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III :: MUSTER

{{ TW: NSFW ; Self Harm ; Self-Flagellation }} Ft: @talesfromthegameff14 and @whenaltsattack

The crisp chill of Shirogane’s night air did much to settle the wobble in the green-haired Keeper’s legs after the evening he’d had. He could still taste sake on his lips and tongue, still feel the burn of alcohol too strong coursing through his veins--could still feel the weight of his decisions like lead in his belly.

Tonight had been good. He’d enjoyed himself.

This was the lie he would feed himself until it burned at his mental and became truth; until he no longer saw the back of the Thavnairian’s head in his mind, until he couldn’t hear their voices, until he couldn’t feel the tingle burn away at his spine. He would lie to himself over and over again if it meant that he would get the idea out of his head that this had been another heartbreaking evening of his own accord.

It wasn’t a bad evening for anyone but him, so why couldn’t he just let go of this?

Bile rushed up his throat as his thoughts soured, the Keeper taking a moment to pause just outside of the gate to his estate--a thin hand grasping the stone pillar to keep himself from toppling over and spilling his gut onto the pavement. No, not like this--he must not do that here. Sheer determination was the only thing that kept him on his feet while he slipped over the stone path toward the double doors; sobering almost instantly at the sight of the two guards waiting patiently.

“Young Master.”

Tsubaki grimaced at the title inwardly, though his expression was the perfect face of neutrality--tipping his chin slightly. The guards wordlessly reached for the handle of the door and pulled back, pulling it open in a smooth motion for the Keeper to make his way inside. Waiting for him was a handmaiden, who bowed automatically in his direction and hung in that position until he’d passed by. She fell into line behind him as he silently made his way through the grand, silent estate--making a bee-line toward his room.

“I--Young Master, if I may say--”

“You may, Shoko.”

The handmaiden wrung her hands at her waist, the pretty hyur sweeping dark tresses over her shoulder as she bowed slightly. “I mean not to impose but perhaps the young master would prefer a bath before retiring to his room…?”

Tsubaki shook his head, immediately regretting the movement when his vision swirled and his tail had to swing out in a wide arc to auto-correct his balance mid step. A pause and then he continued on. “That will not be necessary, Shoko. I will retire for the evening.”

“But Yo--”

“Shoko.”

The tone was firm, though his ears twitched when he heard the women utter a soft apology. He sighed quietly under his breath, making his way through what felt like corridor after corridor until he finally happened upon the sliding door that led to his room. He was appropriately centered further back in the home but not the furthest, giving him his ample privacy with dozens of empty rooms surrounding his. It was a boon to be allotted his privacy.

“Dismiss the servants for the night. Good night, Shoko.”

“Yes, sir… Good night, Young Master.”

He slid the door shut behind him with a quiet thunk and stepped across the wide, bare room to a set of dressers--using thin fingers to pull open one of the drawers and retrieve a small wooden box. The drawer slid shut with a push and he turned away from the dresser, moving to a sliding door on the left--pushing it open and closing it behind him.

The bare room was dimly lit by candle only; centered in the middle was a lone seat cushion.

Tsubaki made his way to the single cushion and sunk down on it with a measured amount of grace, sweeping his long tail around him to rest by his ankles. Once seated, he waited. He knew the time it would take for the servants on this side of the estate to disperse, giving him ample time to fall into the thunderstorm of feelings that’d been brewing since he stepped out of the Red Lantern estate.

Images of the scene he’d been in-explicitly present for but not apart of flashed through his mind; the memory of the dancer tossed over Akihito’s naked flesh and given the right to taste. It hadn’t been the first time Tsubaki had seen his bodyguard’s body but this had been something vivid that he burned into his mind to remember. He let out a breath and allowed his mind to wander--let himself fall back into the moment as it were. Allowed himself the memory.

How Aki’s body moved against the Keeper’s like they’d been made to fit together; that they’d found bliss in one another and the half-raen had enjoyed himself enough to cry out in pleasure; suffocating Tsubaki in their lust while he watched in complete silence from a nearby sofa. Fan lashes fluttered shut and his mind’s eye filled in the blanks--the slap of skin fervent and the rush of pleasure like electricity over his skin. More--more. Until Aki’s bliss rushed jerky and wet and those sinful lips prayed to the Miqo’te riveted to his lap; calling names was a form of worship.

“Tsubaki.”

The vision distorts and shatters instantly, the Keeper jostled out of it by his own desires--cheeks burning a deep red. What had he just…

NO!

How could he taint the memory like this!?

The Red Lantern had been an experience he hadn’t been expecting but had enjoyed none-the-less; a surprising turn-of-events that had the evening ending with his crimson-eyed self watching his bodyguard find his bliss in the mouth of a beautiful whore by the name of Durelle. The man had been sat at their table by the Madame of the house to enjoy themselves and had, naturally, attached himself to Akihito like most people did. It was hard not to see it coming; the half-raen was personable and good-looking! He was everything that a social butterfly would need to flourish in this world!

Tsubaki was none of that. He was frail, feminine-faced and small; sporting dark green hair and crimson eyes. There had been too many times that comments had been made about his appearance; did he really look that strange? His clothing was sleek to fit his frame and muted in all ways, his attempt not to draw too much attention to himself and yet, even there, he’d stuck out like a sore thumb.

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he be like everyone else?

Why couldn’t he be a jovial soul that found his will and personhood in crowds; why couldn’t he be the friendly one that everyone flocked to? He was frail by design, he’d never be sought after like the others were--he was too different. Too strange.

Wasn’t this why Aki’s affections fled elsewhere?

This broke the dam; tears building and falling from the corners of his eyes as he hunched over the wooden box clutched tightly in his hands.

The image of the half-raen’s sister flickered into his mind and the Keeper’s hands were moving before he could think to stop himself. The latch on the wooden box flipped and he opened the lid to reveal several pristine tools sitting on top of a white cloth; two sharpened pieces of bamboo, a sharpened wooden dagger and a flayed bunch of bamboo stalks bound together with a tie. Without missing a beat, the Keeper took up one of the bamboo sticks and pulled back his sleeve to jab the sharpened end into the meat of his shoulder; drawing a long red line across the span of his arm. Line after line; shoulder to elbow. It burned and stung like hell; the pain enough to coax him fully into sobbing outright--the froth of his life essence spilling down his skin to drip onto the white cloth and his dark colored skirt. The more he hurt himself, the more he allowed himself to sob and fall into his emotions.

Akihito would never be his. All because he couldn’t muster the will to tell the man his feelings.

His anguish peaked and the Keeper cried out in agony; throwing the bamboo stick aside to grab the clump of bamboo stalks. One hand reached back behind him and tugged hard--pulling his long shirt over his head and tossed against the wall. A thin arm arched up and back; the slap of stalk against skin ringing out in the room. Skin split--blood spilled and pain blossomed all along his upper shoulders, mingling over the detailed spider lily tattoo that adorned his shoulders. Each slap of skin and howl of pain brought him redemption. Each hit? A balm.

It wasn’t until his fuzzy mind couldn’t think anymore that he set down the makeshift flogger and let his head fall back so his eyes could look to the ceiling. This was a bittersweet pain; pain on the outside and inside, colored with the red of relief.

Kami forgive him; he was only mortal.

If only he’d never been born.

A bell passed with the Keeper stiff in that pose; only to eventually put the tools away into the box along with the red splotted cloth. He’d clean his tools by hand, scrub the room by hand to hide his shame--and then take care of the wounds. They would not heal in a day; there was a reason why he always wore long clothing and loathed to show any bit of his skin. The concoctions he could could up to neatly sew his skin back together and leave a flawless, perfect finish would take it out of him for several days but it would not matter.

No one would ever know.

The room was treated, his wounds tended and he fell into his futon with an exhausted sigh--rolled over and let sleep claim him. It was a fitful sleep, one wrought with guilt and anguish but it was something he’d felt he deserved.

Tomorrow, he would smile at Aki like he always did. Ask him about the weather. Talk about the meaningless.

Hide his shame; like always.

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