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Slouched over a desk dimly lit by the electrical lamp to his side, Yushiro’s right index finger trails along with the text of his book. The index finger of his other hand taps rapidly the very edge of the desk, whilst his eyes attempt to follow the written words. He finds his mind beginning to irresponsibly drift away, as he reads a rather long-winded passage about alchemy, that most coveted and (foolishly, in his eyes) romanticized of all the world’s fake sciences. He mentally scoffs at the notion of transmuting lead into gold, as the transient moonlight begins to shine through the window at the opposite side of the chamber. In that moment, he questions the need for such an implement as a lamp, but he cannot merely rely on the dependency of natural moonlight, for it will soon scurry soundly and silently away, amongst a starless sea in the sky.
Still, the moon is beautiful tonight. He turns his head, notes how it hangs comfortably between two sketchy clouds of ink and gray. He feels blessed to possess such quarters, as they always overlook the advance of day into night, and of night into day. It means that the curtains must always be kept together between those pivotal hours of dawn and dusk, but that is hardly a tradeoff worth being disappointed in. After all, he rarely finds himself lingering in here during the normal waking hours. He’s far too busy.
His eyes quickly dart, for no discerning reason, to look at the single-person bed to the right of this personal study area, decorated with simple white sheets and exactly two pillows. He remembers not the last time he even slept, he just doesn't have the biological need. Though he has used it for rest, amongst other things. He takes a split-second gander at the small clock beside his lamp, it presages the arrival of the sunrise in approximately four hours. He must remember to close the curtains before then.
He returns his attention to his tome. It makes mention of the advancement both theory and practice, from apples falling from trees to the very isolation of the individual components of the air we all breathe. Ultimately synoptic in nature, at least in its beginning, it serves as a useful refresher on some fundamental principles, ones which he should know like the back of his hand. Which he does, since he’s been educated so well.
A tap on his chamber door. Another one. Knowing immediately who this must be (there could only ever be one person in this world), he turns his head and shoulders before inviting this stranger into his abode. The handle turns, and the door opens. It swings slowly to the side, revealing a purple, floral kimono-clad woman, her hair tied back and kept together elegantly with a silver and topaz pin. Her skin, usually ghostly pale, takes on something of a golden hue with the light from outside the room illuminating her so. But those deep, violet orbs that pass for eyes... they appear to be oddly haunted.
And then, in that moment, he realizes. He can sense it. She’s hurt, she feels vulnerable. Without expressing a single word, the deepest extent of her pain is signaled to him.
As he all but leaps up from his chair and advances towards her, she closes the door. Unusual for her, however, she keeps the flats of her hands on the door and leans her back into it, as if she’s weak in the knees and unable to adequately keep herself upright. She looks on at him with a twitch in her lips. She doesn’t say a word.
Yushiro speaks her name, Lady Tamayo, and asks her if she’s all right. If he can do anything to help. She stares him in the face, boldly at that, for only a second, before her gaze wanders to the tatami mats at their feet and her cheeks blush.
Oh.
Not too long ago, in this very room, he had made her an offer. After helping her with a certain... issue, he told her that he was always there, should she need any further ‘help’. Well, it seems she has come to him once again. The fact that he could deduce this through facial expressions alone speaks volumes to either the increased strength of their psychic connection (which he cannot easily summarize), or to his own developed emotional maturity. Perhaps, a bit of both. He cannot say, but it seldom matters. He exists to serve his Lady, no matter the request.
She moves forward. Her form now illuminated by the glow of the moon’s tender light, Tamayo narrows her eyelids and purses her lips slightly. Moved by the gesture, Yushiro’s yukata-adorned arms wrap round her narrow torso – his forearms touching the ribs just below her chest. Their noses and chins almost touching, his cattish eyes stare endlessly into those deep purple orbs, seemingly fixated on the bounds of expressible infinity. The pungent aroma of her perfume calms his mind, prompts him to relax his muscles. Feeling her breath on his mouth, he unhooks his right arm and moves his hand to stroke the side of her face. A small wisp of hair coming conveniently loose, he twirls it around and between his fingers.
She closes her eyes, cranes her head forward. Her lips are ever-so-vaguely parted, her face expressing a desire or want. He knows what this is. The clock on his desk ticks away, spiraling into a monotone, chronological cacophony.
His heart aches for his Lady. That the veil of her own utter professionalism hides someone so vulnerable, so human, motivates him to treat the woman in his hold with a care that nobody who walks this earth has ever seen. Yet, he is also hesitant. Yushiro is someone who, it must be said, knows not the finer intricacies of romantic rendezvous, of trysts.
Still, he knows what she seeks. He will provide to the best of his abilities.
He states how exceptionally pretty she looks tonight, especially under the grace of the full moon. He says the unrelenting passage of time has preserved her perfectly, that she is the most beautiful person in the world and always will be. He calls her a woman of great worth and dignity. All of this, and more.
It takes scant little movement to plant his lips on hers, as Yushiro delights in how warm and moist they are. Tamayo opens her eyes again, to drink in the sight of him, as they exchange a deep, slow, tender kiss. His jaw jitters, his tongue trembles, his mouth meanders. He still lacks the experience, but he makes up for it with sheer passion, with eagerness. She hums, exhales, puffs air through her nose. She leans forward and takes a hold of the back of his head, the nails of her left hand rummaging through his hair, as the flat of her right hand lands on his cheek.
He could never tire of this sight, of this feeling. Tamayo pressed up against him like this, indulging in incomparable intimacy with him. The soft silks of her kimono cling comfortably to him; the curvature of his Lady’s body lines up perfectly with his, fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle. Their near-identical heights mean neither of them need to exert much effort in reaching the other’s face, and they can stay together like this without it causing anything in the way of displeasure or pain. The quiet hums she emits during this exchange fill him with a heartful of ecstasy, for Tamayo can give off sounds so gentle and peaceful, that they penetrate his heart like a thousand tiny needles.
It’s almost striking really, how perfectly they fit together when they kiss. Like they were made for each other. Of course, the thought is foolish, naive, yet Yushiro can’t help but revel in delusion – the notion that they are somehow destined to be lovers. He doubts that she would agree.
Their mouths part and he beholds the sight of her flushed face, fueled from the fires of fraternization. Her lips parted, her glowing white teeth exposed. Judging by her own mannerisms, Tamayo may just be admiring the very same spectacle. She soon seems to want to take another kiss from him, judging by the way she tilts her head forward once again. Yushiro is confounded, he did not anticipate a scenario where he struggles to keep up with his Lady.
The clock on his bedside desk makes its presence arrogantly known again; that infernal contraption of cogs and gears ticks and ticks and ticks, rehearsing a veritable countdown to the approaching dawn. Tamayo seems to tire of this disturbance, and ostensibly wishes for a change in environment, for she unexpectedly withdraws from Yushiro’s hold and raises her right arm. She pulls up the sleeve of her kimono and yukata, bears the claws in her left hand and digs them into the flesh of her forearm. Dragging her talons across the length of her arm, towards her, the blood evaporates into a burgundy vapor, heralding the gift of a visual fantasy.
As a strange, almost fabric-like pattern of flowers encircle them like a python constricting its prey, a pleasant current of scents overtakes them – of all the kinds of flowers that exist under the sun and moon. All background noise is cancelled out, that despotic clock expelled to the darkness of reality, and their surroundings are entirely displaced by a far more colorful, more enticing sight. They are trapped, or perhaps cocooned, in a kaleidoscope constructed from a conjuration.
For a moment, Yushiro dwells on the power of her sorceries. It is known to him that many of their kind are gifted with supernatural powers, ones which most mortals utterly fail to comprehend. Tamayo has told him tales of creatures who can manipulate their bodies, who can summon forth reality-defying weaponry, who can (if only in limited capacity) surpass the conventions of space and time. Clearly, she has seen such world-bending abilities in her long life. Yet there is something gentle about this spell, uncharacteristic of such a deadly predator, one who is destined to stalk the night for the feast of human flesh. A gentle spell for a gentle soul, perhaps? He wonders if this has any bearing on his own technique, for she created him, gave him the renewed kiss of life, and he excels at those most sacred arts of sight and secrecy. Like her illusions, his powers could not hope to harm anyone by themselves.
Tamayo takes her claws out of her arm. The trails of blood seemingly dissolving into her skin, and the gaping cuts across her flesh healing over in a near-instant, she pushes her sleeve back down and confidently approaches him. She wraps both of her arms around his torso, tilts her head and appears intoxicated by the allure of her own technique. And Yushiro can’t help but be swayed by it, too. She has told him before that its function is twofold, to contain desired people in a net of safety, and to calm and soothe the mind and heart. On both fronts, he reckons it to be a strikingly supreme spell.
He cannot distinguish the scent of her own perfume from the almost aggressive aroma of her summoned fantasy. They mingle together, creating a novel profile – one which is difficult to adequately explain, even to his own mind. He narrows his eyelids, focusing on the face that seems to yearn for yet more closeness.
And then he realized. Yushiro, wanting to suppress their existence at night from potential wrongdoers, has cast his concealment spell on the entire house. His technique has improved considerably as of late; while he could only historically hide small single objects or people, his recent progression indicates the potential to conceal something as monstrous as a battleship! Tamayo and Yushiro, in that moment, are hidden behind plural veils of unknowability, their presences obscured by the power of both their demonic arts. Though they embrace in an otherwise boringly standard chamber, the circumstances create a heightened sensation of togetherness. He thinks it magical.
Her visual fantasy is bright, almost as bright as he remembers the glory of summer daylight being. She is illuminated, her features aflush and glowing with perfection only something below the majesty of the sun could possess. He wonders how he looks to her. She once called him dashing, a handsome young man. The compliment sent his mind racing and threatened to cast him down to the floor, what with his own dizziness at the time. Does she still think that? Now that his features are exposed to her in this wondrous light? Or has it revealed her previous preconceptions to be misplaced?
Then, Tamayo cups his cheek in her palm. And for the first time since their bout began, she smiles. The nails of her fingers scratch lightly his skin, her thumb trailing the outline of his lips. Her hand is cool, pleasantly so, and he finds himself leaning into her touch.
He whispers her name, and it rolls off his tongue like honey and butter. In that moment of existence, encompassing the entirety of eternity, only they are present. All her sorrow and pain, her doubts and fears, he hopes she has fleetingly forgotten them, discarded them back to the real world to be momentarily disregarded. He knows he could never, in this life, heal that jagged and permanent wound etched into her soul by the sting of a serrated saw, but he wishes to help her in any way he can.
She moves in for another exchange, one which he cannot deny. Selfishly, as they kiss, Yushiro takes his right hand and ruffles it through her kempt, smooth hair. His left arm traverses around her waist and brings her in closer, the cloths and silks around their chests and stomachs scraping together.
Though the mere sight of his Lady has always instilled within Yushiro a vibrant vitality, a feeling of lovestruck awe, the image he basks in right now is in a league of its own. If not for the calming effects of her spell, his thoughts would be approaching something akin to cataclysmic chaos. He aspires towards togetherness with Tamayo, forevermore. He truly wants this moment to last forever, for them to be joined like this until the march of time stops. He knows it’s a pitiful fantasy, but a youth like him can dream.
They can never have enough time. But this will do, for now. He thinks, momentarily, of the book on his desk, under the dim lamplight. That can wait, for he has an infinite lifespan and never tires. His thoughts then drift to the bed next to his desk, of how inviting it now seems.
Well, as long as he remembers to close the curtains before they begin, all should be fine.