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lucetilogs2011-02-20 05:41 am
letsplaysurgeon.livejournal.com) wrote in lucetilogs2011-02-20 05:41 am
Wedding bells ain't going to chime, with both of us guilty of crime
Who:
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letsplaysurgeon and deathsdoctor What: Katas, cigarettes and copious amounts of banter.
When: The morning after this, so backdated to the fifteenth of February.
Where: On the roof of CH2.
Summary: A fortuitous meeting when Muraki has an early morning nic-fit and heads to the roof for some smoke and fresh air.
Rating: PG-13 for now, but it's looking like it'll progress into an R rating later.
[Light was creeping through his window as faint as a phantom, and it didn't break the shadows apart as opposed to washing them in a grainy blue tint. This wasn’t nighttime, but it didn’t really qualify as morning, either: it was the hour in between where daylight was slowly being dragged from the dead. And he was awake to experience it. As a matter of fact, he was far more conscious than nature was at this moment.
He watches the world develop contours, bringing his bedroom into sharper focus. He stares at the same corner of his ceiling for ten minutes before deciding he didn't like the clash between the catatonic morning and his buzzing brain. He could get up, shuffle around his apartment and wait on his hands, or he could venture out into the world and watch it sleep.
When was the last time he had a cigarette? He puts on his shoes and coat and then leaves the apartment.
The decision to go up to the roof occurs to him after he acknowledges the familiar way downstairs and decides it wasn't worth the effort. Instead he treks up five flights of stairs and pushes open an unfamiliar door, met with a cold burst of February air before he even walks outside.]
/Will stop editing this like a crazy person
[He holds your gaze for a few seconds, entirely casual. Even when it occurs to him what a look could suggest--even promise--and he wonders what might happen if he tested you. Would you shy away from him if his look became significant?
Instead he breaks the moment, flicking his eyes onto the scenery past your shoulder. It seems almost darker without the strokes of lightning, and he sees the random scattering of stars in the sky. Pretty.
But no, he doesn't give a damn about the view. Especially in this world. Perhaps he's just biased--have you ever seen Kyoto, Law?]
You have a very respectable morning routine. Fitting for a man who carries a sword. [A slight laugh.] Unfortunately my motives for being here are not as healthy as yours.
[He emphasizes this point by opening his trench coat and reaching into one of the interior pockets, pulling out a zippo and a pack of Mild Sevens after fumbling for a moment. Once he picks one out of the pack, he seems to forget you for a moment as he concentrates on the ritual of lighting his cigarette. His movements are well-practiced, like getting dressed in the morning: he bites down on the filter and cups one hand above the lighter, using his opposite thumb to flick the wheel. A weak flame ignites, flapping in the wind and charring the edge of his cigarette. So he has to brace himself against the wind, strike the lighter again and suck until it's fully lit.
He snaps the lighter shut with a metallic click and returns it to his pocket. Then Muraki pinches the cigarette between two fingers and exhales a stream of smoke into the air, taking care to direct it away from you.]
...That is correct. And now it would be proper etiquette for you to answer me, wouldn't it? [He looks amused.] If I'm not mistaken, we are in person.
no subject
But he does wonder what you're thinking about. Wonders how you'd react if he became a bit more teasingly flirtatious. You like men - what kind of man is up in the air - and wonders if he fits with that. Wonders what you percieve. Will you see him, or just like so many others, just a distortion of who he really is?
He supposes he can live with that, either way.]
Mmm? It'll get better.
[He has seen the darkness and the depths of ocean trenches. The wild unyielding force of the polar storm. The varied jewels of islands scattered carelessly across the Line. The depravity in the hearts of men and the humanity in one young woman's.
But no, Muraki.
He has never seen Kyoto.]
So I see. [Law doesn't smoke. His favorite vice is caffeine. Though this places drives a man to consider it.]
That we are. But. This is not answer enough? [Teasing. Utterly amused here. They are in person - and this meeting has been answer enough to Law's satisfaction.] Aa, but I live just below here. [Aka, eighth floor. Good views (great for watching people coming and going) and easy access to the roof.]
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But it would be an unbelievable shame if you didn't have an open mind.
...Of course, he has to wonder if a straight man would've allowed the journal conversation to carry on the way it did, with all its implications. He doubts you're dense enough to miss that.
And he's already decided you will like it--Kyoto, that is. Your apparent patience and calm manner would compliment the old architecture and zen gardens. As far as he's seen...though he stops and finds it a bit odd that he's associating you with something almost personal to him.]
It's not a question of what building you live in, Mr. Law. That much is clear. [Unless you make a habit of hanging out on random rooftops like a superhero.] But there are several floors. And more than a few apartments on those floors, making it rather difficult to just "drop by," as you put it before. [His lips quirk around his cigarette.] Unless of course, that is your intention.
[Because you still suspect something from him, don't you?]
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... likely not. And what implications they were, weren't they? He'll suppose you'll see what an open mind he has.
And as you think him in Kyoto, he takes one moment to indulge in wondering how you'd take to his home. His nakama. But... he knows you are not meant for the Grand Line. To wish otherwise is foolish.]
[The Cheshire smile widens, turns slightly more flirtatious. Oh how did you know about that? He likes his rooftops you know.] Oh? Was that my intention? Are you sure about that? [He pulls out his right hand from the pocket and lazily points down.] As I said, just below here. [HINT.]
[Naturally, Muraki, naturally.]
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He hums inside his throat once he belatedly remembers you said something and moves, gravitating first to the center of the roof, and then a little bit closer until the marks on your skin comes into sharper focus.
Not scars, or bruises. Ink. And a lot of it. A splotch on the back of your hand that was still hard to make out in the dim lighting, and across on your forearm, what looks like an old-fashioned ship helm (that was the closest item in his mental files that Muraki could connect to the shape--though he wasn't sure what that meant in regards to what he thinks he knows about you) inside a larger, spiked circle.
He tilts his head, not even attempting to be discreet about his staring.]
You're tattooed. [He puts it simply and without emotion, almost as if he were commenting on the weather.]
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The smile becomes more inquiring. Intrigued. Now why are you asking about those?]
I am.
[Many people are.]
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Might I take a closer look? [He holds his free palm out before he even finishes his question, relaxed and open with his body language, which opposes how much he anticipates...wants your compliance. You might also notice he's reaching for your left arm more than the right.
Not him. Or anyone else he knows very well. In his country there is an indelible link between tattoos and the mafia--especially large ones. The cultural part of him is a little shocked to see a doctor--even a foreign one--with such bold markings. But another part is thrilled by the disagreement between your appearance and status. It suggests there's more to you than that. You're not just a pretty face, are you, Law?]
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You certainly may not grab him.
(Something underneath the affection signals threat and power crackles in his veins because though he... loves?... you, and wants you, he doesn't trust you.
It is subconcious, and what reaches the surface is confusing. How can he want you and be driven back at the same time?)
Shifting to the side, the smile doesn't fade, the inner turmoil doesn't reach his eyes, and he raises his right arm and spreads his fingers.]
As long as it's just a look.
[No he isn't. But didn't the sword give that away?]
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...Of course he was more than capable of forcing himself on others. He did it once in the past, and he didn't lose sleep over that fact. But that's not how he wants this to happen. It would be a mockery to his feelings: the curiosity, respect and visceral attraction.
He wasn't all sharp edges and dark intentions: he was a gentleman. A romantic. He meant what he said about seducing you.
If given half the chance--the consent--he would do more than just grab.
But for now, he very politely lifts his hand to fit your palm, sliding his fingers over your pulse point and uses that to pull himself closer. There's a slight rush in making contact for the first time that makes his breath hitch, and he hides it well.
He marvels at the contrast in skin tone before he tilts his head and speaks.] They're very beautiful. ...Any significance?
no subject
His hands are rough, sword calloused. Not what you'd expect from a surgeon's hands, no? But still as exquisitely sensitive to touch. His fingers are still, his pleasure at the contact contained, and clashing discordantly with what he feels distantly below and what he generally permits people he doesn't know well when it comes to his own body. This is not quite skating the edge of what he's implicitly consented to, but it comes close both with its boldness and the inherent and implied sensuality in the gesture.
Exotically pale against his own bronze. He wonders anemia for a moment, before putting that thought on the back shelf to be chewed over later. You seen perfectly healthy.]
Beautiful? [Eyebrows raise slightly. He is a man. From a world where men are men and held to that standard. Beautiful is not a word thrown around. Well, unless you are from Kamabakka Kingdom.] I've never heard a sailing man's ink described such. Or a fighter's for that matter.
[The ones on his forearms he shares with some of his nakama, and yes there are stories for each tattoo and meanings and significance for all. One's a warning, an honest warning, like the jolly rogers they all wear back home are honest warnings. The ones on the back of his hands...]
[He hums.] Some more than others. You seem so fascinated by my art...
Are you interested in some ink of your own?
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Don't be a drag, just be a queen, Law. That's all I'm going to say to that.The calluses don't come as a surprise to Muraki when he already knows that you're a swordsman. It's yet another point of contrast between your hands and his, which are a bit softer and treated frequently with lotion. He keeps his touch innocent, two fingers hooked around your radiocarpal joint for the sole purpose of holding onto you as he skims your tattoos.]
I'm only a doctor, Mr. Law. I wouldn’t have any idea what fighters say to one another. [Of course he catches the first part of that statement as well, and one of his eyebrows quirks with interest.] Are you fond of the sea?
[It doesn't faze him in the slightest to think of another man as beautiful, let alone address him as such. It was a unisex state of being, as far as he was concerned. Anything could be beautiful. Even warnings.
He chuckles at the question.] Aside from the uproar it would cause at home, I'm afraid it's not really my cup of tea. I'll leave it to you to be artistic.
[He lets go--but he can't without being a little daring. He slides his hand back just as gentle as he touched you, but curls his fingertips before the contact breaks, brushing your palm for a brief fraction of a second. It could've been an accident, or a last minute distraction--if that's what you want them to be. But if you understand his suggestion...
Of course there's a risk. His eyes flick onto the nodachi on the side: he wonders vaguely if he'll be injured for attempting to gauge your interest in him (and he won't move again until he knows). Not that he appears threatened as he turns to observe the skyline, tapping his cigarette again before putting it between his lips.]
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Don't you mean King?The skimming of his tattoos send pulses of warmth through him and prickles at the same time. That now IS skirting that line of implied consent - there is nothing clinical or innocent in that touch or the way your fingers have hooked onto his wrist and he feels it.
And he wonders what would happen if he allowed a little more. Wants more but no. This isn't the way he rolls - and the ball's been in your court long enough, Muraki. Time to starting turning the tables.]
You'll get one soon enough. Most of Luceti is composed of fighters of some sort of nature or another. I'm afraid you'll hear plenty.
It is my home. [Sea loved and sea damned: something any Devil Fruit user who thrives on the waves is.]
Mm? You make it sound like it would cause something of an utterly outrageous public scandal. [Because seriously, being utterly tattooed is not a big deal in Law's world.] I admit, I don't know terribly much about Japan - it doesn't exist where I'm from - but is tattooing a cultural taboo there? Such a thing isn't an issue where I'm from.
[His head tilts and he looks interested.]
Though if ink isn't your prefered form of artistry, just what is your cup of tea? [Suddenly teasing.] Aside from, perhaps, a fine blend of green.
[That? That does not quite register as a suggestion to him - it registers a little more like a challenge - and while there are still prickles going up and down his spine, the rush of fire is greater.
As to whether or not you're about to be slashed...
He walks to where he's propped up his sword and hat, and his fingers run across the fur on the hat before decisively planting it on his head.
Smiles. Brightly. The first rays of pure sunlight break through across the horizon. It seems you're safe... for now.]
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[Not an outrageous public scandal, but it would be shocking, and unheard of among his generation. He was already in a minority for wearing earrings at his age: he can't imagine how his dear, sweet Ukyou would feel about him coming home with sleeves. Oriya would either be exhausted and accepting or demand what kind of drugs he was on. And that almost made him consider it--almost. He inhales smoke.] In a sense. [Exhales.] It's true, being tattooed carries a certain stigma there, and even makes it difficult to enter certain places. More often than not, it's considered the mark of a criminal...
...But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Mr. Law?
[His tone softens to a level that's almost warm, rolling the last few syllables off his tongue like something valuable he was admiring. It was rhetorical because he knows you wouldn't when you're not from the same world (but your home is the sea--that might explain the ship helms on your forearms). He's just playing with your last name. Law and lawbreaking. It's all quite funny to him.
Perhaps it is a challenge. Or a statement. In this environment, it's sometimes necessary to use a secret language to convey unconventional desires and seek out the interested parties. Those who will find meaning in something small.
But other than that, he just wants to touch you. Plain and simple. Your tattoos gave him his first excuse to do so, and it still lingers with him, the burning sense that this wasn't enough. Touching your wrist just opens a threshold of other possibilities. Other places to touch.
When he feels your attention drift off of him, he shifts to size you up again with absolute discretion. He laughs again, voice returning to its usual guarded amusement as he shrugs his shoulders.] I'm afraid you just pegged it. But I'm much more of a coffee person.
And you? Any other fancies besides marking your body with a needle? [That shouldn't have made a faint shiver run down his spine.]
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[It generally involves broken bones, bruises, bleeding, and those unspoken understandings between warriors.
You are not a warrior, Muraki. He can't decide if Luceti making you into one would be a good thing or not.]
[Sudden, genuine snort of mirth.] Sorry, Mister Muraki, but I'm a Captain. [Pirate captain. This is an honest answer - because he is and he does. It also might be a little misleading, because a doctor, a fighter, a man with tattoos, a man of the sea, a man who finds being called beautiful strange... it might indicate something else now, with admission of his rank. Some kind of military. And it isn't uncommon for military doctors to be ranked 'Captain'. Glancing over his shoulder, smiling.] Do you?
[He is teasing you. Whether or not you are a criminal is unclear, but he would not be surprised if you were. Not with the type of vibes you are sending out. And really... that doesn't matter.
(Except, the part of his mind points out, buried under the affection... unless they were certain types of crimes. There is a lot he can tolerate and accept and even applaud - pirate - but some things...
No.)
As to what he wants... he'd rather touch you himself, than just be touched. He's simply restrained that desire for now. What he wants is outweighed by his desire to know. To understand why you're provoking such conflicting feelings.
He thinks he'll know very soon now.]
[Chuckling some more, teasing coming to full force.] A fellow caffiene addict, huh?
Oh, I have a couple, but I asked you first. What do you enjoy? Aside from tea and coffee of course.
[You'll have show him some of your cards before he shows you anymore of his.]
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So in a sense, blood and bruising is a cognate between this warrior language and the one he already understands.
He meets your gaze and smiles. This time, when he feels electricity skip up his spine, it’s more logical: the view is exquisite.] I’m a doctor, Mr. Law. [He repeats himself in a plain voice.] You’ll have a difficult time finding one who's entirely innocent.
[Which was a two-way street. If he was a doctor and tainted because of it, then he could assume the same about you--if that was all he had to assume from. But the tattoos (the general rugged appearance), the nodachi, the discussion of fighters...and on top of all that, you call yourself a captain. You seem like a fantasy character more than anything. Straight out of a shounen comic.
It indicates something, but he needs a few more facts in this very interesting game of 'getting to know you' before he tucks you away as a pirate.
He becomes momentarily fascinated with the smoke curling from the lit end of his cigarette. Then he shuts his eyes for a second, either visualizing his next move, or just feeling the sunlight creeping on his face.]
You did ask me. But I believe you already know, apart from the necessary caffeine vice.
So it wouldn't be very fair, would it?
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We come back to what was said in the woods. About how the most careful doctor can't escape death. And it resonates here. With doctors and innocence.
You haven't escaped death. You aren't innocent or as pure as the white you favor. His wonderings if you are a criminal are confirmed. It just fits. Along with the prickles still running up and down his spine. And all the little things noticed and learned in prior encounters.
You are a very dangerous man. You are likely a very deadly man.
And.
And he still loves you.]
Perhaps I do. But fair or not, I still want to hear it from your lips.
[And before you open your eyes, and before you take that next drag of that cigarette, the location of the voice shifts. He's not watching the sunrise anymore - like a fantasy, he seems to have evaporated from that spot in the moment between one blink and the next. All there is is air. Air and a sword.
The voice is now coming from behind. Close. Whispering into the shell of your ear lowly, warm breath caressing the skin. Like a lover. Touching, almost. But not.
But if you should whirl, you'll catch nothing but air.]
So... Mister Muraki. What do you fancy?
[You laid down a challenge earlier, a statement and suggestion all in one. Now Law's laying down his.
How do you rise to it?]
no subject
He’s lethal, but it’s clear that you’re not harmless, either. Or even one-hundred percent pure. This type of desire only ran thick for the pain and transgression in others: perhaps you weren't the same as him and Tsuzuki, but a kindred species. And of course this possibility, this potential darkness inside your heart, causes him to love you--need you--even more.]
From my lips? [He chuckles at the choice of words. He enjoys this chase, but he doesn’t feel cornered yet.] And what if--
[But his sentence stops there, because when he looks up, he finds that he’s addressing a sword and the empty space where your body used to be. And neither that nor your nodachi can appreciate his suggestive banter. His smile fades into a look of valid bewilderment, and he starts to turn.
That action misfires, resulting in an obvious jerk of his back muscles when he feels breath on his ear, a focused contrast to the chill surrounding him. His adrenaline rushes at the threat of having someone behind him, surprised and annoyed at the intrusion (his brain running a single obstinate thought, "How dare you?"). But he could chisel beneath that and find an unexpected subterranean layer of excitement: norepinephrine increased. He hates your boldness--and wants it at the same time.
He doesn’t intend to answer your question, but he pivots around--and nothing but the sound and feeling of his coat whipping around his ankles, and more empty space. As if he had imagined this entire encounter.
Disappointing to say the least. And almost disconcerting. But he knows he’s not psychotic--apart from that, your sword is still present.
It’s a sudden yet noticeable shift from interesting to bland in the atmosphere. He curls some hair behind his ear and glances at his cigarette one more time before he drops it and crushes it beneath his shoe, moving to exit the roof. By now he was accustomed to anticlimactic ends.
As he once said, it only prolonged his pleasure. He could wait.]
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