worldbent | GOLDEN PEACOCK: INBOX+OVERFLOW

Hmh.

[A sound not quite of skepticism, and not quite pleasure. Mouth plants down against his nape and it sends a warm flush through his stomach, strange and appealing. He expects the same bite that's been planted in the front, and it never comes.]

[That is the strangest of all.]

Chilly? [In the thick of the Vale, Matoba's natural incensed scent mixes with the trickling streams and heady soil; it feels somehow natural, in his element. His throat feels strangely tight.] I'm not much help for that.

[ He laughs, a low vibration and flush of warm breath against the exorcist’s nape. ]

Do I feel chilly?

[ Rokurou has always run warm even on the coldest of days. A daemon with a tough hide and a Rangetsu with steaming blood, not an iota of the body that presses up against Matoba is chilly. ]

I’m just leaning. [ a pathetic explanation as to why he’s pressed close, flattening his fingers over the front of the other man’s clothing while relishing the tickle of his hair, ] Why? Hate touching a daemon?

[If only, he thinks, derisively. Brutes of his sort always did run hot- thick, sweaty musk, the scent of effort and pumping blood, drenching every move. Disgusting. Intoxicating.]

[Matoba has half a mind to turn his head with an acidic glance, but that would remove the warm murmur from against the back of his neck. So he doesn't.]

Yes, [He answers honestly nonetheless, letting the annoyance leak into his tone instead. But it's barely clawed. He's doing nothing to stop it.] And you. Don't hate touching an exorcist after all, hm?

The smell is worse.

[ A quick return parry that likewise lacks heat. Rokurou’s eyes lid as he tips his head forward, forehead a brush against hair as dark as his own.

The sterile dusting of purification is a blight on an aroma that would otherwise be cloying enough to drown in. A shame. He wonders idly—would an extended stay here weaken that scent? It would be nice to ruin it. ]

I’ve already touched you enough, anyway. Did you forget?

I would love to forget, but here we are. [A pause, and his voice adds an arrogant purr,] Here you are.

[As if he could forget the staining influence of an ayakashi on his body. But it's becoming one of many. Background noise. No; there is something else that sets him apart.]

[Warmth settling even further into his bones the longer the man lingers, Matoba allows a comfortable pause of quiet before his silky voice goes on the attack.]

Who is the other survivor?

[ The languid lean over Matoba stiffens when he asks that question. Rough fingers curl, lightly gripping the front of the exorcist’s kimono. His lips purse—a gesture that the man can’t see but can almost certainly feel for how Rokurou’s mouth has tickled against his nape.

Standing upright again, his hands smooth up the length of clavicle to gently rest on either side or Matoba’s neck. A gentle touch as he strokes his thumb idly. ]

Why ask? You don’t care.

What is it that I don't care about, [The exorcist continues precisely, a surgical cut being made in the warmth and comfort between them. And yet despite that, despite the cool air with which he makes every move, there's a steadiness. It isn't warm, but it's unbending- a different kind of comfort, something that supports, but is not supported.] You? Them?

[He feels the man stiffen of course, and the slow leak of the warmth between them as he stands and leaves his place against him. He finds himself disappointed, confusingly, and thinking it's a shame. Silly. What exactly is a shame about fending off an annoyance?]

How did they die out?

Both.

[ He doesn’t answer the question—a mental note as Rokurou steps around the edge of the lounge couch to sit beside the exorcist instead. His weight sinks into the cushions and their shoulders brush; he stretches his legs out, once again a languid creature.

Languid only in body. He tilts his head, eyes sliding to catch Matoba’s profile as his mind churns. Why ask? What is he planning? How can this be used against him? Matoba has been a flighty and indiscernible entity from the moment they met. ]

How do you think? Killed. Is there ever another way? [ he sighs, now tilting his head away from the other man and glancing toward the thicket of thick trees and waxy leaves, ] Rangetsu don’t die of old age.

[ Going to make some snide comment about how his blood must be weak after all? Along those lines, Rokurou expects. ]

[Matoba's head tilts back and forth on his shoulders, as if weighing the verity of each answer. He'd argue it but, either way, it was a waste of breath. This man would believe what he likes, and that was exactly what Matoba always needed. The assumption; the accusation.]

[The gazebo cushions shake with the weight of the man plopping down next to him; with Rokurou sitting on his good side, he doesn't need to turn his head to look at him, but he feels the daemon's hot, ember-like glow on him first and doesn't meet it. He's looking at some of the brightly colored birds flocking atop one of the trees. Unlike Rokurou's catlike stretch, Matoba's seat is poised and elegant, legs tucked just beneath the seat and hands in his lap.]

Does any exorcist? [A slight huff of a chuckle, eye still on a point in the distance.] Will any of us......

... Probably not.

[The silence feels comfortable, despite the subject. The Vale has a sunny warmth, like a spring day, even in the shade of the gazebo.] How long have you been like this?

[ The daemon clicks his tongue at being considered any kind of exorcist. He isn't, he's argued this before, but Matoba is the same as him—believing what he likes. Even if the Rangetsu similarly disposed of daemons their urge to do so wasn't out of any obligation toward saving humans or other virtues practiced by the abbey. It was out of bloodlust, protecting their lands, and of a love of killing.

His lingering drift on the ephemeral nature of life is relatable in a more palatable way. It is a truth he is comfortable with, one Rokurou has known since young. There is no tension in the air between them upon touching it; Rokurou glances at him once more before likewise turning his attention to the birds in the trees. ]

You're so full of questions. [ he laughs, voice rich with a ripple of disbelief. not only had matoba not mocked, he had followed up with another inscrutable inquiry, ] Let me use your lap as a pillow and I'll tell you.

[He can click his tongue all he likes; what the man has said to him already has proven more than enough that his estimation was correct. Whatever he wants to call it- daemon-slayer, exorcist, hunter- it amounted to the same fate.]

[Ayakashi, certainly, made no distinctions. Their vengeance, too, was the same.]

[Matoba finally turns his head to look up at Rokurou, withering but thoughtful, and lifts his folded hands from his lap to wave him down. A strange but acceptable deal.] If you try to get inside my clothing, I will dump you on the ground.

[He's not entirely convinced Ro wouldn't like that, from past experiences, but.]

[ A laugh chokes up in his throat. He had fully been expecting a no, prim and disdainful, and while he is granted that withering look he's become so familiar with Matoba once again surprises him. It had been half a bluff; now, given the chance to do so, the overwhelming desire to take it blooms. Somehow, Rokurou's only managed to mess with himself here.

It would be too shameful to say no now, he decides. So, without any more ceremony, the daemon turns to rest the back of his skull into the cushion of Matoba's lap. The couch is long enough that he is able to kick his heels up and lay out long, making himself perfectly comfortable. With the smell of flora and the faux sky, the comfort of the closest they can get to outside, and the faint heat of the body pressed against his...

..... It's not bad.

He looks up at the other man from beneath drooping lashes, eyes squinting in the pleasure of it. ]

[Ugh, he's laughing. Matoba's eye rolls spare seconds before the hulking weight of his skull plops down into his lap, nestled nicely between his thighs. Thank goodness he's not face-down. How does his head manage to be so heavy when he's so brainless, anyway?]

[Glancing down with limpid distaste, slit red meets squinted gold, and in the comfortable quiet of birdsong and rustling trees, they simply look at each other. Matoba's hands take a few seconds to determine where to go, but one tucks across his waist and the other... comes to land atop Rokurou's head.]

[From past experience, one might expect him to begin yanking out every hair on his head- and while his fingers do initially rake into it- rather than clenching down, his nails merely scrape light at his scalp, a languid, repeated stroke through messy spikes, as his eye tears itself away and back to the birds.]

Well? [He is still waiting for that answer.]

[ Given all of their past experience, Rokurou almost expects a hard yank once Matoba combs one of his claws through his hair. Yet pain never comes. The light scratch runs across his scalp draws a shiver of pleasure, a tingle of delight down his spine, and his eyes crescent in enjoyment of it. Like a cat stretched out in a patch of sunlight, for a moment, Rokurou Rangetsu is the picture of contentment.

So contented that he drawls out an honest answer, ]

Mn, three years. [ his eyes squint to near close as he nudges his head against Matoba's fingers in encouragement. keep doing that. ] About that long, I think...

[ The daemon yawns, content to fall asleep like this. For the first time in a while his mind finally seems willing to calm, all the racing thoughts and restlessness biting at his nerves settling down. Is this too the power of an exorcist, or just Matoba? A question he'll never know the answer to because he'll never ask it. ]

[Three years.]

[Matoba gazes down at him, at his face, the youthfulness of it.]

[Three years.]

[It happens slowly. First his stomach, a flinch with a quiet snort. It continues, a movement that rocks his entire core, with snickering breaths. Then his shoulders join in as the laughter bubbles out more clearly, and soon Rokurou's peaceful resting place has turned into an earthquake simulator, jostling his head about freely while his arms grip his sides.]

[A childish, free laughter. No one will ever believe him when he claims to have seen it from the silky, collected Matoba Seiji.]

[ ...

.....

............ ]

What's so funny?!

[ His eyes finally snap open again as that sweet moment of contentment is cruelly snatched away by Matoba chortling like he's just heard something hilarious. Frustration digs itself into the normally genial lines of the daemon's face; not only had the beginnings of his nap been thwarted, now he's being laughed at? It's sheer spite that keeps him from sitting up off Matoba's lap; he opts to glare up at the other man, lips thin. ]

Haha, ah-- hahaha, oh, nothing.

[So he claims, shoulders still shaking. A chuckle continues to bubble out as he raises a fist to his mouth, a mockery of concealment.]

Three years. Looking at you, we're around the same age, probably.........? You really are just a man who's gotten a little cursed, aren't you.

[There's a strange fondness in his eye. His fingers comb back into Rokurou's hair, admiring that acidic sulk. A warm flush of attraction filters through his bones.] Why are you in such a hurry to be hated?

[ A little cursed? A little cursed? Rokurou's jaw drops at the absolute audacity of this man. He sits up onto his elbows, remaining half prone as he narrows the distance between their faces to add emphasis to his point: ]

I'm a daemon. A little cursed? Are you kidding me? [ obvious frustration deepens; rokurou's brow furrows and his lips turn down, looking every inch a young man kicking up a stink he isn't getting his way. ] And I'm twenty-two. What are you? Twelve?

[ ............... said in the pettiest and bitchiest way. How dare his lack of humanity and journey as a daemon be mocked? It's natural for someone like him to be hated. Natural for an exorcist to hate him. Ah, ah, aaaah? ]

[Rokurou raises up on his elbows and he nearly reaches eye to eye with Matoba; the easygoing smirk on the man's face doesn't diminish in the slightest as he grasps wildly for retorts, for justifications, none of which do much of anything to change his mind.]

Oh, so we are the same age. Splendid.

[Truly an infant. In fact--] In demonic years, I suppose that would make you something like an infant, hm? Even a cat does not become a bakeneko until it has reached a hundred years, yes? So you are something like the sparkle in the eye of an ayakashi, right?

[He can keep going. His beaming smile promises it.] You can't have even forgotten what it is to live, much less die. Do you really take yourself for something inhuman, like that?

I lost my humanity. [ he remains stalwart in trying to persuade this truth while staring right into that red eye, ] So yes.

[ The rest can't be denied. Daemons can live for a very long time, upwards of hundreds of years, if they aren't killed. Three years is nothing more than a blink to long-lived creatures; some may so nothing but slumber for so long. Even the fact that they're the same age (annoying) is brushed away in the face of this indignity. Were it anyone else he might just shrug and roll it off his back—the fact that it's this exorcist, that threw evil soap at him and burned a mark onto his chest, is maddening.

Annoyance so rife that color flushes across his cheek and chests. A rare sight; even when fucking he doesn't normally take on color, naturally warmer undertone often obscuring it. ]

Who cares about a cat? I'm a Yaksha. Yaksha.

Did you, [Matoba replies, sounding bored.]

[In his short life, Matoba Seiji has encountered many ayakashi, from those who had lived for decades, to those who had lived for thousands of years. To them, he is but a grain of sand; a blink of an eye. And that was what was so infuriating about them. After hundreds of years all of the scenery, all of the life in the world blend together as one; unremarkable, unchanging.]

[That was what separated humans and ayakashi, and why they could never understand one another: knowing what it was to be alive, to be born and to die. A lifetime of experiences, living vibrantly, and dying vibrantly.]

[Indignant fury builds in Rokurou's throat, in how it reddens attractively. The gold of his eye seems watery. Matoba's demeanor has changed completely from the standoffish prickliness of an exorcist regarding prey; now, he is simply teasing a fellow.]

Yaksha... like the Buddhist spirits, hm...? [He reaches up, and taps Rokurou's forehead, a mimicry of circumstances some weeks ago.] They are benevolent spirits, you know.

I don't know any—augh?

[ He doesn't know any Buddhists. Before he can defend his pride of being a Yaksha, a war daemon and certainly not a benevolent force with the way malevolence drips out of every pore, Matoba has the continued audacity to tap his forehead. Rokurou's mouth drops open in surprise before another flash of indignation has him do something stupid—snapping a hand up, he grabs Matoba's wrist and lurches forward to bite that finger.

It isn't a genuine bite. A snap of teeth, nothing more. He offers a resentful look while doing it, spitting the digit out of his mouth a moment later before slamming the side of his head back down onto Matoba's lap. He turns on his side so that he can look out into the vale and not at Matoba's stupid face.

He may be annoyed but he paid for this pillow, thank you very much. ]

I'm malevolent.

[ Harumph. ]

[How strange.]

[Matoba's hand nearly jerks away as it's grabbed, but confusion strikes him lame as teeth close down upon it in the gentlest pinch he thinks he's received from the man yet.]

[It leaves him baffled, watching the man drop back into his lap in a sulk, processing. Well. He certainly doesn't disagree with that assessment; yaksha he may be, but what benevolence had the man bestowed upon him so far?]

Yes, I suppose you are a little, [He agrees, placid, false flattery to soothe an aching ego. Just why the man held ego for something so hateful, he could only guess from his own experiences.]

[And, if it was anything like his... It was necessity. From what did the Rangetsu distance themselves, he wonders?]

[After a few moments of Rokurou being mercifully left to sulk, fingers trail in his hair again, soft. They're more idle than before, but if he bothers to glance up, Matoba is watching the birds again with a small, content smile.]

GOLDEN PEACOCK: INBOX+OVERFLOW

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