Work Text:
kyoto, 1020 ad - early spring.
“Will you be staying long, Miya-san?” the inn-keeper purrs, ancient eyes filled with curiosity that brims over the rims, likened to water tethering at the rounded edges of china cups.
His smile for an answer is mellow in appearance, cunning in passing. The edges of his lips turn up ever so slightly, they part within a breath’s measure to display the rows of pearly teeth, immaculate and heavenly, similar to stars hung up in an indigo cavern above. His eyes are relaxed, warm pools of dark honey that seem to droop in sleepiness but given no indication of such.
Slumped over the mahogany counter with rough fingers that dance aimlessly across the wood, Miya Atsumu is without a care in the world as he cocks his head to the side like an inquisitive fox, resting it on a propped up elbow. The inn-keeper is drawn to his presence like a moth pulled in by the flickering flame of an oil lamp, leaning in little by little.
“Will I be getting a discount if I do?” Atsumu replies, voice as sweet as the honey of his eyes. “I am a returning customer, you know.”
The inn-keeper chuckles, a hearty sound that resonates in Atsumu’s eardrums. He mimics the latter’s posture, cocking his head in the opposite direction of Atsumu instead.
“Returning customer or not,” the inn-keeper responds, curious eyes now hard and steely, “I have a business to run, Miya-san. And during these times where customers are so few, I can’t afford to be giving out discounted rates when I already charge so low.”
Miya Atsumu’s foxy smile drops, a lowly pout forming instead as a pitiful whine emits from the base of his throat. He regards the inn-keeper with a despairing look, but the man shakes his head in response.
With a heavy sigh he reaches into the folds of his kimono, pulling out a velvet pouch that has seen better days. The soft rustle of coins against the fabric make the inn-keepers eyebrows to perk up in the same curiosity as before. And although he might hide the glint in his eyes, Atsumu’s puppy pout gives way to an even more cunning smile than before.
Dangling the pouch in front of the owner as though he is a cat, Atsumu gleams with a child-like happiness as the inn-keeper snatches it, before waving him off. He disappears into the back, shaking his head as he mutters curses on the boy.
The setting sun casts a deep orange tint over the land, slight hues of indigo and violet reaching out from the oncoming twilight to welcome the onset of the moon. There are a few stars about, tiny little dots that sparkle at the tiniest whisper of the wind.
The sunlight filters through the banisters, leaving shadows of prison bars against the wooden flooring. For such a well-maintained and posh inn, it seems unreasonable to charge very low for rent. It made him feel a little guilty about bribing the inn-keeper.
He wanders around the garden, rough fingertips brushing against the pillowy petals of sunflowers and camellias, signifying the oncoming of spring. If his deductions were right, the cherry blossoms would bloom in a couple of days, and the ground would be littered with their pink feathery blooms.
He hopes he’d be fed in time so he wouldn’t be fussy.
The koi pond, perfectly placed in the center of the garden, is rusty. A burning red sun is now reflected in the shallow pool, turning the water and the fauna in it a reddish brown. The koi swim about peacefully, often taking heed to the bubbling stream connected to it. Lily-pads float along the surface of the water aimlessly, and now and then he dips his fingers into the cool liquid, waiting with immaculate patience for one of them to bump against his skin.
The sun has disappeared below the horizon, and now the last wisps of red and orange remain, soon to be overcome by the blankets of violet and navy. More stars have appeared, as Atsumu can see their reflection in the water, speckled across the sky like stray grains of salt.
This is the closest Atsumu can ever feel to heaven; there is serenity in this garden like no other, something that soothes even his motionless heart. He sighs, one of inner peace and comfort, and rests his body against the softness of the freshly cut grass. His hand still dallies in the water, fingers intertwining with horn-wort in a loose embrace.
The moon stares down at him, a white plate of soft light dotted with ivory along its circumference. It's nothing but a gentle gaze, akin to a mother looking down at the child in her arms. It’s soft, delicate-fragile even, that if he could reach up and even graze its surface he knows it will shatter.
It’s just like mortality. A fragile concept that could shatter at any moment, impacted by even the smallest touch of uncertainty and fear. Precious and passing, like the cycles of the moon.
As Atsumu watches the moon, and sees the stars twinkle and pass into the deeper expanses of the space above, there’s something that itches at the base of his neck. A contemplative itch, one that makes him think and perceive and understand.
Time is delicate and fragile, like mortality. But more than shattering it apart like glass, the wounds time dealt ran deeper, ones that you struggled to get rid of no matter what. And while time seems to pass away, those wounds never heal.
In the thousand years he’s been alive, he’s seen hurt, pain. He’s had his share of suffering and anguish, but nothing so strong as to leave a mark on his soul. Perhaps Atsumu can be glad that time has done him this one blessing, has let him live long enough to not carry any regrets as the years died and new ones arose.
He hums softly, an unknown tune he’d picked up at one of the street markets he passed by on the way here. A pleasant and comforting tune, like a mother’s lullaby.
Atsumu is just about to make it to the chorus when the growl of his stomach interrupts him, and he winces in disappointment.
"I hate it here."
Despite the darkening clouds that hang low in the sky, the filtered sunlight is warm on his skin, making it prick with the development of goosebumps along the expanse of exposed areas.
Springtime sunshine is a wonder Atsumu has only come to appreciate quite recently, after he has spent last year drinking to his heart’s content on some lonely hill in the countryside.
The cherry blossoms have bloomed, and a soft breeze wanders in the atmosphere, gently urging the flowers to cascade downwards in a pastel spiral. A faint sweet scent arises, one that pricks at Atsumu’s nostrils, a tickling sensation that brings him a tiny faint feeling of pleasure.
He’s not one to be a hopeless romantic, but Atsumu can’t help but admire the beauty and simplicity of it all, and imagine what it would be like to sit under this pink canopy next to the person you love.
It’s beginning to drizzle; Atsumu can feel the light drops of water touch his face gently, sliding off of him in smooth succession. It makes the fallen petals of the flowers above stick to his face, one even humorously balancing on the tip of his nose. The warmth of the sunshine from before has now left him, and now a little bit of chill is starting to creep in through his bloodstream. Acknowledging that he'd rather be seated in front of a fireplace and warm up instead of being a fool and catch a cold, Atsumu manages to heave himself off the now damp forest floor and trek back to the inn.
But something stops him in his tracks—a sweet melody that floats through the drizzle, sounding similar to the tune he was humming yesterday. The same random marketplace tune, the annoying jingle that got stuck in his head for hours.
Atsumu now turns around, feet squelching in the damp grass as he spins on his heels frantically, almost slipping. He picks up a light jog, the drizzle now picking up its own speed as he makes his way towards the source of the song.
He’s drawn to the music, like a pied piper leading children on to a darker path. The drizzle comes down stronger now, hitting the exposed back of his neck like nails pricking skin, sharp and passing.
Atsumu comes to a clearing, a good bit away from the cherry blossom trees. He pushes through the overgrown bushes and wildflowers, blinking rain droplets out of his eyes as it comes down even stronger. But even with the force of all this rain the sweet music continues on, an endless stream of auditory beauty.
The trees have parted a bit here, letting in a little bit more of rain to seep through their branches. It seems to be a grove of some sort, as there’s a myriad of flowers planted all over, ranging from camellias to chrysanthemums. Flowers that seem to glow in the incessant rain, like this is a different world entirely.
Amongst the scattered growth of flowers sits a boulder, weathered down and grey like the clouds above. And seated on top of that boulder is a young man, legs tucked underneath his body, hands held up as he continues to play, unaware of the visitor.
His hair is what Atsumu perceives to be a light brown, if it were not for the rain that has drenched it and turned it a darker shade. Posture is one of perfection; matchmakers would swoon at the sight of a straight and rigid back, and a head so perfectly poised to accept the oncoming showers.
Atsumu notices soft eyelashes that rest against smooth skin, can see the tip of an upturned nose that twitches every now and then. Lips are set in a pursed line to allow the smallest of streams of air to go through and produce such a beautiful tune.
The rain begins to lessen, and soon enough there are but a few stray drops that fall at uneven intervals, plopping down into previously formed pools of rainwater. Light begins to peek out from behind the strands of dark clouds, piercing through a gloomy veil and illuminating the clearing in warm light. The warmth from before seeps into his body again, and Atsumu can feel that icy blood of his rush with fervor, eager to envelope him in a warm embrace.
But he is completely fixated on the person before him, who seems to have paid no attention to the change in the weather. The ghostly light from the flowers before is now replaced by dazzling shimmers of water against the rays of the sun, sparkling like the daytime stars that they are.
He continues to play, as Atsumu watches him with dreamy eyes, his head moving along to the languid movements of the flutist before him. There seems to be an ethereal aura around him, and human though he may be, the overwhelming feeling of a higher divinity is ever present.
Perhaps this is an angel. Perhaps this is where he enters heaven.
A sudden rustle of a squirrel in the bushes startles both of them; Atsumu lets out a soft hiss at the rodent as the flautist drops his flute in surprise. The sounds of scampering and whispered curses fill the gap the music has left, as a squirrel chitters away contently.
Maybe now would be a good time to talk to him.
"That's some beautiful playing," Atsumu purrs, honey-dripped and mellow. "Have ya played long?"
He cannot see the startled expression on the young man's face, how wide his eyes have become in realization that he's had an audience all this while.
All Atsumu can see is the stiffening of a back, rigid shoulders, and a flute gripped tightly in one hand. Did he anger him?
"Well?" Atsumu presses, now leaning against a tree trunk casually. He raises an eyebrow at his back, inquisitive.
But there is no response. Only a flurry of movement: in a flash Atsumu watches this young man leap off the boulder in a smooth jump, legs landing into the soft surface with a muffled thud, dusting himself off with his free hand. The flute is pocketed, and a wide-brimmed hat that Atsumu had not seen earlier is planted onto that drenched head, hands coming to firmly fix it in place. He is about to walk up to him and inquire even more, but the flautist takes off at lightning speed, disappearing into the forest.
"Oi. That's not nice."
The moon is out, full like a saucer of milk. Its light coats the blossoms on the trees a ghostly pink, illuminating their tips in a sheer white. It's hauntingly pretty.
The innkeeper sighs, cheeks flushing in pleasure. Atsumu continues to drink, not minding the careless fingers that are nestled in his hair, urging him to go deeper, to satisfy his hunger even more.
"Miya-san," the innkeeper murmurs, and Atsumu's ears prick up like a fox's at the mention of his name.
"Will you…ah...be staying long…?" the innkeeper draws out, eyelids fluttering.
Atsumu gives him a sly grin in response, choosing to lap at the blood instead. The innkeeper doesn't seem to mind; to the young bloodthirsty vampire it doesn't matter if he drunk him dry .
His already-attentive ears catch the soft melody of a flute. He reckons that it's probably from the clearing, given how clear and sweet it sounds. His mouth leaves the innkeeper's neck, and his victim lets out a soft whine of disappointment. Atsumu pays him no heed; all his senses are now fired up, sensitive to even the slightest shift of a blade of grass.
It's been roughly two weeks since Atsumu has heard the flute play. He'd been to the nearby marketplace often, where he had first heard the tune, in a vain effort to track the mystery flautist. And much to his expected dismay, no one seemed to know about the light-haired man that played a piper's song in the rain.
Atsumu leaves the innkeeper in the grass, who has now curled up in a ball and gone fast to sleep—he figures he'll be knocked out until noon, giving Atsumu more than enough time to pack his things and leave for the next town—and dusts his kimono off, before settling into a light jog.
He makes his way back to the clearing, where he suspects his sneaky musician to be. His suspicions are right—the flautist is in his usual place, seated upon the rock like a prophet about to dish out some age-old wisdom. His head is cocked to the side, the moonlight illuminating half of his face in pale light.
Ghastly? Yes. Haunting? Even more so. But by all the gods in heaven would Miya Atsumu dare lie and say he didn't feel even a twinge of attraction.
It's an incorrigible itch, one that picks the skin of the back of his neck and one that he knows won't go away unless he opens his mouth and has a proper conversation with this man.
And so Atsumu approaches him from behind, careful to not make any sudden noises. He's grateful that it's night, so that there are no pesky squirrels to scare the wits out of the both of them for the second time.
Suddenly aware that there might be some blood on his chin from his previous feasting, he pauses to hastily wipe it off with a quick motion, before continuing his stalk.
The flautist continues to play, oblivious to Atsumu's ever-growing figure. He must've noticed later, when an inspecting eyelid opens to see a looming shadow from behind him. He turns, spinning like a top, and is met with the foxy grin of one Miya Atsumu.
"Hiya," the dark-haired male quips, a hand placed on his waist like an inquisitive salesman. His eyes scream curiosity, but his face is relaxed nevertheless. An enigma of expression.
"Ya kinda ran away last time we met, so I didn't get to properly introduce myself." Atsumu's foxy grin enlarges, and a sense of unease develops in the flautist. That's too eager of a grin even for the children in his neighborhood.
"I'm Atsumu," he continues, now edging a bit closer since there's been no sign of hostility. "Miya Atsumu." The flautist can't help but scooch back a bit.
The ever-evolving sense of unease threatens to rip out his heart and eat it in front of him, but he's determined to not let it overcome him. Clearing his throat, he smoothen out the wrinkles in his kimono, before resting his head in his hands.
"Yaku," the flautist replies, bored almost. Atsumu's foxy grin is now cheeky in nature. He's learnt his name.
"Well, Yakkun," Atsumu chips, now leaning against the Boulder, dark honeyed eyes simmering with joy, "where'd ya learn to play like that?"
Yaku stiffens up, obviously not acclimated to the nickname. "Firstly, don't call me Yakkun. We've only met twice," he mutters, arms now crossing themselves in front of his chest. "Secondly, it's none of your business."
Atsumu's signature puppy pout appears, but it doesn't have any effect on Yaku, who looks at him, unfazed.
"That's mean," Atsumu whines, looking up at Yaku expectantly. "I was really starting to feel a connection between us both, ya know."
Yaku rolls his eyes, slipping off the boulder smoothly. He pockets the flute before dusting himself off, and his arms untangle themselves to reach down and pick up the hat on the ground. Upon closer inspection, Atsumu finds it to be similar to a rice farmer's.
"So yer a farmer?" Atsumu inquires, following Yaku as he makes his way out of the clearing and into the patch of forest ahead. Though much shorter in stature compared to Atsumu's heftier body, Yaku still carries a very authoritative and imposing presence with his gait and posture.
"Again," Yaku begins, his tone slightly annoyed, "it's none of your business."
Atsumu huffs, and crosses his own arms in front of his chest in indignation. Childish though it may be, he can't really put on the rigid front he loves to don when he can't get his way.
He's a brat like that.
"Stop following me," Yaku hisses, once they've passed a grove of plum trees. Some of the moonlight slips through the branches, lighting up the tips of dried leaves.
"Just making sure no one attacks ya," Atsumu replies, his cheeky grin back. The shorter male tuts, clearly not interested in entertaining this behavior.
They finally come to the edge, from which Atsumu can see a bustling town. There are people still about, and he can pick up the faint shrieks of joy from children even from this far.
"We've reached the edge. Now can you please go home?" Yaku looks at him pleadingly, and Atsumu purses his lips into a pout.
"But we didn't even get to talk!"
"I've spent more than enough time with you for one lifetime that I never want to hear you speak ever again," Yaku snaps, fixing him with a look.
Atsumu lets out another whine, now plopping into the grass, tucking his feet underneath him. He turns his head away in disappointment, chewing at his bottom lip.
Are you really a grown man?
Yaku shakes his head, beginning to turn away from the pouting kid he'd had the misfortune to pick up. All he wanted was to play peacefully, with no interruptions. Why did the universe have to throw a demanding brat at him?
He begins to walk, but a sharp tug on the corner of his kimono brings him crashing down onto the grass, his head perfectly landing on Atsumu's lap. His tired eyes stare up into the giant honeyed pools of glee above.
"What is it now?" Yaku grumbles, and in the moonlight, Atsumu's eyes glint like a fox ready to take down its prey.
"I want to hear you play again," Atsumu murmurs, voice as soft as the grass below. It seems like time stands still; the breeze that had just begun to pick up has disappeared, and the quiet stirrings of crickets chirping in the ground are no longer heard.
"What?"
"I want to hear you play again," Atsumu repeats, his voice firmer than before. "So you and I, let's meet again. In this clearing. Deal?"
The glee from before is now replaced by a cold steeliness. Yet it does not deter Yaku one bit; in fact he finds himself giving Atsumu an endearing smile in response.
The other male is a bit taken aback, as he now leans backwards for Yaku to straighten up and stand again. He huffs as he dusts himself off, giving him a questionable look as the endearment has now turned into curiosity.
Atsumu makes out cat-like irises, dark in color, which glint in the moonlight every time he blinks. A sharp nose, sharp features, soft hair—attractive features for a rice farmer (if he's guessed right). Lips that seem to carry more emotion than they speak, plump and full like a plum during harvest season.
He's still fully convinced that Yaku is an angel.
"Man, you coulda just said so," Yaku says after a while, running a sheepish hand through his hair. "You didn't need to pull me down like that."
Atsumu grins again, relishing in his achievement. Small victories go a long way.
"Fine, we'll make a deal. We'll meet each other again in this clearing, and I'll play for you again." Yaku gives him a triumphant look. "But you can't follow me home again."
A puppy's joy is what swells Atsumu entirely: he nods excitedly, eyes closed in pure bliss. Yaku stifles a laugh, clearing his throat once more and giving Atsumu that same endearing smile from before.
"It's a deal," Atsumu responds, finding strength to stand up again. Another goofy grin is shot at Yaku, who groans and gives him a slight nudge on his shoulder.
"Now go home, will you?"