Oriya sat outside and smoked. The taste of it burned but relaxed, at the same time; he needed to relax, and so he smoked. He sat by his pond, one arm resting on an upraised knee. To the women who looked there, he must seem withdrawn, at ease.
He wasn't at ease.
His gaze watched the sky, the moon that shone red. A blood moon, tonight. Nights like these were dangerous nights, nights that called to killers and madmen. He knew who he would be seeing soon.
He wasn't at ease.
It was only expected when one of the girls murmured, "A visitor, sir," and withdrew. He turned.
Muraki deliberately wore the appearance of an angel when he could get away with it, which was often. His hair was platinum blonde and his skin foreign-pale, his real eye an icy blue. He completed the disguise by wearing all white, from suit to coat. Oriya's gaze wandered over the blood staining the front of his outfit.
"I hadn't known you were in town," Oriya said, though it was a lie as he said it. He'd known, he just hadn't been told.
"I have something to do here." Muraki didn't gesture at the blood on his front, didn't need to. "I am sorry to impose on you so."
Muraki was smiling.
"It's not an imposition," Oriya said, though it was. "How can I help an old friend?"
"I require a place to stay while I am in town. I was hoping you could loan me one of your rooms. I will pay, of course." The smile lingered.
Oriya rose. "You don't need to pay."
Muraki inclined his head. Acknowledgement, or perhaps thanks. Or neither. There was a part of Oriya that wished he could read Muraki, but he'd never been able to. Not when they were in school together, not now.
That hadn't stopped his need.
He remembers it now: rounding a corner into an abandoned classroom that night where he was to meet her, and seeing Muraki turn in vague surprise, lowering the girl's corpse to the floor. There was blood everywhere, and her shirt was open so that he could see her breasts. Horrifying, how his need rose at that sight despite him knowing - the blood, so much blood - that the girl was dead.
"Kazutaka-kun..." He'd heard the name escape his mouth and Muraki Kazutaka had turned and smiled very faintly. "You killed her."
"Yes," Muraki had said. "If you tell anyone, I'll kill you."
Oriya's gaze went back and forth between them: Girl, Muraki, corpse, Muraki. "I've no interest in telling anyone."
Muraki walked over, brushing ineffectually at his front. "No. You don't, do you?"
It was wrong to want him so, Oriya had known that even then. As wrong, if not wronger, than wanting the dead girl. Nevertheless, he'd shuddered and leaned into the bloody, sticky touch when Muraki had stepped close. "Let's get you to my place," Oriya had managed to say, eyes closed, as Muraki began unbuttoning his clothes with a precise, almost analytical touch. And then, "*Oh*."
That was the last time, but Oriya could not forget it. Not when the moon went dark. No matter how many girls' bodies he filled his home with.
"Come," Oriya said, his voice tired. "Let's get your clothing cleaned."
"My thanks."
"You can have room four. Anything you need, ask for it."
"Indeed."
"Don't lead the police here, to me."
"I shall not."
Oriya lead the way deeper into his brothel, and felt the gaze on his back. He wondered how long it would be until Muraki did what Muraki does, and killed him.
He shivered.