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Hatred was something Eichi never engaged in. He, of course, had his grudges, but they tended to disappear over time; grudges were soft grievances, fleeting just like the warmth of freshly-brewed Darjeeling, whereas hatred was all brawn and no beauty — something lethal enough to kill, with a bitter aftertaste, and no match for the delicate heir of the Tenshouin Zaibatsu, so fragile and seraphic, at all. (That, of course, is merely a carefully fabricated image. In reality, Eichi is anything but.)
And so, even he was surprised when he found that he genuinely despised everyone who dared ever get between him and his darling Wataru. The feeling came and went as it pleased, yet Eichi had no doubts when it came to recognizing it as pure hatred — suffocating, venomous, and so, so repulsive. At times, he noticed, it felt as if even Wataru himself was to blame, that he deserved to be stung by the very same detestation Eichi had reserved for miss Seiya, Tomoya, The Eccentrics, and many more; Wataru was keeping himself unavailable by his own volition, and no special treatment applied to him in that specific case, as innocent as Eichi would deem him, were the circumstances any different.
That part of himself frightened Tenshouin to no end — it was as ruthless as the entirety of him a few years prior, back when he was codenamed The Emperor for the very first time. And yet, that nickname proved itself to be shockingly accurate; as a powerful figure, Eichi was taught to conquer and own, from his childhood onwards. As a consequence, the seed planted by this belief had rapidly bloomed into a twisted need to act by that principle, not leaving him alone even into adulthood. It only intensified, if anything; a monstrous flower came to fruition, giving birth to a fruit so sweet and so addictive, it only left him begging for more. Each honeyed bite brought an alluring dose of suffocatingly desirable control he would constantly come to seek, his cravings never exactly satiated. And so, he found himself feasting on the sweetness, the juice made entirely of indulgent obsession pouring out steadily, and staining the paper-white of delicate skin. The blemishes were nearly impossible to wash out, much like the blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands, yet Eichi, unlike the tragic woman, reveled in and chuckled at the sticky sensation; it didn’t serve as a reminder of a heinous crime, as it did in her case — rather, it was a pleasant promise of ownership and authority over his desired targets.
Eichi was no stranger to loss, as uncalculated and inadequate as it may seem for a ruler, and he knew that to keep his winning streak, he must dutifully protect his current possessions to no end. The Bluebird of Happiness had long since flown out of its cage, so poorly made and unstable, leaving scars in its wake, and if the Dove was to follow the steps of its predecessor, the long-healed wounds would surely open and stain a pale, sick body with scarlet. As of now, the Dove faithfully returned, but there was no guarantee it would continue to commute the same route. Therefore, a new cage seemed to be a logical solution to The Emperor’s worries. This time, however, it would be crafted carefully, by the best and most delicate workers, with only the finest materials hand-picked by His Majesty himself, ensuring the best possible living conditions for his most beloved property.
Oh, how Eichi was loath to trap such a free spirit for no reason other than to satiate his ever-present hunger. On the other hand, however, the prospect of having Wataru at his mercy was nothing short of enticing; after all, it was only that way Eichi would ever be sure his darling wasn't paying attention, hell, looking at anyone else. The cage would be made of pure gold and decorated with the shiniest of sapphires. The interior, as well as the exterior, would be inspired by the magnificent architecture of Rococo, matching the grandeur of the enclosure's resident. The shape would be anything but simple and ordinary; it'd be spacious, elaborate, and only half-covered, ensuring privacy for The Jester, while leaving him on full display to the Emperor at the same time. Wataru had always loved to perform, he thought; he surely would have no objections to him becoming my one and only private actor.
Such a luxurious setting would be further complemented by an equally luxurious diet, consisting of exotic fruit, the finest meals and desserts money could buy, and of course, finely aged wine, imported straight from Italy. Nothing that was impossible, of course. And then came the matter of the lock; Wataru’s position as a skilled entertainer left no room for doubt when Eichi thought about whether the other had experience with picking locks. That was troublesome, as finding a suitable latch that wouldn't let The Jester out would definitely be a lot of work—
“Eichi.”
A familiar voice resounded within the walls of the StarPro’s director’s office, its luster heavily contrasting with the dimness of the room; the night may have been young, but so was the spring — the weather was barely just warm enough for Tenshouin to not catch a cold, and the sakura had not yet begun to bloom. Naturally, evenings were still as sleepy as the rest of the earth.
“Eichi.”
The voice beckoned once again, this time much softer and intimate, as if to lull Eichi into a peaceful sleep. That very voice was something Eichi was no stranger to. On the contrary, he may have grown too fond of it, associating it with a canary's song, rather than human speech.
“...Wataru. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He winced at how strained his words sounded. Admittedly, he did feel bitter towards Wataru, and his voice only reflected that; after a few days of chasing, yet never quite catching so much as a glimpse of his beloved, his ever-so childish attitude flared up, leaving a painful sting in Eichi’s throat in its wake. The words he spoke rolled off his tongue in a weirdly uncomfortable way, as if serving to remind him that he wasn't all that rational. And yet, he stood his ground, as if to remind that he is the one who owns the free spirit named Wataru Hibiki.
“My dearest Eichi, what a sour face you got there! Fear not, for your one and only Wataru Hibiki is now free to entertain you to your heart's content!”
The mask has been put back on, successfully covering any subtle traces of vulnerability on the performer’s side. So, Eichi concluded, Wataru sensed the ticking bomb that he was at that very moment. How frighteningly perceptive the other was, something that the blonde could never fully grasp. Wataru Hibiki was more than capable of stripping him of any and all facades, successfully leaving Eichi bare and vulnerable for him as he pleased, as compared to the fully dressed state of his own. He was, on the other hand, a complete enigma, his act never truly dropping. How long had it been since he and Eichi had first started dating? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it had most definitely been enough time for Wataru to lay himself bare, on a silver platter, to the one he called his own. And yet, he still was but a mystery, so enticing, and yet, so unavailable.
“And there I thought you had grown tired of me,” Eichi responded, his voice hoarse with what he could only describe as nerve-wracking jealousy. Right. He didn't hate anyone; he was just jealous. But was that not the exact same thing? Jealousy was born from hatred, and the other way around; they went hand in hand, just like lovers would.
“Oya? But how could I ever? I remember confessing my undying love and devotion for you, my dearest Emperor, and I, your Wataru Hibiki, never back down on my word!” The sentence was followed by a small chuckle, as if trying to reassure Eichi that being with him is just as amusing as performing the lead role in a Shakespearean play (which was, admittedly, Wataru's favorite thing to do, if his collection of said plays was anything to go by).
Eichi wanted to believe Wataru, desperately. And yet, he wasn't having any of it, for whatever reason. All that Wataru said fell on the deaf ears of a man blinded by jealousy and the desire to eat the other whole.
“You’re contradicting yourself. If I were to fully trust your promises, I would also have to trust in you staying by my side. Must you always stray away? You really are no different from Tsumugi; that very inferiority you pride yourself in — was it an act, as well, I wonder? Or perhaps, you've been planning your escape for longer than I had anticipated?” Venom spilled mindlessly from his mouth. “Maybe, you'd be better off dead. That way, I won't have to share you with anyone,” his voice came out so uncharacteristically cold, it surprised even him. And then came the realization and regret.
The room went quiet, an awkward tension following. It seemingly got colder, Eichi thought, when the anxiety that came with successfully silencing Wataru Hibiki left goosebumps on his skin. He glanced at the other; his expression was completely unreadable, almost fully blank.
How novel, Eichi scoffed at himself. That had to do it. He insulted Wataru, therefore hurt him. He wanted to apologize, to say I don't know what's gotten over me, I didn't mean it and yet, no words came out, his throat clamping up on itself, while bile came up to his throat. So much for his wishful thinking of protecting a dove.
“Wataru…” he managed to croak out with the most strain his voice had met that day. God, he sounded as if his vocal cords were actively being corroded by acid (and that didn’t seem all that far away from the truth, taking the acerbic taste of vomit slowly, but surely filling his mouth into account). He parted his trembling lips in an attempt to choke out a continuation of his hypothetical apology, wondering why he was acting like this, that was rude, Wataru may have thought that Eichi actually wanted him dead, and he might leave.
But nothing came, much to his dismay. He could feel his lungs collapsing, refusing to take in more air, and he almost thought that Wataru would think he's finally dying, thank God, and leave.
But instead, came warmth. Eichi was put upright (when did he even collapse?), held tightly by a pair of arms, and enveloped by a much-too-familiar rosy scent. Somebody (presumably Wataru, as no one, save for them, was in the office at that moment, and Eichi could only assume, as his gaze was cast downwards) was saying something, yet he couldn’t register what, not one bit. He listened (rather, he attempted to), however, one ear in, the other out, and tried to make any sense of what was going on around him; tried to understand the unusually loud gibberish assaulting his senses.
The moment the blonde mustered up the courage to look up, he was met with that violet he adored, except this time, it was full of apprehension; nothing quite like the amusement it was generally adorned with – usually, that was the expression that would flash briefly on that flawless face upon the worsening of the other’s constitution. Right. His breathing was still the tiniest bit unsteady, and of course, that would make Wataru worry.
“Don’t… leave.” Saying as little as that seemed to be too much for his body at the moment, if the exhaustion that graced him right afterwards was anything to go by. He got too worked up, and as per usual, his body was going to become a bother, as well. How delightful. “I didn’t mean it”, he added, quickly, lest his throat disobey him once again.
He felt like a child again; afraid and confused as to why his father didn’t talk to him, as to why his mother didn’t hug him anymore, as to why the maids seemed to visit his room more often than his parents. This time, however, he couldn’t comprehend why it was Wataru who had left him alone, with nothing such as an explanation, and opting to spend time with others instead. Desperately clinging to the other, Eichi could only think to himself, Why? Why did he break down like that? After all, it had never happened before, at least not in front of Wataru.
“I’m here, Eichi,” was what escaped Wataru’s lips, oh, those rosy, soft, kissable lips, and the tone of his voice was so gentle, Eichi felt guilty for doubting his beloved Jester for as much as a mere second. Only a quiet, acknowledging hum responded, but that was everything that Wataru needed to know to confirm that Eichi was back with him, and more. The latter finally relaxed and let his exhausted body fall further into the warm embrace he was captured in.
How ironic. The prestigious heir of the Tenshouin Zaibatsu was caged, not much unlike a precious bird, a far cry from the position he, as an influential businessman, should be in. And, funnily enough, the one who was supposed to be the precious bird originally was right in the place the former ought to be in — unrestricted, watching as his lover crumbled in his embrace.
Eichi was supposed to be the one caged from the beginning, wasn’t he?
“Wataru. Kiss me,” the blonde whispered, his voice still faint and trembling, yet still there, nevertheless.
“As you wish, Eichi,” Wataru mused as he cupped his beloved Eichi’s face.
The moment their lips met, every worry clouding Eichi’s judgement seemed to fade away. It was always like that; a single kiss working like a miracle drug. And with how addictive it was, with the way it always left Eichi begging for more of saccharine lips against his, combined with the tranquility it left in its wake, it might as well be that.
This time, the kiss was nothing short of reassuring. Wataru was, as always, superb at conveying his feelings, whether he might do so with the help of words, gifts, touch, or anything, really. He, unlike Eichi, excelled at expressing his love in every way possible, including kissing. Especially kissing. The action was careful, as not to upset the other any further (as if he was capable of being upset, when the love of his life held him with utmost care), and yet, passionate. Eichi could tell precisely what Wataru wanted to divulge: a few soft apologies, a regretful “I'll be more careful next time”, and an amused “You're jealous, aren't you?”
It was no surprise he became victim to Wataru’s spiel, once again; it wasn't the first time, and probably, not the last, either.
When they parted, Eichi found himself breathless, courtesy of his boyfriend, who, in turn, looked pleased.
“You planned this. Didn't you, Wataru?” the blonde whispered with a childish pout so like Eichi Tenshouin, and so unlike the heir of the Tenshouin Zaibatsu.
“Fufu, you've got me figured out,” Wataru chuckled with amusement. “While it is true that I wanted to get a reaction from you, I never intended to break you, my dear Emperor. Do forgive me.” His tone switched to a more sincere one, his face adorned with a subtle smile meant for Eichi, and Eichi alone. Nobody else had the privilege of seeing Wataru so soft and vulnerable, without the mask of a performer he had crafted carefully throughout the years.
Perhaps that fact served to dissipate Eichi’s envy, or perhaps it was the warm body pressed against his, but suddenly, he felt calmer, more like himself.
“Make it up to me, then.” His voice was still a little hoarse, but the urgency in it was still undeniably present.
“Oya? Quite bold, aren't you?” Wataru mused, winking at Eichi.
His annoyance only flared up; wasn't he supposed to be endlessly spoiled by the other? If Wataru wouldn't give Eichi what he craved at that very moment, he'd take it himself; he had long gone past the point of being his best self, the self that he is not, just to impress the other.
Before the performer could say anything else, their lips were once more connected. This time, however, the kiss was rough, with Eichi's tongue seeking entrance into the other's mouth immediately. And of course, he got what he wanted in no time, his sweet vengeance hitting Wataru like a tidal wave.
But oh, weren't those soft moans just the sweetest?
Eichi drank the achingly sweet nectar up, just like he had his entire life. He found himself dizzy with the gnawing desire for more, said need gripping him tightly all over like a vice. And who was he not to indulge and let himself drown in his selfishness? He was no angel, that was definite. Therefore, he bared his fangs and bit into the forbidden fruit of powerlust with newfound vigor. As expected, the juices flowed out almost immediately, steadily trickling down his chin, eventually sticking to his clothes (that seemed utterly useless at that moment), and finally, staining his entire being, painting him in utter bliss.
The nectar left traces on Wataru as well, and Eichi found himself drooling. With all his self-restraint faded away, he was but an insatiable beast with an uncurbed appetite, not even waiting for an appropriate moment to devour his prey whole, as unbefitting of him as it was. The Predator would always come crawling back to lick the bits of fruity syrup that ended up on the hips of his beloved Dove, claiming what was rightfully his.
And still, it was always Wataru who had the upper hand; an expert in ‘Eichiology’, always two steps ahead in predicting his actions, or even planning them out himself. Eichi was, by no means, in control. If anything, he played right into his lover’s hands every single time without fail, only under the impression he had emerged victorious. For the concept of authority was different for both of them, with Wataru preferring to see the desired outcome of his newest script, while Eichi pursued his selfish ways to keep the other by his side.
The passionate kiss ended with the actor’s lips swollen, bitten, and bloody. And despite that, he was laughing. Laughing, because even after all these years, Eichi still fell victim to the same old tricks, because it had always been Wataru who whispered “checkmate” into the other’s ear so quietly that the other regarded the word as a mere rustle of wind. He wouldn’t even think to revise his moves, insisting their little game could still go on.
They had both drowned in each other, far past the point of no return, the very second their paths had crossed; Wataru had no objections to acting out the role of Eichi's prey, watching while he crumbled under his own instincts.