A Castle of Silence and Bones by Dreams of Destiny
He, Kiku, brings him here, bundled up and bloody and torn and hurt from limb to limb. Yao cannot open his eyes, and it is not simply because of the heavy gauze in front of them. His hands are shaking, quaking, from the ride and those memories and those bloodstains that just will not go away. Yao sleeps with recently-dried trails of tears streaking already-pale cheeks. There is an art to the whole thing, a method to the madness. Ludwig knows, Ludwig's people are the ones who created such an idea, after all.
An entire group, an entire race, really, of people, completely wiped out. Such a pity, his recorders and writers say. The emperor banishes them all, but the generals make sure of a 'higher' punishment. And so, their corpses continue to hang, just inches away from the palace entranceway, because it is only through these sort of actions that any sort of permanant 'learning' will be done.
Yao wakes with a start, eyes wide and filled with terror (Kiku smiles, ever so delightfully, ever so madly) when Kiku binds his two wrists together. He would have used cuffs, but then Yao might have been more bruised and scratched than necessary, and that would not be good, now would it? The other cries out something in a foreign language, disgusting, Kiku thinks, because it is.
Indulgently, much like one would pardon a pet, he strokes Yao's tear-stained cheek, capturing lips with lips. The other is soft, pliant, weak--as always. No matter, Kiku thinks, for he is strong, and will more than make up for Yao's faults. That is what love is meant to do in the first place, isn't it?
Yao sobs and screams and cries throughout the night; a cacophony of sorrow and regret, and the memories of even weaker days. For the love of the Emperor, Kiku cannot understand why. A name, Kiku's name, manages to slip out in between a gasp and breath. But it is the wrong name, a name that Kiku has thrown away years and years and years before. Delicately, he smooths Yao's hair down, whispers a promise to the other, something about changing to his language or another. In response, Yao buries himself deeper into the mattress, shoulders shaking and wordlessly mouthing weaknesses of the past.
(But, isn't that love as well?)
Yao has not been to Japan in a long time, but when the gauze is finally removed from his eyes, he instantly recognizes the wall and the floor and the ceiling and the bed to be from one of the inner chambers of the Akasaka Palace. He remembers the height of the ceiling; the westernized inventions (made in Germany, he knows--he was your ally first--because only the best quality can suit the palace of 'guests') that click and clack in the early hours of the morning. It's a mutation, not the seamless hybrid he thought it first to be. The world, and the people of the world, they are like that. He went, once, to this very room.
Kiku comes again, today, and an unpleasant shiver runs through Yao's spine (that face, those eyes, that horrid, horrid touch; those feelings) at prior events. He wants to convince himself that he knows the person clad in white and gold and blood-red-splatters before him. He wants to convince himself that last night was only a nightmare, did not really happen. The captor--his captor--approaches, comes closer. There is a curve of lips; cool silence as always. 'Stop, stop,' he begs in a tongue that is not his own when Kiku advances. This is not a dream. You are not going to wake up. There is no hope for anything anymore.
He would say that the other is too close for comfort, but even being in the same room, in the same grande stretch of a palace, is too much. He's known hatred and pain and betrayal through the course of lifetimes and lifetimes. He's kneeled and bowed and been forced to submit and submit and still submit more because there is nothing more he can give. Shallow breaths, a flutter of lids; Kiku has not even raised a hand yet. And just like that, the other leaves. He clutches tightly to the silk-spun sheets about him.
(There is no escape.)
He has ordered cameras and microphones installed in every possible corner and space of the room. Of course they are all of the best technological standing, German engineering coupled with Japanese design, and near-impossible to see, unless one had been trained to find them. He observes Yao through them, in between watching the troops march and reading the latest sets of demands towards the fallen 'Allied' powers.
(they did not rise together, and so, they did not fall together.)
Kiku hurts, and he knows that Ludwig is hurting as much, if not more, because of the war. It has ended, and yet the Allied forces continue to fight. Foolishly, of course, because there was never any chance of victory in the face of heaven-mandated superiority.
His emperor, the one that will lead his people to certain glory and honor, has asked for him to stay behind. Kiku understands, for it would not be good for the soldiers to mistake him to be one of them, and it is merely a matter of principal and morality. It has nothing to do with the blood-drenched smile that he saw his (worshipped, beloved, heavenly) commander make that night of the massacre.
(He was smiling the same smile, after all.)
And so, he takes to watching the only prisoner in the whole of the palace. Yao wakes and wanders, sometimes throughout the room, and othertimes throughout the depths and channels and courses of his mind. Kiku watches, something like fascinated and something like enraptured, because every movement, every motion, which (his captive) the other makes compels him to—
In a languid fashion, Yao raises the clear crystalline shine of cut glass, putting it to his lips, as if to sip, only to stop right before. His face shakes, contorts, in something like fury and rage, before Kiku sees the glass fly clear across his monitors (across the room), to land in beautiful pieces, each iridescent and distinctly original in their own right, only to fall to the matted floor.
With half-lidded eyes, Kiku watches as Yao glances, contemplating, towards the plate of uneaten food. A hand, shaking and trembling and yet somehow still steady in the hesitation, reaches out, stopping when fingertips graze the edge of the finest porcelain England is willing to give up.
(It was a parting gift from 'Arthur', who lies with his soldiers, once more.)
A jerk of the head, and Yao is looking straight at the camera, straight at Kiku. There is pain, there is hunger, there is disgust; all in the other's eyes. And yet, unlike before, there is no confusion, no disbelief. Only hate. Kiku barks forth a laugh, high-pitched and mad, for Yao's hatred is all-consuming. Kiku storms in the next morning, disregarding the shattered glass on and about the left wall of the room. His eyes yield to a silent fury, and Yao would have been perturbed, had he not been so used to the other's anger by now. There is a hint of something else, but he refuses to acknowledge it--it is always easier to pass the motive off to hate, after all.
"The cooks are up in arms, will you not eat their food?" It is a command, not a question.
Yao opens his mouth, wants to say that this is not his food; that this is not his place to eat or drink and he would be more likely to starve to death than to touch that would-be-poison, only to close it without a word. What is the use, after all--? Without warning, Kiku approaches. Instinctively, Yao flinches, only to be completely caught off-guard when the other grabs his chin, tilts his head, and forces the liquid contents of a vial down his throat. Spluttering and coughing, he shoves his captor away; that liquid has no taste.
It sets in, all at once, and he finds himself succumbing to the bliss and drought of unconsciousness. His eyelids are heavy, he cannot keep them open for much longer (is this death? he wants it so much--so much), and images of scenes he cannot place run through his leaden mind. A forest, a cry; four children and an animal. Broken hearts, sad songs; a promise that never could have been kept.
They exist; all of them do--though he cannot place a single one of them in his mind.
Arms, two of them, take hold of the middle of his back and the crook of his knees. This godforsaken mattress, Yao feels it underneath him. Slowly, slowly, he is set atop it, and then he feels his mind (his world) spin and shake and break apart completely.
Bending down to pick up the fallen vial, Kiku examines it, without emotion. His gaze drifts from the vial to Yao, and then to the shards of broken glass, littered about the floor. He pockets the container, spares a final glance towards his prisoner, and ignores the sparkling pieces altogether.
(Yao sleeps like the dead.)
He breaths a sigh of relief, strides over to the bed, and sits on the edge. With a gentleness he did not know he possessed, yet another thing Yao must've taught him at one point or another, he lifts limp neck, moving the various pillows (they are all in shambles, but it does not matter, he'll replace them) so that Yao is roughly inclined.
Like a storybook, a fairy-tale, Yao's eyes flutter and then open. Kiku manuevers the rice-filled spoon towards the other's mouth. Wordlessly, Yao opens his mouth, taking the rice. Kiku's hand is shaking when he fills another spoonful (he steadies it shortly). Yao chews and swallows mechanically, but Kiku does not care for Yao is eating. Somehow or another, Kiku manages to feed Yao the whole of the meal. He wants to ask something, wants a reason to stay longer than the normal 'check-up' period. Yao gives him the reason, grabbing hold of his sleeve. Kiku stares at the hand, bloody and bony and still ever-so-pale. Slowly, he intertwines their fingers, cups Yao's face with his other hand and gingerly presses dry lips on dry lips. Yao's grip on his left hand is light, but unyielding, and the other glides his lips against Kiku's nape. Kiku shivers, but does not stop (he has wanted this for far too long).
Yao closes his eyes when Kiku begins to single-handedly unbutton his ripped and ragged shirt. The clasped hands never leave one another, even as Kiku slowly, gently, slides already-loose pants down trembling legs. Yao parts them, eyes still closed, and Kiku cannot remove the entirety of his jacket with only one hand. Neither of them take notice in the clatter of imperial sword and gun, and Kiku has managed to stop his right hand from shaking when he does the buckle of his pants.
It is subtle and sensual and graceful and Yao rises to meet him. Kiku wraps his right arm about the other's thin waist, pulling Yao closer, closer, burrowing his head into the crook of the elder's neck. He licks and sucks and sometimes nibbles, but never outrightedly bites. Despite his age and history of conquest, both by and to, Yao is achingly tight, and Kiku sees stars and light and something more by the third fervent thrust. Yao clenches, jerks, and moans. His fingers tighten about Kiku's, and his free hand finds itself buried in short, choppy locks.
"Nii-sama..."
Kiku's eyes widen and his mouth pauses in between a kiss at the juncture of the other's shoulder and neck. He, Kiku, had not yet spoken.
Is it still called 'love-making' if there is no love to be made--?
After he pulls out completely, he notices that his arms are trembling--either that, or his sight. He stops one or the other, clutching Yao's fingers between his own, tightly, before letting go altogether. Yao's eyes are still closed, though the pallor of his face is slowly going away; a good sign, if there ever was one.
It's alright, Kiku forces himself to think; forces himself to leave the bed.
Just as soon as he's buttoned the entirety of his uniform again, a hand, warm and still sticky with sweat, reaches out, and wraps loosely about his wrist. He freezes altogether, and it takes a beat before he swivels his head around, almost expecting an entirely different person to be on the bed. Yao has cracked his eyes open, he sees the orbs to be dull, albeit aware. He wants to question, wants to pull his hand away, because that is how you break someone, wants to go away, because he'll not be able to sleep at all with those eyes trained on him.
"Nii-sama," Yao pleads, and Kiku feels a shiver race its way through the course of his body.
"What is it?" he responds, because this isn't a dream and--his voice betrays nothing (it has not done so for over a decade).
"I'm lonely," the other whispers, in his tongue, and as ingenious a piece of engineering as the drug that brought Yao into this sort of state is, Kiku can only think of how unguarded, how beautiful, how tragic, the elder nation is--like this. But those need not be the thoughts of a conqueror, or a winner, and so, he smiles, indulgent, once more.
Yao rises to meet him, looping arms-over-shoulders and knees pressing forth. His breathes are flighty; uneven, and the moonlight that manages to crawl through the risings of the castle cast the two of them in a sordid light. It matters not, Kiku thinks, marvelling over how well Yao simply fits into him, how easily the other acquiesces now.
This time is the second time; he wants to keep count--and why not. It is different in that Yao is the one actively participating, in that Yao is the one kissing and entangling fingers and legs and tongues, in that Yao is the one without any clothing, in both the beginning and end. And though it is Yao initiating, inciting, this time, everytime his hips brush just that close enough, Kiku realizes that he is the one hard. Before the war, he would have flushed, would have been shamed, as such thoughts. But before the war, he would've never been able to have Yao. Today--now, he is different, better, far better than all the Asian and Axis nations alike. But he is kind too, kind enough to not kill his siblings; kind enough to allow Yao freedom in the largest room of the grandest palace still standing.
And even now, he is kind. Smoothly, he cups the other's cheek, kisses it lightly, and shoves Yao against the backing of the bed. With his knees, he manages to part the other's legs, and he does not bother to trail kisses, only pushes Yao further up so that he can situate himself properly. Kiku hears a noise of surprise, and then feels the other tremble and quake, and though he's still not hard, he will be soon. Confidence--it's what he has now, that he did not have before.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs, running his bare hands along the other's hips, waist, thighs, because he wants to hear Yao moan, wants to feel his shake; again and again. His mouth slowly kisses the tip of Yao's member, and he delights in the twitch he manages to elicit from the other. Slowly, slowly, he licks a line up, down, around the hardening organ, and he's aching but he doesn't care when Yao cries, completing his rise with a withering scream.
It is the most beautiful thing he has ever heard, Kiku thinks later. He doesn't quite finish, but comes very close to it, especially when Yao collapses, fingers taut and tight about the starched-and-dry uniform. Kiku can feel the other's deep, aching breathes, and he wraps his arms about Yao, sucking him off completely before untangling the two of them. He thinks he cannot sleep, will-not-sleep, when he's covering the other with a thicker blanket, taking in the even breaths and tear-stained face.
Kiku dreams of the army--his army, that night. He's paraded with them, gone to the 'detainment centers' and the 'operating laboratories' as well. The emperor is sometimes beside him, sometimes not, and the earth itself trembles when bomb after bomb, plane after plane, and human and human, go off. It is glorious, and it is just, because Japan will not be conquered, and therefore, must conquer all else.
The next day, with the sun right through the arches and streaming into the room, he wakes with a panic because Yao is not there. He runs, haphazardly - as if through a dream - across the whole of the palace, looking for Yao. He hears the other's name, echoing across the corridors, and it's only after the fifth time, when he simply grabs a vase and smashes it on the closest wall, does he realize it was his voice, repeating across the halls. And by then, the vase has already shattered - into a thousand sparkling pieces. Instantly, he's reminded of Yao's reaction to the food dishes (and how long as it been? two months? three?)
"Kiku-sama," one of the castle maids approaches, timid and soft-spoken, "One of the monitors have been showing the sound of running water... perhaps the person that you are looking for is in the West Wing?"
"Thank you," he breathes out, before hurrying towards the West Wing. It was the chamber of the previous Emperor - and his mistresses. Of course, being the child of God himself, it gave him many priveleges (many women), but - ? Doesn't matter; the previous Emperor is long gone, long dead (with his troops and palaces and mistresses), and what matters right now is -
"Yao!" he finds his strangled voice calling out, hand reaching out in some foolish semblance of humility (ridiculous, he knows, because it is Yao who should be humiliated here). "What are you..." He trails off, eyes following the leaking water, from the Westernized tub. His footsteps slow - without his conscious knowledge - as he nears the inner chambers of the room.
It is there that he finds Yao, completely clothed and entirely submerged in an already-overfilled tub. The water cascades over the edges of the tub, pools over the tiles of the floor, and makes its way over the length of the bathroom, and into the wooden portions of the chamber.
"Yao," he repeats. Eyelids flutter; his heart jumps a beat (careful, restrain yourself, any closer - any farther). He steadies himself before advancing any further, because it would not do to 'lose' here - would not do to lose anywhere. Yao opens his eyes completely when Kiku is inches away from the edge of the tub, fingers twitching, moving forward, and still not grasping.
There is a dry, hacking cough - it comes from Yao. Immediately, he's pulling the other out of the tub. Kiku is no doctor, but the blood that is staining Yao's hands, dying the water that light shade of pink, it can't possibly be a good sign. 'What's the matter? What's wrong?' he remembers asking, in his own tongue, because Yao can understand, can't he? Of course he can understand - that solution was supposed to, definitely had, a 100% success rate.
There is a flash of gold in Yao's eyes, a color which Kiku cannot remember from their previous 'sessions', and then the other is wrapping bloodied hands about his neck, pulling him closecloseclose and -
"This is all your fault," Yao hisses.
His mind panicks, scrambles, even while he's tasting the blood from Yao's lips - from Yao's mouth. The drug was completely effective, without a doubt. The drug was - is - should be...
(You never believed it for a second.)
And then the world fades away.
It is the beginning of a week - which week, he neither knows nor cares. Kiku has the list of 'possibilities' on a sheet of paper; the 'candidates' pictures and names are listed. They have no defining qualities, a dozen or so similar faces, he doesn't really care. There was a solution, would always be a solution. So Francis had failed to maintain sovereignty; had failed to continue existing.
It mattered not - he knew of the solution, had spoken with his generals, and had gotten their approval.
(He refuses - with more fervor than he had throughout the entirety of the war - to let Yao end up like Francis.)
And so, he acts. With the signatures of the war generals (heroes of the people), with the acquiescence of the Empress (she had hid her tears; he had refused to see them), he goes to the innermost chamber of the Imperial Palace. The guards know he is, and he needs only give a nod of the head, before they bow their way out. And despite this resolution, this lack of inner turmoil - because he sees the lines, and he sees where to walk and how to walk - he hesitates before turning the knob.
No matter; there's always a larger purpose, a bigger picture.
Always.
"Tenn ou-sama," he whispers, crouching into the most formal of bows. The emperor - his emperor - raises an eyebrow. Kiku is normally strictly formal, but never to this degree. "Surely you have you heard of the casualty numbers on the fields," he begins, because it's better to rationalize this through, "There are more and more good men dying every day - more and more good men willingly giving up their very lives, for the sake of this glorious nation."
(For my sake - in your name.)
"Of course," The Emperor Hirohito replies.
"And if there were some way to alleviate the suffering, to make it even the slightest fraction better..."
"I would do everything in my power to help the people of my country," is the ready response. And for this split second, Kiku finds himself feeling sorry for the other man. There is no way out; it matters not if he has his own mind or not, because he has been placed on a high pedestal - too high to actually get down from. But then the second passes, and Kiku doesn't need to steel his resolve because outside of this plan - there is nothing.
(And he will ...
Kaoru-no-kimi