āIād never had cause to consider it before now, but ādeath by ironyā would be a rather interesting way to go, wouldnāt it?ā
Ah, the tender blue moon. How she hung in the sky, drawing eyes to her like the foul temptress she was. Or so Hotaru seemed to think, anyway. Hikaru was perfectly content to ignore the thing for as long as possible. Twice in a month really was bad luck, but heād dealt with so many of these events that he just accepted it by now as part of his lot in life. Heād had to accept a lot of things as suchāand most of them were not at all pleasant. Occasionally, the thoughts of how much easier his life would have been if his mother were actually his mother made him bitter. He could simply be a pureblooded vampire from an extraordinary line, with no hidden monster under his skin, no second self, his distilled violence and sexuality, to plague him by taking over his body at the worst of times. No risk for the people he might have come to like or love.
Normality, in other words. He could spend his days getting to know the woman he was to marry, making connections among his peers, studying, even, without this burden settling over him like so much weight. Sometimes, he envied his brother so much he almost couldnāt stand it. Sora was the model child, the very essence of what everyone expected a well-bred man of his caliber to be. Hikaru had always beenā¦ otherwise. Too wild even at his tamest.
But it was a poor time for such reflection. He wandered the festival, not having been particularly inclined to participate in anything himself but nevertheless dressed for the occasion, in a silk haori of deep red-violet, patterned in shining gold thread. The loose hakama he wore were black, as were the tabi he wore with his geta. If one was to do something of this nature, one may as well do it properly. His hair was bound into a topknot ponytail with another length of cord, this one gold as well, ending in meticulously-carved golden feathers, which clinked together gently as he walked, hands tucked into his sleeves.
The moon was by this stage bright overhead, shining down on the festivities with her customary silvery highlight, when he decided to take a rest at one of the booths that had been set up. He knew her scent was nearby, but he was content to ignore it. He did not feel Hotaruās fascination with her, and honestly would rather steer clear of anything that reminded him of what he really was, underneath all the silk and thread and perfect skin. It wasnāt until heād started browsing the menu that he realized that the staff were all members of the kendo clubā¦ and appeared to be dressed mostly indecently, as either French-style maids (minus most of the fabric normal to such costumes), or else in very nonstandard kimono.
Wellā¦ leaving now would look rude, he supposed, and Hikaru as himself was not, generally, a rude person. He supposed it wouldnāt be so badāhe knew a few of the members of this club, and he could politely ignore the way they were dressed when he was approached, he supposed.
It wasn't until far too late that he remembered who the president of this club was.
Normality, in other words. He could spend his days getting to know the woman he was to marry, making connections among his peers, studying, even, without this burden settling over him like so much weight. Sometimes, he envied his brother so much he almost couldnāt stand it. Sora was the model child, the very essence of what everyone expected a well-bred man of his caliber to be. Hikaru had always beenā¦ otherwise. Too wild even at his tamest.
But it was a poor time for such reflection. He wandered the festival, not having been particularly inclined to participate in anything himself but nevertheless dressed for the occasion, in a silk haori of deep red-violet, patterned in shining gold thread. The loose hakama he wore were black, as were the tabi he wore with his geta. If one was to do something of this nature, one may as well do it properly. His hair was bound into a topknot ponytail with another length of cord, this one gold as well, ending in meticulously-carved golden feathers, which clinked together gently as he walked, hands tucked into his sleeves.
The moon was by this stage bright overhead, shining down on the festivities with her customary silvery highlight, when he decided to take a rest at one of the booths that had been set up. He knew her scent was nearby, but he was content to ignore it. He did not feel Hotaruās fascination with her, and honestly would rather steer clear of anything that reminded him of what he really was, underneath all the silk and thread and perfect skin. It wasnāt until heād started browsing the menu that he realized that the staff were all members of the kendo clubā¦ and appeared to be dressed mostly indecently, as either French-style maids (minus most of the fabric normal to such costumes), or else in very nonstandard kimono.
Wellā¦ leaving now would look rude, he supposed, and Hikaru as himself was not, generally, a rude person. He supposed it wouldnāt be so badāhe knew a few of the members of this club, and he could politely ignore the way they were dressed when he was approached, he supposed.
It wasn't until far too late that he remembered who the president of this club was.