Impersonator Waltz

Chapter One

Eschscholtzia's Coquetry

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A lone rose petal sailed languidly through the wind's hair, dipping and tilting lazily with its current. Its surface, miraculously, reflected the grey afternoon sky to a point that it seemed it was a piece of forgotten glass, or iced over tears a lover had left behind. The aroma of the air smelt faintly of incense and impeccably-aged red wine, pleasant to the senses, but despairingly sorrowful for one man.

A bowed head was against the winter's breath, silken strands of pure silver being tossed about, like a gypsy from selfish man to selfish man. His tears did not linger to trail down his cheeks, but they became air-borne, like the rose petal, through the fine curtain of hair and with the wind, dispersing soon after. It seemed like a long time that he sat there, alone, still and weeping. It seemed a longer time that he waited, alone, forgotten, and weeping. It seemed the longest that he hoped, however, piece by piece dying, fragment by fragment fraying. It was another assured promise broken, and Ayame was not sure that he could hold his head up this time around.

'Ha-san ...' he whispered, his voice like an ancestral echo, trinket-like and so breakable. 'Ha-san ...'

With a strangled cry, his head whipped up, revealing the flawless face of a near-broken human, flushed, despite the biting cold. His lips contorted into a grimace as his heart throbbed violently, endlessly for a returned love he had ached for so long. He knew that he was being selfish, even beginning to think that Hatori had forgotten about him. He knew that the Dragon's schedule was always so demanding, yet he could not help but possess the inexorable desire of taking up all of his time.

Tears tumbled in their thousands from his now-darkening eyes, freely caressing the cheeks he longed Hatori would lovingly hold in his hands. Emotions of such richness bubbled vigorously within him, like a poison cauldron, heating him through and through from inside then out. It was a choking, grating feeling, a strangling feeling, a feeling he could never get rid off even if he attempted to do so with such determination. But no matter the honest tries he offered, its fruits were failure and disappointment ... just like he was to Hatori.

Useless.

A hammer-like blow caught him around the chest, forcing him to clutch the front of his garments, stricken, and unprepared. He could feel himself preparing for a transformation, and Hatori was still not there. It was a sure fact that he could not make it back to his shop by the time his snake form caught up with him. As panic ensued within, a thought came to play its role. Hatori would not leave him out here, knowing what the cold did to his body. Hatori would not give up on him as everyone had resorted to doing. Hatori would not look at him with cold eyes, disgusted at his carelessness. Hatori wouldn't ... Hatori wouldn't ...

Ayame bolted from his seat, skin prickling. It was a strange transformation, he fleetingly thought, but oddness was the furthest worry from his mind. With legs trained with stealth and precision, he sprinted around the bench and made for his shop, eyes blurring, heart aching and mind reeling. A piece of crumpled, stained paper escaped from his grasp, but he did not notice. It fluttered behind him, like a part of his shattered wings left behind. Markings could still be read on it, amidst the tears.

Ayame.

Beneath the sakura. Noon. Don't be late.

Hatori.

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Lethargic. Exhausted.

'Shigure, what do you wa –'

A punch to the face. Stoic Hatori was caught off guard.

'That's what I want.'

Punched Hatori looked up through his bangs, eyes momentarily crossed. Pain jetted through his cheek and behind his head where he had landed on. Confusion travelled through him the same way, and eventually, so did anger. It was only so much that Hatori Sohma could take without snapping.

'All right. Before I punch you back, why did you just decide to do what you did?'

Shigure was beyond furious. His eyes seemed to contract a form of undiscovered electricity, and it showed through the way his fly-away black hair almost crackled. It was no fun and games this time.

'Do you know who just came to me this afternoon?'

Like a vulture, Hatori sparingly thought amidst the onslaught of bright things behind his eyelids. That's what he's like right now. Annoying, pesky vulture I'd like to hurt. He was about to remark sarcastically what wrong pill he had given Shigure to cause these kinds of reactions, but before he could, he was punched again, this time harder.

'Selfish ingrate,' Shigure seethed through gritted teeth, fine sprays of spit ricocheting through the air. His mouth was contorted in an ugly snarl, making him appear akin to a feral animal of some sort. His bending form looked to belong to a murderer's right then, hunched, trembling and hot. Heat was rushing through him madly, passionately, and it was all he could do from literally reducing Hatori to a fleshy ball of blood.

The punched recoiled. It was quite a task to swallow the many cries he wanted to emit, from pain, confusion and the steadily building anger. His long hand cupped his twice-pain-inflicted jaw, and he too was quivering, like a leaf caught in a storm. From his emotions, from his lethargic body, he himself did not know. Hatori desired to speak, to cry out, but his attempts resulted fruitless as a terrible ache assaulted the lower segment of his face, rendering him completely speechless. He rested his good eye on the still fuming Shigure, feeling trapped.

'You left him?' the Dog howled, flailing long arms wildly in the air, like a broken windmill's planks. He began pacing in a frantic manner about the cluttered office, eyes darting spasmodically, feet altering directions every nanosecond. He looked ridiculous, but Hatori dared not jest. 'You left him. You left him! You left him out there. Shameless son of a – you left him!'

'Yes, all right, you've established that much,' Hatori managed sourly, hauling himself from the ground with both hands, experiencing great difficulty. His jaw painfully rung with pain, but even then, he could not grimace. 'I'd like to know why you've barged into my office, like you always do, and punched me twice in the face, like you never do.'

Shigure desisted his pacing and whirled to face Hatori, traditional attire swishing about his ankles. Even though the older could not see, he knew that hands were tightly balled in those sleeves, ready to strike again if the desire took him. He had only ever seen Shigure this furious twice before, and both those times it involved deaths and his editor. It was unlikely, however, that this time there had been a death and Hatori did not know about it. What, then? What was it that made Shigure resort to violence?

'I want an explanation, Shigure, or out you get.'

Those sharp eyes blazed, and for a moment, Hatori blinked longer than necessary, expecting another blow. But as his eyes fluttered open, he saw that Shigure's expression had changed. It was now pity that resided within those eyes, condescending, and disgust. Hatori fleetingly thought that having himself punched again would have been a gentler punishment. He despised being looked down upon.

'You're acting like nothing's happened,' Shigure said, voice calm and low and smooth, like an injured ripple on a stream from a bird's claw. 'Like nothing's happened. Why, Hatori? He waited for you there. He waited so long … but you never came.'

Hatori's brows contracted. Confusion. Empty. Pieces straying.

'Who waited?'

Shigure's eyes narrowed. Suspicion. Doubt. Pieces coming together.

'Ayame. Aya waited. He waited for you for three hours, Hatori. Three hours he sat on that park bench, in the middle of a snowfall, crying because you didn't come.'

Hatori stared, then hollered.

'He did what?!'

'Oh, now the fucker reacts,' Shigure spat, nostrils flaring.

'Shut up, Shigure,' came the snap. A hand encircled roughly around a covered arm, and Hatori dragged out Shigure, the pain in his jaw the last thing on his mind.

'Take me to Ayame. Now.'

He continued to haul Shigure out of his house, determined. But it seemed Shigure had other things on his mind. With an enraged yell, he wrenched himself from the Dragon's iron-like clasp and threw himself at the older man, hands itching to claw out whatever he could.

Pictures and bright colours darted around Hatori's sight as the sudden pain of being smashed against the floor registered in his mind. He could feel every pulsing throw Shigure pounded into him, and he could taste a coppery rawness on his tongue. Blood was in his mouth, and bruises were sure to dot his body in the morning.

They struggled violently on the cold floor, one stubborn, the other near desperate for relief. Ill-aimed punches caught Hatori in the face, neck and chest, each blow knocking the wind out of him over and over again. The random defensive throw he returned got the other in the shoulder, doing next to no damage. It seemed Shigure intended to beat him until he died, but Hatori would not have it. With an insane burst of strength, he seized the other's shoulders, throwing him back effectively, and straddled him with a firmness he did not know he possessed, eyes sparking with animosity and disoriented thought.

'Stop, stop, stop. Damn it, Shigure!'

The other chanced another punch, narrowly missing Hatori's nose. The fist sailed swiftly passed him, hot air slashing at his skin like a newly wielded blade. The man on top kept a firm hold on the other's trembling shoulders while Shigure writhed and growled beneath him. The Dog spat many colourful words at him, apparently not keen on backing down. The Dragon intended otherwise, and crushed his lips against Shigure's.

That caught him absolutely off guard, and it was no surprise that all movement desisted in an instance. Hatori let his lips linger there for a moment longer, wanting to be sure that he could talk without being swiped at. Slowly, he lifted his lips and opened his eyes. The sight which met him was expected: angry, but surprised eyes, and an odd expression, (or lack thereof) that unsettled him.

'Now will you let me speak?'

Shigure spat in his face and hissed, 'Traitor.'

'I never betrayed you or Ayame. For one, I don't know what you've been yelling about for the past half an hour. Two, those punches of yours were unnecessary when you could have approached me assertively. And three, I have no clue, absolutely none, about the story you've spewed, literally, in my face.'

Shigure proceeded to glare at him.

'I'll let you go, but you have to promise that you won't throw another punch.'

Shigure spat in his face.

Hatori punched him.

'You know you deserved that.'

'You know you deserved that.'

A sigh. A tired, non-committed, exhausted sigh.

'Please, Shigure. We won't get anywhere. Please, I beg you. Be civil, and I'll do whatever you want. Just … stop punching.'

He was going to spit at him again, but this time Hatori clamped a hand over his mouth, effectively withdrawing a glare from him. Both men were feeling intense emotions, and neither felt like showing himself to be weaker. Two sets of similar eyes pierced each other relentlessly, full of hatred for things beyond their control, and many other emotions, like pity, and guilt.

Then, a jolly voice, a bubbly voice that made Hatori and Shigure freeze.

'Ha'ri! Ha'ri, I'm going over to Yuki's place, okay? Tohru promised –'

A growing boy topped with golden locks stopped dead. A pair of eyes blinked, blinked, and then blinked again. A brow raised itself, and immediately a fist stuffed itself into his mouth to prevent a sudden rush of giggles from coming through. As expected, he failed abysmally, and allowed himself to burst into gales of laughter.

'Momiji,' the doctor warned, carefully pealing himself off Shigure, knowing the other would not depict himself as being the violent one in front of a minor. He waited for a moment for the younger counter to regain half-control of himself. 'Momiji, go to Yuki's. Shigure and I have things to discuss.'

Momiji nodded jerkily and turned, shoulders trembling acutely. He walked out of the house as calmly as he could, fist in mouth still, and sprinted all the way to Shigure's household, nursing an aching stomach due to ill-kept hilarity.

Both men watched as the young boy fled. As the dot that was Momiji Sohma disappeared, they slowly turned toward the other, tensely. The atmosphere altered with a drastic measure, from awkward, to thick, then to a hybrid of pitying exasperation. Even though both men were in close proximity of one another, they felt a starved distance between them, like a rotting cavity in the molar, putrid and staining, ugly. It was very seldom that a situation such as this would be faced by them, and much more seldom that it would involve them both in unison. The silence choked them, like leather strips around the neck, becoming tighter and tighter as the seconds fell slowly by, like freezing raindrops.

Finally, Shigure spoke, voice like frayed salty ice tossed into a flame.

'I won't take you to Aya. You're the last person he'll want to see.' Eyes straight ahead, relentless, stubborn. Lips dry, chalked. Face stoic. Dying pulse in his heart, anger fading away with a slowness that could be considered dead. Pity. Guilt. Feeling of betrayal. Unfair … unfair … unfair.

'He needs medical attention. You know how bad it is for him when it's this cold.' Ill-disguised pleading. Low voice, like the bottom of an ocean. Misunderstanding. Help. Caught, like an animal. Breaths slow and controlled. Body heat abnormally high. Confusion.

Their eyes met for a brief moment, one asking, the other refusing to answer. Shigure turned away and walked with composed steps toward the door, sad eyes trailing the patterned ground. Like a funeral march.

'So do you, Hatori.'

He disappeared out the door, the click that came from it sounding like a bomb's switch.

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.end goes chappie one.