NB: I was curious about the dynamic between silver!Yogi and Hirato, so I wrote it up. This is essentially a thought experiment, so do be kind, okay?

Guys, this story is a little on the dark side even though it's not sexually explicit. There's blood, implied sex, and tons of angst. In short, this ain't 'Karnevalesque.'

It's late. Airship Two has come under an exhausted hush after the day's events. Hirato is drained—particularly telling in itself, since he requires very little rest. Today has been uncommonly long, even for Circus' unflappable airship commander. The better part of his morning was spent preventing Yogi's alter ego from permanently maiming any crew. As a result of the small battle that ensued, his evening was occupied by explaining to a livid Round Table why his lieutenant had temporarily morphed into an uncontrollable, bloodthirsty monster. Yogi's "condition" was supposed to be manageable, after all. If not, his very life was forfeit as a precaution. In the end, it was Akari's swift maneuvering that saved him. The doctor's immaculate reputation and comforting reassurances prompted their faceless superiors to rescind their murderous orders.

While Round Table may have been easily beguiled, he and Akari are acutely aware of the horrifying truth: Yogi's darker half is becoming less and less susceptible to the so-called allergy patches. It's a precarious state of affairs likely to turn disastrous.

For now, however, serenity reigns: Akari's modified patch appears efficacious and a golden-haired Yogi sleeps; the ship's crew are largely unharmed thanks to the industry of Tsukumo, Jiki, and Gareki; and Hirato is staring wistfully at a bottle of fine scotch. If Tsukitachi were around, he'd already be halfway to oblivion. He rarely indulges, but if ever a night called for escapism, tonight would certainly qualify. Since his colleague is absent (and probably in no fit state to travel), the spent brunet opts for rest over recreation. He certainly needs it.

A soft knock interrupts as he's unbuttoning his shirt. What now? Hirato shuffles to the door and slides it open a few centimeters, not bothering with a greeting. Hopefully, such reticence will be sufficient to discourage his would-be visitor.

His breath catches at sight of said visitor. One lavender iris peers through the crack. It's rimmed with long, silvery lashes that glow even in the low light of the darkened corridor. Only the corner of Yogi's thin lips is visible, quirked in the sort of malicious grin Hirato reserves for his most loathsome enemies. Most alarmingly, the young man's allergy patch is missing.

Shit.

"Wanna play?" Yogi queries in a sing-song cadence that might have unnerved a less-seasoned interlocutor.

"Not especially," Hirato responds flatly while opening the door to the pretender. He can't allow such an unpredictable entity free rein. "Haven't you caused enough trouble today?" Yogi only shrugs and skips jauntily past. A dark brow lifts as the blond twirls about the living room, arms extended carelessly in some hellish pirouette. He stops abruptly, deliberately knocking over a potted orchid. Moonstone eyes challenge violet only to be met with bland indifference.

"Trouble..." Yogi repeats, now stalking forward in slow, measured steps until the two are but inches apart. He's trying to unsettle me with inconsistent behavior, Hirato concludes. An experienced veteran, he's almost impressed by the strategem. "Have I been a bad boy?" the youth continues, voice a low purr designed to entice. "Will you punish me?" His honey-mopped twin would never aim at seduction, much less expect to succeed. This Yogi's demeanor is precisely the opposite: a cold, assessing gaze sparkles with deadly mischief; a prowling gait solicits unadulterated carnality; and a sickle-shaped smirk rivals Hirato's own.

It's no surprise, then, that the captain counters with neutral professionalism. "I'm very tired, Yogi. Why you here?"

Yogi cackles, sending heated breath rushing across his captain's face. "For blood, Hirato-san. Yours." The next thing Hirato registers is a razor-sharp knife pointed at the hollow of his throat and a pinprick of pain. Over-bright lilac eyes are riveted on a tiny crimson droplet clinging to the weapon's tip.

He's more combative this time, the commander considers, completely disregarding his aggressor. If he should choose, he could send the younger man crashing through the high windows. But he'd prefer not to damage his aircraft any further—to say nothing of damaging Yogi. It's best to disarm the situation without such savagery. "An odd request. May I inquire after your motivations?"

"You and Akari," Yogi spits in disgust, "I hate you both."

"Many people do," he concedes mildly. "They don't hold me at knifepoint, funnily enough."

"You're trying to kill me with your missions, and assignments, and damned allergy patches and injections. Don't think I don't know it." The words are a venomous growl; their intensity can be felt in the nip of the knife's point as it trembles against Hirato's flesh.

"No one is trying to kill you. You're paranoid."

A shrill laugh is the blond's only reply. "Liar!" Then his tone takes on a tinkling, almost mechanical tenor. "You are. But you won't have the chance. I'm going to kill you first," he declares, practically tittering with anticipation.

"You'll find that a remarkably arduous task, I'm afraid." Hirato is calm, polite even, but his voice belies warning. This Yogi doesn't respond to reason or manipulation, only force. He's a greedy adolescent, and with all a child's demanding, he'll accept no refusals. "I've had ample opportunity to orchestrate your death... yet here you are." Amethyst irises flash intently. Their message is clear: Don't make me hurt you. "No one would fault me for snapping your neck, in fact. You've just assaulted a Rank One officer."

Several moments pass in tense silence. Finally, Yogi snatches Hirato's hand, settling long, elegant fingers around his own throat. "Then do it." He's resigned, Hirato senses—prepared for the inevitable. His breathing is heavy, labored. Momentary hopelessness flickers across a pale face, twisting pretty features into a pained grimace. "Snap my neck. Be the executioner we both know you are."

Hirato's grip tightens a touch and he leans forward to stare directly into resentful, bloodshot eyes. Yogi's switchblade sinks a millimeter into his flesh, but he's unconcerned; he understands too well the distinction between craving blood and craving death. Whatever else Yogi might lust after, he doesn't want either of them to die tonight. Not really. "I couldn't then. I won't now."

The blond falters momentarily, his weapon slipping an iota before regaining its position. "Yes, yes. You saved me. For what? To be your collared pet, to fight your battles, to bleed for you? What if I didn't want that?"

Still mindful of the blade at his throat, Hirato releases Yogi. He slowly brings the pad of his index finger to rest against the knife's edge and slides it smoothly across, drawing an unbroken scarlet trail along shimmering metal. "What do you want?" he whispers, already guessing the answer. This isn't the first time Yogi's evil counterpart has come unbidden to his quarters. It's a rare phenomenon, to be sure, but not entirely without precedent. Nor is it the first time he's been threatened like so, although no weapons were involved on previous occasions. Most definitely, it is not the first time that Hirato has employed unorthodox methods to mitigate his lieutenant's more destructive proclivities. A leader's duty is to correct misbehavior amongst the ranks, and he is nothing if not dutiful. He's just grateful the real Yogi will have no recollection of the night's events.

An insistent tongue rasps against his bleeding digit. The sanguine fluid is licked away and Yogi fixes him with a predatory leer, vivid red painting pale lips. "I told you. I want you to bleed." He slides his blade along Hirato's neck in a fluid motion, leaving behind a superficial incision. Glittering claret contrasts starkly with fair skin, and the mere sight is ostensibly enough to whet the blond's appetite. "And I want to collect your blood myself." As if in demonstration, Yogi begins to suck at the viscous liquid dripping down a graceful neck. The brunet doesn't protest in the slightest. Even when Yogi roughly tongues the laceration's raw edge, he only hisses softly. A stray hand wanders under his shirt and fingernails drag angry patterns into his chest. Doubtless, he will sport several new scars as a result. Yogi shoves him into the wall, one hand roving unhindered over his body while the other grips the silvery instrument, searching for more virgin skin to mar with his lethal brand of affection.

"Enough." In the next instant, it's the blond that's pinned. Hirato brackets a lean hip and squeezes Yogi's wrist so tightly that he drops his weapon. It clatters melodiously to the ground, echoing in the ensuing quietude. "You want to play, right?" the captain inquires, watchful stare taking in the triumph darkening his prisoner's countenance.

"Yes." Yogi arches into him, making it a point to exhibit his arousal. "Let's play."

"You've already had a go at me," Hirato states simply. The silver-haired man's victorious grin disappears when his captor wedges a knee between his legs, effectively immobilizing him and closing the minute distance that remains. "It's my turn, don't you agree?" Long, skilled fingers wind in platinum hair and tug at it with enough ferocity to elicit a strangled yelp. Even so, Yogi is ravenous. Desperate hands tangle in the fabric of Hirato's shirt and clutch so hard that buttons break. He twitches under muscular limbs, moving in a quick, jerking manner designed to increase the friction between them. But all his prurient machinations cease when Hirato's teeth catch his bottom lip, biting sharply but not breaking skin. The blond can only gasp. Those teeth release his mouth to settle on either side of his Adam's apple, scoring the flesh there with no regard for its delicateness. "How about we try for honesty, hmm?"

"O-o-okay..." The sensation of clever fingers rubbing him have impaired Yogi's cognitive faculties, it seems. Were it anyone else, Hirato might have savored the conquest.

"You want my blood as badly as you want me to take yours, don't you?" It's a curse, the older man figures, to sense darkness in others so keenly, to know the insatiable nature of all manner of sinister longing. But it's a curse that has served him well, and one that's kept this travesty of his second-in-command squarely in check.

Yogi nods mutely—all the affirmation Hirato needs to satiate the young man's hunger.

Morning finds the captain staring blearily at the snoozing blond sprawled in his bed. Yogi looks almost angelic with the sunlight playing along his fine skin and setting his argentine hair alight. Or rather, he would look divine were it not for the myriad bruises and bitemarks that speckle an otherwise unblemished form. Hirato is furious with himself. The wicked shade of his trusty lieutenant is dissatisfied with anything less than curled toes and haggard cries of pain mingled with pleasure, it's true. Nevertheless, a man of his talents ought to find a less shameful way of feeding Yogi's demons.

Hirato never enjoys it—the violence of the act, the feeling of breaking another, the "playing." Perhaps he would under other circumstances. But resorting to such means to ensure that Yogi doesn't accost Gareki or Tsukumo in similar fashion is never a pleasant affair. He's made recompense for his depravity, though. There's a careful, almost clinical cut on his body for every mark the other bears. Yogi was not easily placated; he claimed Hirato's blood after all.

A sharp rap sounds at the door, and he straightens his tie, hiding the marks on his neck from a far too observant houseguest. He answers Akari, dreading the look of revulsion that the other will no doubt wear. The doctor's avoidance he can tolerate, and he's inured to the man's animosity. But something about seeing disapproval cloud those striking irises makes him want to flee the other's presence. The physician slips into the bedroom quietly and assays the scene. Akari would like to scream his condemnation to the heavens, Hirato knows, but he won't. His first order of business is tending to the unconscious man. For this small mercy, the commander thanks whatever ill-humored gods may be listening.

Leaving the researcher to work, Hirato steps into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him and locks it; it would be awful if Akari should confront him like this—wounded, fatigued... vulnerable. He slinks out of his shirt and winces at rough cotton brushing against still-healing incisions. They're no longer bleeding, but that doesn't render them any less painful. In fact, he looks quite like he's been tossed into a wood chipper. He feels like he's been tossed into a wood chipper. He's sifting through the contents of his medicine cabinet when Akari tries the door handle.

The doctor huffs at being locked out, but he's clearly concerned. "Hirato?"

"I'm a bit preoccupied, Akari-san. Can this wait?"

"I suppose you want an infection then," Akari replies curtly. "Did you expect I'd overlook the blood?"

Hirato doesn't answer promptly, instead exhaling a long breath and leaning against a firmly closed door. "It's not mine."

"It can't be Yogi's."

On occasions like these, he'd gladly trade the doctor's insightfulness for privacy. Akari won't leave, he's sure, not when someone is hurt. Hirato permits him entry, closing the door again so not to wake the now straw-haired Yogi. Opaline orbs travel over his chest, widening at the sheer volume of injury. Yet Akari says nothing, wordlessly preparing a gauze pad with antiseptic and dabbing at the nick at the base of his throat. Hirato inhales sharply at the resultant sting.

"Sorry."

"It's just antiseptic. I think I'll live."

"That's not what I mean," the doctor whispers solemnly, expert hands now cleaning an incision that traverses his collarbone. "I'm sorry I couldn't develop a more effective way to suppress Yogi when he's like this."

"It's not your fault," Hirato conciliates.

"Charity is unbecoming of you. Don't dissemble." Akari levels a hard, appraising gaze at him, making him feel more exposed than any state of under-dress ever could. "You could have subdued him forcibly, you know."

Hirato shakes his head. "He'd have been severely wounded, bound, but not neutralized. And if he somehow escaped, he'd have rampaged."

"You should have called me when he removed the patch."

"You'd be a wreck right now if I had."

"Maybe. But I'd have had the means to treat him." The researcher hesitates briefly. "In lieu of that, you—"

"—violated every protocol Circus has ever known; slept with a subordinate—one whose better half trusts me with his life, no less; abused that subordinate in order to tame him; and managed to get myself shredded in the process. I don't need a lecture, Akari-san." Hirato sighs exasperatedly, willing his companion to understand yet knowing it's impossible. Vice calls to the vicious alone; a creature like Akari could never comprehend the lengths Yogi must travel to deafen the devil's trill. "I didn't call because he had a knife to my throat. I'm a more suitable target than you."

"Because you deserve it?" If he weren't certain that Akari hated him with a burning fervor, he'd have mistaken that softened look for pity. Pity, he decides, is much, much worse than antipathy.

"Because I can handle it. Because I'm obligated to handle it."

"Right." Akari disinfects and dresses the rest of his wounds in tense silence. Hirato doesn't have the wherewithal to tease or make idle chatter, so he's content to let time stretch uncomfortably between them. When they return to the bedroom, the younger man is sleeping peacefully, his unconscious expression a trace more innocent, more like the Yogi they prefer.

"I've given him sedatives so that he's incapacitated until fully converted. But you should move him to his room. He'll panic if he wakes here." Akari makes for the door, tossing a fleeting glance in Hirato's direction.

"I'll see to it." And he will. As Circus' Second Commander, Hirato will do whatever is required of him. Even if that means tainting his hands with all manner of sin.

He only regrets that he didn't essay a grasp at the one thing beyond his reach before that happened.