|Fic - Demands of Necessity; Concerto of Winter Morn: For Violin and Cello
||[Sep. 20th, 2006|10:27 pm]
Demands of Necessity
Rating: PG-13, violence implied
Genre: Gen? Angst? Dark?
For Leila, who wanted a story with Fuji and Tezuka, killers, with a knife somewhere in the equation.
Tezuka didn’t believe in waste or excess. His primary concern was the physical aspect of the target, which is why he employed an inordinate amount of several chemicals that, when properly mixed and in its purest form, would send a bull elephant back to its Maker.
Fuji was all about destruction. His weapons were his words, the tools for the act were irrelevant. They were professionals after all; a toothpick would probably suffice (only it would take a longer time than the flamethrower). Piece by piece he would attack his targets until they welcomed the final blow. For a price, the principal could even bear witness to the annihilation of the annoyance. Fuji was all about pleasing the principal, to a point that it could sicken Tezuka to the point where he would not look at Fuji while the other talked, softly, about how the principal was so pleased with how he had crushed the bug.
He had watched Fuji kill once, when they were younger, when their hits still went for below the acceptable price.
And once was enough. In the end the target had fallen on his belly and crawled towards Fuji, begging and pleading for his release from what Fuji had inflicted in his mind. Fuji had smiled and carefully broke the target’s neck with a swift twist of his hands.
Afterward, Tezuka watched as those same hands washed with anti-bacterial soap that smelled of lavender and chamomile, before taking a knife and running it over the delicate pad of one finger with a deceptive tenderness. Fuji shook his head and began to sharpen the knife with brisk movements of his hands and tools.
“Maybe I should’ve let you use the arsenic, but the client was insistent that I do it myself,” Fuji’s pale pink lips formed a pout that looked fetching on that playful face. “And he was very nice about it too, using please and it would make me so happy. And his face was so lovely after that crack.” Fuji’s voice sounded giddy and sharp to Tezuka’s ears.
Contented with the knife’s sharpness, Fuji brought it down with a soft swish onto the vegetables.
Dinner that night smelled of iron, and Tezuka’s eyes never strayed from Fuji, who was nervous and giggly to the point of seeming flighty.
That night Fuji crawled into bed with Tezuka for the first time, and Tezuka was the one who stayed awake until four while Fuji slumbered peacefully beside him.
After that night they did their jobs separately.
As much as it disgusted him, this profitable enterprise that everyone seemed to need, judging from the calls and walk-ins they got, he knew he’d never stop.
Fuji’s hunger was enormous, larger than anything Tezuka was able to give him on his own, that what had begun as a job now became a necessity. Fuji needed this, this formless world held together by blood and debt and an unusual honor. Fuji would always need this.
And Tezuka would always need Fuji.
And another one of Leila's prompts, where instead they are musicians. Ohjoy. Inspired mostly by my own experience with my violin. I will probably end up writing more in this universe.
Concerto of Winter Morn: For Violin and Cello
Rating: G, practically
Genre: Gen, I think.
“There’s something just charming about vibrato, is there not? The way the fingers move…”
Tezuka looked up from searching for a crack in the floor for his cello’s pin. Fuji was staring at his fingers fixedly, holding them up so the light from the window shone through the cracks and set his skin on fire. He shrugged.
“It implies control, and it gives a sense of hidden power and strength… it’s as if your fingers have so much energy that they shake and gives the most beautiful sound to your note,” Fuji’s voice softened and he lowered his hand. Fluidly he lifted his violin and placed his cheek reverently against the wood. He drew his bow gently across the strings, his eyes sliding shut and himself sliding away from the world.
Tezuka could not place what Fuji was playing. It could’ve been Canon, the third movement, or the andante of Mozart’s Third Concerto, but his eyes were locked on the way Fuji’s fingers slid, effortlessly, on the strings.
Against the light from the early winter morning outside, Fuji looked ethereal. And completely unreal. Tezuka felt his knees weaken and he sat down, pulling his cello closer to him, his fingers tightening around his bow.
His fingers began to move of their own will, onto the strings of his own instrument, and to his surprise, his notes blended with the exquisite melody that seemed to spill straight from Fuji’s strings.
Fuji’s eyes were still closed, but Tezuka could feel them in the back of his head, open and staring, with intense concentration, at his fingers, at the notes he hardly knew he was reaching for.
There was nothing but ringing silence when they ended. And then Fuji opened his eyes for real and smiled.
And, despite himself, Tezuka felt his own lips widen with a similar giddy joy.