to go. His mind offers not-possibilities and he rejects them one by one.
Shibuya? Too young, too innocent and too much of a friend to understand why he doesn't hate Alarik but can hate the Shinou.
Ulrike? Too sheltered, too pure and too much the child in his eyes for him to be comfortable pouring his heart out.
His double? Too brittle, with emotions that refract and distort through the shattered mask.
Rufus? No. Rufus is Alarik's supporter to the end and Murata will not force him to choose between them.
Other Rufus? ...he doesn't even get past thinking the name before recoiling.
Which leaves only one person who can understand the grief and rage of loosing his lover and regaining the Shinou. Of course, he now can't be sure that said person will see him or make the effort to understand. They've talked together almost every day since Khrennikov, usually encountering each other in the garden and walking together as they talk about history, politics, literature and anything that catches their fancy. He would even call the other a friend, albeit a tentative one. But he knows that this door marks a sanctuary, a place of refuge from the cares and problems of the world beyond. Is the friendship strong enough to presume upon?
He knocks and the door swings open.
Aki is sprawled comfortably on the low couch, a cup of what is most likely tea in one hand and a book in the other. The morning sun turns his hair golden and his skin into living marble. He is barefoot, with an unbuttoned shirt hanging off one shoulder. He half-rises, then registers Murata's face and smiles, sinking back. The smile is warm, welcoming but Murata can see the assessment in shrewd violet eyes as Aki makes room for him on the couch.
::Tea?:: Alarik's double asks, pouring a cup and pressing it into his hands before he can answer. ::Have you read von Staffen's treatise?::
The conversation is one-sided and impersonal, but Murata is grateful. The cup is warm in his hands and he can taste the sugar and milk - exactly as he likes them. Aki 'talks' at him rather than to him as he sips his tea and relaxes, free to shed the persona of the Great and Wise Sage. He makes a few comments and is unexpectedly relieved when Aki responds as normal, arguing and teasing at the logic. The conversation starts to become a proper give-and-take of opinions as time passes and the sunlight ripens into afternoon.
He takes off his glasses to clean them as Aki laughs at something unintentionally witty and the mood dies. Without the precision to see that the hair is longer, the clothing wrong and the scars that mark Aki from Alarik, he can see the future as he wanted it instead of how he got it. A blond King who is king no longer, who doesn't have to craft every expression for political purposes. Alarik as he was, before the sky went dark.
He doesn't realise he's crying until a roughened thumb wipes away the tear and Aki's voice echoes through the misery. ::What has he done this time?::
Murata opens his mouth to deny everything and finds himself talking - babbling - about the past. He talks about his teacher, about the library that the Sovereign burned and the long, slow isolation that led him away from people. The memories are so crisp, so clear that he can almost taste the mountain air and feel the wind. He admits to being lonely for the first time. He talks about the books of love and epic adventure where the hero was handsome, funny, charming and unflinching noble. He thinks as he speaks and remembers wishing that he could hope to be part of such a story. The advisor, the mentor, the teacher...and Aki's voice, quiet and hurting-for-him.
::When did you stop being the hero?::
And he can't remember, has forgotten so much over all those lifetimes. The question breaks the rhythm and he can't get it back and the tears are back. Shibuya-kaasan told him that he shouldn't ever cry because his complexion was all wrong for it. His face gets puffy and his nose runs and he needs lots of tissues which he never has. Aki makes a sort of 'whuff' sound that might have been meant as a sigh and he tries to look around. The sunlight is a lot brighter than it should be and he blinks and reaches out to touch warm flesh and soft fabric.
He's just so tired!
Murata hears his voice breaking and Aki makes another softer sound and he's being hugged tightly. Aki can rest his chin on Murata's head - an advantage to his extra height. He can feel the blond's heart pulse against his cheek and hear the other humming comfort as he cries. He wanted this - wanted a happy ever after that was effortless and could be trusted and he won't let himself think of it any more. He looks up into eyes that are now more blue than violet and pounces.
He feels Aki's mind snap back, reflexively but he's too quick, too strong in his desperation and he floods the other's mind with a wordless plea. Please...just once... Aki's muscles relax slowly as he takes in Murata's need and understands it was clumsiness, not attack. Just once...let me... Aki's head tilts, strands of untidy blond hair brushing his cheek. Let me...forget... Murata leans up, eyes locked with Aki's. Let me...touch... Their lips brush together then Aki leans that fraction closer to make it a real kiss.
He spreads his fingers across the plane of hard muscle, parting his lips to taste the bitter tea and honey on Aki's lips. The blond is still, arms looped around his waist and eyes hidden even as his lips part in answer. Then, he has the sensation of a decision being reached and Aki's mind clicks into synchronisation with his. It's so easy that it takes a few seconds for Murata to realise it.
He can taste his own tears and the not-so-bitter tea that Aki made him, but mingled with that is a sense of distaste at the idea of milk in Earl Grey tea. He feels soft lips and the harsher rasp of the tongue that explores them. He feels another tongue curling, knows it for his own and shivers. The kiss draws out until his cheeks are flushed and his lungs are burning for air. Then Aki is sitting back, long lashes parting to reveal a heated gaze.
And Murata is burning up. Heat pooling along his spine, spreading from clever, knowing fingers that knead and stroke and tease. He can feel hair soft and sinuous around his fingers like living silk. Hands sliding against cloth, touching, exploring. Tongues tangled up with gasping, heaving breath as fingers curl and hook and hips thrust forward. And the rough velvet cushion of the couch against his back as strong hands clasp his hips and hold him in place.
He gasps as Aki breaks the kiss and nips his ear. Then warm, wet pressure and he's howling and thrashing as a clever, clever tongue finds new ways to drive him higher and wilder than ever before. He teeters on brink but thoughts, needs that are not his own keep him just short of that final plunge. Thoughts shredded away until he's all sensation and want and why isn't thebastardMOVING!?!
A muffled cry that might have been a scream a few minutes earlier and he slumps back onto the couch, drained. He can't muster the energy to move as Aki stands up and moves away. He is praying for sleep when the bundle of blankets is dropped into his lap and arranged over him. Then the couch dips and he is rearranged comfortably.
::Sleep.::
And there are so many reasons that this is a bad thing...but Murata can't think of them. If he just lies here for a minute, he'll think of them...he's sure of...i-....
TBC
Characters: Alarik (shinou_heika), Aki (maou_cupid), Murata Ken (IC & OOC) (the_great_sage & totalknowitall)
Summary: *points at Apa* She tribbled me!
The fight starts at breakfast.
Murata Ken chokes down the fried eggs because it will break Doria-kun's heart if he doesn't at least try her food. Across the table, his double smirks into his glass of orange juice and Murata wishes that his neutral smile worked on the other Sage. Beside him, Alarik cuts his food into small, precise pieces with sufficient force that the silverware leaves lines in the fine china. Conversation at the table is subdued, no-one willing to risk the Shinou's wrath and the possible consequences.
And this is how the avalanche starts.
They start to shout almost as soon as they leave the room; thousands of years of incidental bruises and slights exploding to a single, vicious flurry of words. Murata has the advantage, words come slowly still to Alarik while his lover has spent his many lives learning how to spin destiny with a single well-placed comment. Alarik is still terrifying in the sheer mindlessness of his rage and, though he knows that his lover would never, ever see him harmed, Murata flinches back from the blank, ice in violet eyes.
The more he pushes, the more angry he gets, the more Alarik retreats back into the cold shell of the Shinou. Murata can see it happening and it drives him further and further each time. The harder it is to make Alarik look away, or flinch, the sharper the words he throws and the more carefully he places his barbs to wound. Alarik retaliates, clumsy and crude against the urbanity of Murata's slurs, and draws further away.
A moment of silence and the heat dies into an appalled silence as they pant, nose to nose, and wonder what can come next.
Typically, it is Alarik who decides for them both. Executing a flawless half-bow, he sweeps away, mental shields snapping into place with a finality that ends any hope of reconciliation for the moment. Murata, left standing in the corridor, feels his cheeks burning and acid knotting his stomach. The fight hasn't cleared the air as he'd half-hoped for. Instead, it seems to have stirred up old injuries and bile until he feels like he's choking on it. He doesn't want to be the one left to lie to the castle through a plastic smile. Not again.
He hurries along the corridor, veering sharply to the right where Alarik passed on through and climbing the stairs. Only lifetimes of decorum keep him from running up the stairs and he offers a silent thank-you to his previous selves when he nearly bumps into a maid carrying a mostly empty tray at the top. He smiles and nods and hurries past her. pretending not to hear her cheerful chirp of greeting. He hesitates at the door but really, he has nowhere else to go. His mind offers not-possibilities and he rejects them one by one.
Shibuya? Too young, too innocent and too much of a friend to understand why he doesn't hate Alarik but can hate the Shinou.
Ulrike? Too sheltered, too pure and too much the child in his eyes for him to be comfortable pouring his heart out.
His double? Too brittle, with emotions that refract and distort through the shattered mask.
Rufus? No. Rufus is Alarik's supporter to the end and Murata will not force him to choose between them.
Other Rufus? ...he doesn't even get past thinking the name before recoiling.
Which leaves only one person who can understand the grief and rage of loosing his lover and regaining the Shinou. Of course, he now can't be sure that said person will see him or make the effort to understand. They've talked together almost every day since Khrennikov, usually encountering each other in the garden and walking together as they talk about history, politics, literature and anything that catches their fancy. He would even call the other a friend, albeit a tentative one. But he knows that this door marks a sanctuary, a place of refuge from the cares and problems of the world beyond. Is the friendship strong enough to presume upon?
He knocks and the door swings open.
Aki is sprawled comfortably on the low couch, a cup of what is most likely tea in one hand and a book in the other. The morning sun turns his hair golden and his skin into living marble. He is barefoot, with an unbuttoned shirt hanging off one shoulder. He half-rises, then registers Murata's face and smiles, sinking back. The smile is warm, welcoming but Murata can see the assessment in shrewd violet eyes as Aki makes room for him on the couch.
::Tea?:: Alarik's double asks, pouring a cup and pressing it into his hands before he can answer. ::Have you read von Staffen's treatise?::
The conversation is one-sided and impersonal, but Murata is grateful. The cup is warm in his hands and he can taste the sugar and milk - exactly as he likes them. Aki 'talks' at him rather than to him as he sips his tea and relaxes, free to shed the persona of the Great and Wise Sage. He makes a few comments and is unexpectedly relieved when Aki responds as normal, arguing and teasing at the logic. The conversation starts to become a proper give-and-take of opinions as time passes and the sunlight ripens into afternoon.
He takes off his glasses to clean them as Aki laughs at something unintentionally witty and the mood dies. Without the precision to see that the hair is longer, the clothing wrong and the scars that mark Aki from Alarik, he can see the future as he wanted it instead of how he got it. A blond King who is king no longer, who doesn't have to craft every expression for political purposes. Alarik as he was, before the sky went dark.
He doesn't realise he's crying until a roughened thumb wipes away the tear and Aki's voice echoes through the misery. ::What has he done this time?::
Murata opens his mouth to deny everything and finds himself talking - babbling - about the past. He talks about his teacher, about the library that the Sovereign burned and the long, slow isolation that led him away from people. The memories are so crisp, so clear that he can almost taste the mountain air and feel the wind. He admits to being lonely for the first time. He talks about the books of love and epic adventure where the hero was handsome, funny, charming and unflinching noble. He thinks as he speaks and remembers wishing that he could hope to be part of such a story. The advisor, the mentor, the teacher...and Aki's voice, quiet and hurting-for-him.
::When did you stop being the hero?::
And he can't remember, has forgotten so much over all those lifetimes. The question breaks the rhythm and he can't get it back and the tears are back. Shibuya-kaasan told him that he shouldn't ever cry because his complexion was all wrong for it. His face gets puffy and his nose runs and he needs lots of tissues which he never has. Aki makes a sort of 'whuff' sound that might have been meant as a sigh and he tries to look around. The sunlight is a lot brighter than it should be and he blinks and reaches out to touch warm flesh and soft fabric.
He's just so tired!
Murata hears his voice breaking and Aki makes another softer sound and he's being hugged tightly. Aki can rest his chin on Murata's head - an advantage to his extra height. He can feel the blond's heart pulse against his cheek and hear the other humming comfort as he cries. He wanted this - wanted a happy ever after that was effortless and could be trusted and he won't let himself think of it any more. He looks up into eyes that are now more blue than violet and pounces.
He feels Aki's mind snap back, reflexively but he's too quick, too strong in his desperation and he floods the other's mind with a wordless plea. Please...just once... Aki's muscles relax slowly as he takes in Murata's need and understands it was clumsiness, not attack. Just once...let me... Aki's head tilts, strands of untidy blond hair brushing his cheek. Let me...forget... Murata leans up, eyes locked with Aki's. Let me...touch... Their lips brush together then Aki leans that fraction closer to make it a real kiss.
He spreads his fingers across the plane of hard muscle, parting his lips to taste the bitter tea and honey on Aki's lips. The blond is still, arms looped around his waist and eyes hidden even as his lips part in answer. Then, he has the sensation of a decision being reached and Aki's mind clicks into synchronisation with his. It's so easy that it takes a few seconds for Murata to realise it.
He can taste his own tears and the not-so-bitter tea that Aki made him, but mingled with that is a sense of distaste at the idea of milk in Earl Grey tea. He feels soft lips and the harsher rasp of the tongue that explores them. He feels another tongue curling, knows it for his own and shivers. The kiss draws out until his cheeks are flushed and his lungs are burning for air. Then Aki is sitting back, long lashes parting to reveal a heated gaze.
And Murata is burning up. Heat pooling along his spine, spreading from clever, knowing fingers that knead and stroke and tease. He can feel hair soft and sinuous around his fingers like living silk. Hands sliding against cloth, touching, exploring. Tongues tangled up with gasping, heaving breath as fingers curl and hook and hips thrust forward. And the rough velvet cushion of the couch against his back as strong hands clasp his hips and hold him in place.
He gasps as Aki breaks the kiss and nips his ear. Then warm, wet pressure and he's howling and thrashing as a clever, clever tongue finds new ways to drive him higher and wilder than ever before. He teeters on brink but thoughts, needs that are not his own keep him just short of that final plunge. Thoughts shredded away until he's all sensation and want and why isn't thebastardMOVING!?!
A muffled cry that might have been a scream a few minutes earlier and he slumps back onto the couch, drained. He can't muster the energy to move as Aki stands up and moves away. He is praying for sleep when the bundle of blankets is dropped into his lap and arranged over him. Then the couch dips and he is rearranged comfortably.
::Sleep.::
And there are so many reasons that this is a bad thing...but Murata can't think of them. If he just lies here for a minute, he'll think of them...he's sure of...i-....
TBC