EDIT:
V současné době mám rozběhnutý další projekt, kterému se věnuji mnohem více, vystupuje v něm Mana a celá řada reálných i fiktivních osob, a je psán v angličtině. Protože si myslím, že je zbytečné, mít blogy dva, budu jej uveřejňovat na těchto stránkách. Ti z vás, kteří mluví anglicky, budou mít možnost si příběh přečíst :)


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Vážení návštěvníci, nacházíte se na stránce DEUS EX MACHINA,  pochybného literárního počinu - nazvěme ho třeba románem, i když si to nezaslouží :) Než začnete číst, bylo by asi vhodné vám objasnit, o co že se vlastně jedná. Tak začneme... 

Podle Wikipedie "Deus ex machina pochází z antického divadla. Je to způsob, kterým antičtí dramatici řešili zdánlivě neřešitelnou situaci, do které se dostal hlavní hrdina. V takovém momentě byl na jeviště prostřednictvím mechanického zařízení spuštěn nějaký bůh (často v podobě sochy) a situaci rozřešil. V pozdějších dobách se takto označuje už jen princip náhlého a nečekaného vyřešení situace."

Toto dílko jsem tak nazvala ze dvou důvodů - 1) čistě náhodou se tak jmenuje i jedna skladba Moi Dix Mois, 2) obávám se toho, že tento příběh bude (bohužel) na principu deus ex machina často fungovat (tzn. stane se naprosto nečekaná pitomost, protože nebudu vědět, jak dál), takže je to taková sebeironie...

CO VÍC ŘÍCT?

1) Jedná se o příběh s reálnými osobami. Tímto se jim omlouvám, a omlouvám se i těm, které to uráží. 
2) I když se zpočátku zdá, že jsem z obou hlavních aktérů udělala typické klišé, nezoufejte. Podíváme se do nich do hloubky v dalších kapitolách. A ANO, začátek je nudný, ale musí tu být něco jako úvod do děje...
3) Děj je z velké většiny smyšlený, ačkoliv se v něm vyskytují i informace založené na realitě a všeobecně známých spekulacích.
4) Pokud čekáte hojný výskyt sexuálních i jinak choulostivých situací hned na začátku děje, omlouvám se, ale nedočkáte se.
5) Pokud čekáte, že se zde tyto choulostivé situace nevyskytnou vůbec, omlouvám se, ale vyskytnou. V tomto případě najdete na začátku kapitoly upozornění.
6) Omluvte prosím nízkou rychlost přidávání kapitol.
7) Nemějte strach psát komentáře, a to i s návrhy nebo kritikou :)
8) Pakliže by snad někdo nechápal můj zmatený systém, kdykoliv se v textu vyskytne kurzíva, jde o myšlenky některé z postav, v případě několika odstavců v kurzívě většinou o reminiscenci, vzpomínky, sen, atp. Těch se tu asi bude vyskytovat dost, protože hlavní těžiště v příběhu je v minulosti.

OF LOVE, CHERRIES AND THE WORDS NEVER TO BE SPOKEN 2/2

MANA + HIZAKI FICTION

This is the second part of my psychological quest into the heads of Mana and Hizaki having a romantic relationship. However, this part mainly includes the sex... Again, point of views change and Hizaki speaks in italics.

I recommend to read the first part if you havent yet!!! http://deusssexmachina.livejournal.com/5765.html




I love the look in your round almond-shaped eyes when you´re wavering on the thin line between decency and lust. You bite your lover lip, covering those supposedly innocent orbs with richly painted eyelashes, yet the battle thats going on inside your head is still visible on your restless facial features. Finally, a smile lightens up your face, letting me know your wanton side has won. Hardly capable of breathing, I watch you crack-open two reces of the sweets with your sharp teeth, the filling smeared all over your lips. Instead of licking it off, you look at me provocatively with your mouth half-open, letting the alcohol drip down on both sides of your neck. Making it a show for my pleasure. Shaking your head, you allow the fluid to slowly slide down your nape and pool in the sweet spot I had just bitten and covered with kisses a while ago.

Then, you push your hair away from your face and use the fruits as earrings. It makes such a precious sight that I´d eat you up that very second, if… If I didn´t need to know so desperately what you are going to do next, how far your lust will push you, how faw your chastity will allow you to go. Yes, I am anticipating your every movement not only with my eyes that follow your hands hungrily wherever you decide to take them, but also with my entire body, subconsciously moving as you move, taking a deep breath whenever your own chest rises. It is a feeling not unlike the one I experience at the very beginning of a live show… when the lights have dimmed, the audience has taken a collective breath, and the first beats of drums fill the air with pure power. In such a moment, you can feel those single sounds resonating in your chest, and it takes all the self-control you have to stand still, patiently waiting with your hands twitching – craving to touch your guitar. All you want is to finally… let it out. Except, of course, my pants are usually not this tight in the crotch during a live, and the level of desperation isn´t quite the same.

I peel the long skirt off your body to expose more of your skin, relishing in the fact that except for the sheer silken stockings, you aren´t wearing any lingerie. You lift your hips slightly, then legs, all to make it easier for me, while your hands are still busy adorning your neck and chest with sticky decorative spirals. The skirt having been tossed aside, my eyes immediately want to linger on your newly uncovered most private places. However, instead of that, they are momentarily captivated by the cherry you have intricately placed into your navel.

Reaching into the bowl becomes more and more complicated for you, because quick movements could destroy the artwork you´ve already created. Aware of this, I rush to help, holding it up for you. Its only now that I notice how badly my hands are shaking with supressed desire. Your own hands are dancing over your lover belly now, until you finally touch yourself -there-, providing a show that makes me bite down a moan. The visuals are almost too much to take: melted chocolate smeared over your completely hairless pubic area, thin fingers ghosting over your sack, your moderately-sized but wonderfully shaped penis glistening with a combination of whiskey-cream and pre-cum, a single vein throbbing on its side. As you fondle yourself, only my previous firm decision that it must be your hands to undress me and your lips to enclose around my arousal keep me from touching myself in a similar way.

Your inner thighs are coated with sweetness, too, and finally there´s only one place left untouched. Until the last moment, I am not sure whether or not you will persuade yourself to take the final step. My eyes wander back up to look into your face. Instantly, you close yours, much like a child who believes that if you can´t see the others, they cannot see you either, a faint blush spreading across your cheeks. It is against your nature to display your body in such a way, and your innocence makes this act even more valuable. Almost reluctantly, you rub the last candy between you fingers and slowly bring them back down again, drawing a sticky line across the soft skin between your legs, stopping at the entrance into your body. Lips quivering, I notice you have taken a deep breath before smearing the remainder of the liquid around and over the tight opening. For a moment, the tip of your index finger disappears inside, which is the last drop that pushes me over the top.

I wince a little, slightly surprised be the force with which you straddle one of my legs and pin my arms down, toppling the now empty bowl. Neither of us turns head to see if it has broken, because you have already claimed my lips in a violent kiss, which I return with equal passion. It is a battle for dominance that ends with droplets of blood glistening on your upper lip. Only then we slow down and you allow me to kiss them away from the tiny wound in exchange for a taste of the sweet cream I have coated my mouth with. Not parting from my skin for a second, your lips descend upon my neck, covering it with butterfly kisses, purposedly only touching those places that I´ve painted on, showing me that I will indeed get my reward: Exactly what I had earned, nothing more, nothing less.

In all honesty, I am not sure what it is you do to me, but within a few seconds, I feel like I have  melted into a helpless puddle… while a little while ago, I still hated you for what you forced me to do. Yes, hated you for making me present myself like a slut, for feeling utterly exposed and vulnerable, for the sticky mess down there that keeps reminding me of what I did, and for the fact that I must hate even myself, because in the end it was ME who made the choice to oblige in expectance of the sweetest things to come. Yet as soon as I feel your breath ghosting over my skin, your tongue dancing so skilfully across my neck up to the ear, lips picking the cherry I left there for you, I forget about it… and I forgive you. By the time you move to the other ear, I have already forgiven myself, too. And when your tongue slides across the collar bone to circle my nipple, I am ready to believe that being a whore for you is what I´ve always longed for.

Then, your lips enclose around my nipple. The next station is oblivion. My breath is coming out in short spasms as I feel the suckling, gentle biting and blows of hot breath being switched repeatedly, yet always unexpectedly. Only in the corner of my mind I take in the constant friction of your groin against my leg. The rest of my brain is occupied with the beautiful sensations coming from the other nipple that´s being ravished now, while the first one still stands erect, pleasantly tingling and red. My back arches against my will, as if my body didn´t belong to me anymore… and in fact, it doesn´t. As your tongue slides down, picking the cherry from my navel, I realize that it belongs to you, completely, from the straining muscles up to the very last drop of blood in my veins. You have claimed it with the softness of your tongue. Even my breath belongs to you... maybe that´s why I can´t find any, when your lips hesistantly touch the tip of my penis.

Hot, seductive, teasing, making me beg you to please please just take me into your mouth right now, you circle the shaft with your tongue, looking up with an expression that makes me produce a glutteral moan. There can hardly be anything more arousing than the sight of your eyes, coated with heavy make-up, slowly turning upwards to check whether or not I am enjoying myself… combined with those famous lips of yours forming a heart around the most sensitive part of me. Unwilling to finish what you had started, your mouth lingers there only for as long as necessary for cleaning up the chocolate-cherry mess. As soon as the last sticky drop is gone, you let me slip out, nowhere close to release, and begin to collect the sweetness from my balls.

I would have smiled, if my lips weren´t latched on the smooth hairless skin of your sac, because your little disappointed whimper announces just how much you are aching for something that would push you over the top. And you have no clue that I´m not going to give it to you for a long time. You spread your legs for me, unobtrusively urging me to proceed towards the entrance into your body. For a while, I amuse myself with the thought that we could leave this out and use the cherry cream as a lubricant, but in the end I decide against. I couldn´ t take this away from you.

We both let our eyes fall shut, memorizing the sensations – the slippery heat inside of you, the cautious strokes of my tongue around your spasming perineum, the sweet sounds you make as I taste you, pushing in carefully, the smell of chocolate, cherries, olive soap and pure sex, the rustling of the sheets under your back that you can´t prevent. And while moving my tongue in an out, my fingers curl around your penis, drawing more moans from your throat.

I find myself at the cusp of a very sweet release, when you unexpectedly pull away, licking your lips for the last time. Slightly confused, I blink twice before focusing on the lust-laced fascination in your eyes. „There is something I need help with…“ you manage to whisper without having to gasp for breath in the middle of the sentence, hand motioning in the direction of your black dress pants. I nod feverishly, about to tear the obstructive piece of clothing into reces, because I need you NOW. Yet you catch my hands into yours and remove them from where they belong. „With your mouth“, you order. The passion in me slowly transforms into desperation and I shiver a little, knowing it will take lots of time before you make me yours. Swollen lips have not mastered the art of undressing yet, although you have asked for this little treat a few times in the past. However, there´s no choice.

With some difficulty, I close my lips around the button on your pants in attempt to push it through the small hole with my tongue, wetting the fabric in the process. After much straining, I can finally proceed to pulling down the zipper with my teeth. It must be done with great care, because you´re so hard it probably hurts. I can feel that with my lips through the black cotton… and it is unexpectedly erotic. My effort reveals tenting underwear – black silk and lace, something I would wear. For some reason, I am delighted that you choseto wear tthis flimsy piece of clothing as a sole reminder of the way you used to dress before I evaded your life. Then, of course, its removal is even more of  delight… The button holes on your shirt are way too tiny, which makes me give up before even trying to get you rid of said clothing article without violence. I simply bite the tiny buttons off, one after another, spitting them out onto the floor. One or two accidentally land in the empty bowl, which makes you chuckle.

Finally, your body presents itself in front of my eyes in its naked glory, white skin glowing in invitation. Your body isn´t just hard muscles like I´ve observed with other men… neither is it skin and bones like mine. Your legs are long and elegant, shoulders and upper arms strong from holding the guitar for years, the waist deliciously slim, yet when I hold you, your hips, your inner legs, your ass, your back, all is covered with soft flesh and delicious skin. Everything about you was made to be loved. Ironically, it is the only hard part on you that recieves my attention first. Yet you only allow me a taste of your essence before pushing me back into the sheets, burning with the same need that is nestled deep in me. Without being asked, I authomatically open my legs and hook one of them over your waist in silent invitation.

Surrender to me, my dark prince… Plunge into me, more, deeper, become a part of me, till the end of times. Can you hear my moans? It´s music composed and performed only for your body, for the flawless aristocratic elegance tained by wild passion and bondless desire. For your dark eyes that seem to be changing colors in the dim light, burning trough my skin, peeling of all my layers as if they wanted to see right into my heart. If they did, you would find out it is beating only for you. In that very moment, the last candle burns out and everything becomes dark and heavy and muffled. I love it, for It meants I am completely enveloped by you – body and spirit, and your glistening eyes are the only source of light. They have become my world, my private universe.

The readiness with which you subdue to my needs never fails to amaze me. In the moments when our collective passion is at its peak, you are as far from the innocent boy I´ve always deemed you to be as possible. And as I inch myself into your tight heat, my head sometimes fills with various fantasies and wild images of the two of us having sex in all kinds of forbidden places: on the marble floor in my kitchen, in the public showers when the concert is over and everyone else has gone home (or maybe hasn´t), stroking each other to completion under the table of one of those expensive restaurants, and maybe even having a quick number in the elevator of the kind that you can manually stop between floors. Of course, such perverse thoughts are not meant for your ears. As much as I like to indulge myself with them, I know too well that asking you to try them out would be degrading for both of us.

Our bodies are moving in complete unison, and with each trust, I feel a little brush of your breath on my cheek. I thrust up, and your perfect little body meets every movement with equal conviction, equal force. Deep in my mind I replay the moment when I entered you and your eyes widened with what seemed to be surprise… amazement that such a thing exists in this world. I bend down to your face, aiming to find your lips, tongue demanding entry, which you grant with an exquisite whimper. Wanting to silence you, I capture your decadent lips in a hungry kiss, tongue moving in and out of your mouth, picking up the rhytm with which I´m entering and leaving your body. There´s a sweet moment when you place my hand onto your flushed cheek, rubbing against it attentatively. A gesture that makes me smile from within. „My darling…“ I crush those words against your lips, „…my sweet little princess…“

If only you knew… If only you knew I´m not so little. Not as young as you like to see me by far.  Would you still love me if I told you that I have become twenty-nine only for your sake, to feed the image of youth and beauty you´ve created of me in your head? That I would have gladly presented you an even lower age, if not for the fact that my long career in the music business could have easily given away the outright lie, had I told you I was twenty-four? That I am, in fact, older than you – less than by a year, but still…? I think not. I´m living on a borrowed time, because every lie comes out sooner or later. What will happen then, I do not know, but I fear it will be the end. Maybe this is the reason why I can never get enough of you. No matter how intense our lovemaking is, I always want MORE.

„More! Deeper!“

Both your legs have come around my waist – when exactly, I never really noticed – and now they are squeezing me almost painfully, forcing me to pick up a quicker pace. I oblige, and those deep but hastily irregular strokes promply bring me closer to the edge. Your whimpering becomes almost screaming as I brush your spot repeatedly. We are so close to each other that your lips can touch my neck when you pull me down a bit. Your hands are brushing my hair, exposing the tempting line of my neck, to which you latch immeditely. Now it´s my turn to moan in expectation, for you haven´t forgotten my needs. Just before release, you will give me what I desire.

We are both very close. I find it hard to breathe, your fingers are clenching with a bruising force on my thighs. I slide out of you almost entirely only to strike home with renewed force. And in the moment when I hit your sweet spot, I feel you sharp little teeth in my throat, at first barely scraping the surface. Not enough. My entire body is on fire and this feeble teasing cannot quench it. I pull out again, and this time, as I penetrate your body, your teeth sink into my flesh. I can feel the pressure on my skin and the exquisite pain of it being torn… enough to enable me to imagine that my vampire games are more than just a fantasy, that this night is more than lovemaking. As I move in you, you can feel my quickened pulse under your lips, my life force is in your possession as your body is in mine. The motion enlarges the wound, but you don´t allow me to free myself…

Not until I feel you spasming around me. Not until my world, too, explodes in fantastic colors, overwhelming the senses… followed by a merciful black-out.

It takes a good while to regain any sense of the reality. Or better yet – any sense at all. Surprisingly enough, taste comes first. Single ruby droplets have gathered on my lips – nectar of gods, vampire tears... I lick them away as you moan into my ear, whispering something I don´t understand. Fascinated, I watch a crimson trail make its way down your torn throat, sliding across your shoulder before it touches the bedding where we lay with tangled limbs, forever violating its light blue color. 

You whispered something… what was it? It could barely be considering a whisper, more like a disruption of airwaves in the form of syllables, but I know there WAS something. Please, please repeat your words. I need to have a confirmance that I didn´t misunderstand, only that will allow me to be truly happy. Please, say it again, or else I will have to ask you myself… I cannot bear the silence for long. Without thinking, I utter in a hoarse voice: „Are you mine…?“ A short, almost satisfying „yes“ comes back in reply.

You are trying to catch breath, your body exhausted, resting in a slightly unnatural position under mine. The air smells of the sin we have just experienced. Our hands still occasionally wander over each other´s bodies, as if it wasn´t over yet. I press my lips to your shoulder in a silent thank-you kiss, and you pay me back with a soft smile, petting my hair. Only now, while trying to relax, I notice the discomfort of my salty sweat burning in the wound you left on my neck. I touch it with one finger, probing how bad it is, and you tiredly open your eyes, watching me with what can only be identified as compassion. Then, kitten-like, you lift your head from the pillow and begin to lick at the torn skin. Long, determined strokes of the tongue. „Does it still hurt?“ you ask after a while. I shake my head. „You made it all better.“ You giggle in reply, falling back into the pillows in relief.

In the post-orgasmic afterglow, I gently lay my head, cheek down, upon your supple chest. Both of us are still slightly messy, glistening with sweat, but in the moment, I don´t mind any discomfort – after all, it´s so unimportant in comparison with the bliss we just shared. I am sure that my joy, the pure energy born from our lovemaking, is so obvious that it penetrates my white skin, wanting to shine, raw, needy. In the feeble light of the dying candles, I glow more than their flickering flames. Even my heart is overflowing with bewildered emotions that seek to spill out. In this moment, fuelled and inspired by the sacred and sinful act, it seems that I could finally find the right words to tell you just how much I love you, how deeply I admire every fibre of your intricate being, how estatically happy you make me every minute of my life by simply existing, by being who you are, how lucky I consider myself for having met you and for having won your heart over, and how unworthy of being loved by someone like you I deem myself to be. I could pay you thousands of compliments now, or promise to bring you all the stars from Heaven, if that is what you desire. I could whisper sweet nothings into your lovely ear till the morning, share all my secrets and answer all our questions. In fact, I crave to do all this!

With unusual decisiveness, I gently touch your bare shoulder. „Hizaki…?“ There is no answer though, not even a small movement. Your breath is even, deep and barely audible. „Princess…“ I try again, voice shaky, just to make sure. Nothing. It makes me smile. It´s moments like this what makes me realize that sometimes, despite your fragile and feminine looks, you are still primarily male, for only a man could fall into such deep sleep immediately, exhausted by our lovemaking. Somehow, waking you up only to be able to spill my heart out to you, while your mind, still half in slumber, wouldn´t even manage to capture all that is on my mind, doesn´t seem right. Maybe this is how it should be. Words would only spoil this moment. And perhaps, I will find courage to overcome my silence another time, again… I believe in perfect moments… do you? Everything happens in life, eventually. When the time is right. With that, I place a gentle kiss into the velvet of your blonde locks and allow my body to rest, entwined with yours.

Taming my breath with well rehearsed perfection, eyes tightly shut like so many times before, I lay in complete silence. Feeling. Listening. I can´t help it… Pretending sleep has developed into being one of my favourite ways to get a proof of your love. The first time it happened by random. I was just dozing off, exhausted after a concert and our lovemaking, when I felt it - your eyes on me. I can´t explain what sense exactly I was using then, but I instantly knew you were observing me, taking in every inch of my exposed skin, and the heat of your body coming closer and closer revealed to me that you were leaning down to kiss my hair. It took a level of self control I had never thought I possessed, not to show a sign of lucidity then, but I managed it... fearing that if I were to let you know I was aware of your administrations, you would never find the courage to do it again.

So, I wait for the soft touch of your eyes and sometimes your lips, too, nearly every night we spend together… always a bit worried it wouldn´t come, finding myself in utter bliss when it does. I know how much it means to show love to the other in a moment when the beloved person does not know about it. I know it, because I also watch you sleep... in the mornings. My instinct allows me to wake up first to do my bathroom rituals and make-up, so that you would see the face I chose to present to you and not the one I get up with when you open your eyes. Despite of knowing that I have to rush, because you could awaken at any time, I cannot help myself but spend a few minutes looking at your little hands clutching the pillow in the most adorable way, your peaceful pale face, the heavy lashes resting like on your cheeks like fans, lips forming a thin strict line as you´re trying to fight off a dream... wondering if you know how beautiful you are for me.

Laying in each other´s arms, we look like a work of art, sculptured by a professional from ancient Greece: the ideal of harmony of beauty adorning both body and soul. Wrapped around your smaller frame, I feel my body relax, limb after limb, warmth spreading through my feet into my legs  at first, then thighs, as well as from my fingertips through my arms up to the tense shoulders, until the comforting waves finally meet in the middle of my back, sliding simultaneously up and down the spinal cord to settle down in my lower belly. So good...

And in the sweet hazy state between consciousness and sleep, I think I´ve just felt some movement from under my arm where you are nested. Just in case, I whisper: „Good night, princess… Sweet dreams…“ Maybe you can hear me from your peaceful slumber, and maybe you´ve just smiled a little. I´ll never be certain, but I can imagine you have. What I know for sure is that with so many words unspoken, these are the only ones that need to be said to make both of us happy. And so I can fall asleep with the thought that this is perfect. We are perfect.

You love me without words. I don´t require it from you to say them. The only thing I want is that you feel it. Yes, sometimes I´d need to hear them, sometimes I´m insecure, sometimes jelaous, but I know it is difficult for you to voice your feelings. It is not because of me, you wouldn´t manage to do it for anyone. I am certain that things that had happened in your past caused that, in the same way how my childhood influenced me. I don´t know what kind of things, though, but one day… one day I will find out, and then, I´ll soothe your pain forever. Then, maybe, I will also be able to tell you what made me what I am.

In this hostile world, it is easy and almost unavoidable for a person that stands out in the crowd as much as you or me to feel lonely, forlorn, or despised by the majority. But our perfect union gives our oddities a purpose. It seems our souls and bodies were created this way for a reason, which only becames obvious once we find each other and reach harmony. You need to hear declarations of undying love from my lips for that to happen, and in that I am one step ahead – I am able to offer you as many of those as you desire. But I can´t tell you my secrets. I am not ready, either. One day…Until then, your warm embrace shall be enough of a solace.

OF LOVE, CHERRIES AND THE WORDS NEVER TO BE SPOKEN 1/2

MANA + HIZAKI FICTION

This is a fic I had originally intended to write for the Christmas challenge, but it is long overdue. I have to admit I had slight problems writing it, but now it´s here and I hope you like it.
It is based on the idea that two insecure people sometimes do not communicate their thoughts, feelings and fears, thinking that the partner wouldn´t understand. And, even though there is love and happiness in the relationship, those unspoken words cause unnecessary stress on both side, and would make all even better, if the two managed to openly say them. Point of view changes often, Mana is written in normal font, while Hizaki speaks in italics.




PART 1/2

The air is embalmed with the mixed aroma of cinnamon, vanilla, gingerbread, coconut and chocolate - a reminder of the last two nights we spent hunched over the kitchen counter, preparing those little sweets that belong to Christmas as inseparably as you belong to me. In the warmth of your stove, the heat I felt whenever you walked past me to fetch some more flour or sugar from the pastry and –probably by accident – brushed against some part of my body, only expanded. Or when you used my shoulder for support in order to gain better balance while taking down extra plates from your wooden wall cabinet! Of course, neither of us is as undignified as to have a quick number on the kitchen table. Our intercourses are like fairy-tale dreams of princes, knights, elves and vampires, each of them representing a fantasy scenario coming into life, complete with prefabricated roles, costumes and settings. What more could I ask for?

Everything we have, everything we do together is perfect. Still… is it wrong that I sometimes wish you´d take me… just so...?Roughly, without thinking, on the floor or against the wall, at the doorstep when we arrive home and simply cannot wait any longer, or even… oh God…outside in your car, on public toilets, in the elevator stopped on purpose between floors… Just so, because we feel the lust…

Standing in front of the mirror, I hastily add the final touches to my appearance, knowing that although your dress will be much more elaborate than my own attire, you are most likely already waiting... Sleeping Beauty expecting the arrival of her prince, cheeks flushed with pink hue – in your innocence, you´re ashamed of the eagerness with which you always welcome me in our bed. That´s how I love to see you. Still, I hate to admit even to myself that the reason why I always let you wait is not the fact that I want to be late on purpose to find out how overjoyed you are to see me, but the fact that I am never sure if you will actually like what you´re going to see. Little by little, I kept changing for you over the years, working on this new look and on a suitable personality to match it... and even today, although I know it was the right thing to do, I am not entirely sure if I can pull it off well enough.

I used to be like you - a frozen princess, waiting for the kiss of a prince that would wake her up from the eternal sleep, a touch of a strong hand that would turn the coldness in her heart into heat, a softly whispered word that would make her open her blind eyes to all the wordly wonders and finally see the colorful sparkles of love. There was a time I had hoped that Gackt would be him. Then Klaha. Much later, I stopped hoping altogether, too tired by the disappointments I had to face, jaded, still with enough energy left to create art, but burnt out in the field of love. Until I found you…

People say love can be born out of anger, because these two extremely strong kinds of passion, although contradictory, inevitably have to draw from the same source and the thin line between them can be crossed easily. They never say, though, it can be born out of jelaousy - yet that was the first thing I´ve ever felt towards you. In your music, I saw a sacrilege, a stealth of my own ideas and concepts, in your elaborate medieval dresses, I saw replicas of my own garderobe from the days of my greatest fame, in your feminine beauty, I saw a younger me - although, of course, there were differences. The most visible one being that where I had been darkness, you were light.

Eventually, the anger came too, because despite everything you created was, in a way, mine, you were better at it. You never failed to look innocent and beautiful, you resembled a girl even without costume, your nails reached the perfection I could only dream of, your dresses never looked cheap and they were historically accurate, your face kept its youthful appearence with half the make-up I would have had to use to reach the same effect, your music was similar to mine but new, fresh, and it seemed to flow so easily as if it had been written without any significant effort, within one night, you were loved by the world without even trying, the members of your bands were your best friends, not only employers.

I chose to ignore your existence, but you destroyed that plan of mine with an unexpected… I would say determination, if I weren´t sure it wasn´t on purpose. No matter how hard I tried, I could never get rid of you. You were everywhere, frequenting the same bars, making friends with my friends, employing my former bandmates, beaming at my parties, going to the same gigs. Always cute, always a little shy, always smiling… always there. That´s when jelaousy ultimately made place for anger… and from there, it was only one step to love.

Wrapped only in thin stockings, my feet feel a little cold as I rush across the mahagony parquet, attempting not to slide. The delicate slippers adorned with feathers, one size smaller than what would be comfortable for me, so as to create an illusion of petite feet, are already placed on the left side of the bed where you´ll be able to see them upon entering. Antique candleholders have been intricately distrubuted throughout the room, casting exactly the amount of light that makes facial features still visible, but mysteriously veiled by darkness creeping in. The kind of golden light that is merciful to age, softens all that is sharp and manly and transforms the ordinary to things of unearthly beauty. My attire is finished, too, complete with soft girly make-up, white lacy gloves and a tiny crown sitting on the top of my head, fixed with too many hair pins to be comfortable. It is essential that I still have it at the end of our encounter.

The only thing still left for me to do is placing the wine and the cookies on the bedside table. Next to them, I put a bowl of chocolate cherries, dipped in whiskey-cream – a treat we have lately learnt to love. Hopefully, we will have them after the sex this time... I tied my corset very tight. Arranging myself on the bed, it occurs to me I might have tied it too tight tonight, making myself horribly cramped in attempt to create a feminine waistline. It doesn´t matter. Soon, your hands will unwrap me like a precious gift, and instead of these expensive garments, your body will be covering my skin, and I shall have yet another thing to be thankful for...

Indeed, I admit, I love the idea of you saving me from someting, be it danger, pain, troubles, emotional hurt, discomfort or despair – I love it to the extent that I would gladly inflict either of them upon myself only for the sake of giving you the chance to help me out. In plenty of cases, the little things you do for me – from escorting me home like a lady that needs to be protected from praying eyes of other men, giving me work-related advise, helping me carry heavy things, wiping my brow with a wet cloth when I have a headache, up to carrying me up the stairs the day I pretended to have sprained my ankle – I have not really needed assistance at all. And while Kamijo showed so little patience, you appear not to have discovered these games of mine yet... I simply like to ask for things without asking, testing if the other would do exactly what I expect them to, out of their own free will. And being the aristocrat you are, you never fail to please me.

Heavy shoes against marble tiles are chiming the last few seconds until the prince and the princess will be united. With each step, my confidence grows. It´s always like this. No matter how unsure I am in the moment when I transform myself into a vampiric prince, from the pale base up to the last cross-shaped button of my coat, my character seems to change in due proportion as the moment of our encounter approaches. Slowly, I innerly transform myself into the mysterious role I normally present only outwardly, and I know that what enables this shift is the fact that this is how you want me. With enough love, I can become the man you dream of and I desire to be.

I need your presence for this to happen, like a person dying of thirst needs a drop of water. Whenever our duties force us apart for a couple of days, I feel I´m loosing myself and pieces of the old Mana – the doll that needed to be held, dusted, dressed up, admired and taken care of – begin to open the doors of the closet where I hoped to have locked them for good. Along with memories of Gackt and Klaha. I admire your strenght sometimes, because YOU obviously didn´t lock the memory of your past lover away where it couldn´t hurt you anymore. Kamijo is still your co-worker and, which is more amazing, your closest friend. Sometimes I wonder if I should ask you how exactly the two of you managed to reach this co-existence, benefitial for both sides, but in the end I never do. I am afraid of the possible softness in your voice while speaking about him, of the remnants of love you could still feel towards him that I might detect. This I don´t need to know. 

Impatiently, I listen to your steps resonating through the hall – at first a set of taps following in a quick pace, then slowing down and eventually stopping altogether. Another ritual that hightens the expectations. I know you will wait for a minute or two now, hoping I am going to be surprised when you open the door silently and slide into the darkness of our bedroom. I never have to act this surprise, because although you are so predictable in this respect, I am always truly taken aback, positively stunned by your beauty. When you enter, dark and handsome like a black knight from my childhood dreams, it takes my breath away for a moment, and, stripped of the ability to move, I simply stare at you wide-eyed, thinking: This is real, this is indeed happening!

Do I have the same effect on you? I would like to think so, especially today when all has been well-prepared with unusual care. The color of the bedding matches my dress but doesn´t outshine it, the blanket is folded precisely so that it cascades around my body in countless folds. The pillows have been arranged to support my back and allow me to half lay, half sit in the king-sized bed, hands in lace gloves clutching the iron-wrought front of the bed. Its intricate shape and material make it resemble a design of some medieval castle gate. In this position, my chest is rising slightly, creating the effect of small breasts that I do not possess in reality. I would have used fake ones, but I have learnt already you don´t find those very erotic in the process of undressing... A black silken shawl is wrapped loosely around my wrists, which might look like somebody had tied me to the bed, while in fact I could slide out of its folds easily at any moment. It doesn´t have any other function besides making you aroused. My legs are slightly spread for the same purpose, and I made sure you will be able to notice this despite of the long, elaborate dress covering them whole.

I am not tall, never have been, but as you lay there in the silken sheets, so deliciously fragile and small, it seems to me I´m towering over you, and I myself... I feel strong, masculine, powerful. Not like a prince, no, it´s a more basic, carnal feeling. I feel simply like a man – your man, one who owns you, who has the liberty to take you as he pleases, rip you apart and put you together again with my hands, with my passion, with my words, with… my love. Ah... to take you right now, descend upon you like a hungry beast, no sweet words, no preparation... But I can´t, for more than one reason, the main one being that it might scare you, while the other one is almost too selfish to admit even to myself without shame: My aesthetic sense urges me to prolong these moments of silent expectation, so I can marvel at the perfection of it - a dark, black haired vampire knight bending over a beautiful blonde lolita, tied to the bedposts, shivering in anticipation, slender hands in little gloves tugging at the fabric.

Your hair is a golden waterfall pooling over your flat, boyish chest, covering its smooth skin as if you were ashamed of it spoiling your feminity. Yet, one of your nipples peeks out from under the curls, even through the fabric of the blouse you are wearing under your corset obviously erect, inviting, and as I sit down pondering whether I should play with it, I discover glistening pearls of tears in your eyes. „What´s wrong…?“ I ask, taken aback, hoping to hear from your sweet lips that these are tears of happiness. Tell me, little one… Tell me there can´t be rain in Paradise…

You want to know why am I crying? For you. For me. For everything we are... were... will be... For everything we could have been, can´t be, will never be. For no reason in particular, and at the same time for all the reasons in the world. For the thoughts that sometimes, in the most exclusive moments, cross my mind: why can´t I capture this joyful time and keep it forever? Yes, sometimes, when I´m at my happiest, suddenly the idea scares me that it will pass once, and this realisation makes the moments of my greatest pleasure become moments of my greatest pain, too. And even though the knowledge that you of all people would understand these feelings is one of the reasons I love you so much, I can´t voice them and spoil our evening. „I love you…“ I whisper instead. And although it´s not a real answer, it is the truth. It sustains you, for the moment.

As always, your helplessness, your fragility - no matter if real or well-acted – hits a string in my heart that I usually don´t even recollect having. Something aches inside, but it´s a sweet pain, as if my heart wanted not to break into pieces but grow, spread, unfold itself so that it could embrace you whole. I regret deeply that I only have my hands and lips to touch you and convey this feelings, just skin on skin to give a proof of love. But even with such unsufficient means, maybe if I do it often enough...

Without further thinking, I move to kneel next to you, take your face into my hands and kiss that small smile that´s pulling at your lips. A tiny gasp, the tensing of muscles I detect momentarily, and then you are hungrily returning my kiss, your whole body moving into the touch of our lips. We stay locked like that, tasting each other, for what seems like an eternity, until we are both out of breath...

And in the short moment we have for catching a collective breath before inspecting each other´s mouths with our tongues again, I look at your face and discover the well-known desperation in your eyes. With that look, you are asking me to save you – I can only guess what from – and if I were able to find the right words, I would promise you I shall protect you forever. Because you need it, and because I found out that it is more fullfilling to be the protector than the damsel in distress, that despite of how I used to be like when I was young, I do have it in me to be strong for someone, and I want that someone to be you. It occurs to me, however, that you might not understand, that saying this might offend you, that you might feel I don´t think you mature enough... Therefore I just press my lips harder to yours, my tongue writing the verb „I love“ onto the smooth slick skin inside your mouth.

When we finally part, your lips stay half-open for a while, swollen and glossy. I can´t resist to close them with one last kiss before I let my mouth travel downwards to your neck, planting soft kisses to your jawline before settling down on that place between your nape and shoulder. A slight mewling sound rises from your lips as my breath dances hot and heavy against your skin… and finally my teeth scrape its smoothness, enough to provoke a moan, but not enough to draw blood. Your sigh urges me to rise their pressure on your skin, hot, wet mouth and tongue sucking, licking, marking your flesh, claiming you. Making you mine.

Before this, before YOU, I have known pain in many forms, and I have always feared it - maybe because my definiton of pain was tightly connected with memories dating back to my childhood, to the times when I still lived with my father. To be absolutely honest with myself, I have to admit it is not the pain itself I am afraid of, but those flashbacks it might bring... I consider it a great success, greater perhaps than all my achievements in the field of music, that I managed to banish them from my life, at least when my mind is in the conscious state. They do come back in the form of dreams at times – no, not always, only…Only when I spend my nights alone, separated from you. No nightmare, no scary world arisen for the millionth time from a frightened, beaten child´s mind, would dare to cross the tight barrier of your arms. When you hold me, I am safe, nothing and noone can harm me. Noone. Not even you.

Knowing this enables me to redefine pain. Pain isn´t necessarily evil. It is a crimson velveteen tie around my thin wrists, the softest restriction binding me to the front of your bed… binding me to you. It is the imprint of your teeth on my purple skin, branding me like a sinner. Reminding me that I am at your mercy… just where I love to be. I would willingly take more of it... I would let the ties scar my wrists and draw blood, because every time I´d slip my lace gloves on my hands in the future, those marks would remind me of what we share.I would let your teeth rip my vein, so that the mark you left behind would never vanish. Perhaps, to the world, scars inflicted by you would mar my beauty. For me, however, they would be a precious proof that what we have is real. But you are too good, too caring to allow it to happen.

A small sigh escapes your lips as I run my hands under your back, lifting your body from the pillows to unfasten the corset you chose to wear, and I notice there´s more relief than passion in it. As I once had been, you are a victim of beauty… not knowing there´s no need to, because the way I love to see you the most is nude, anyway. Even the most expensive fabric seems rough, unwelcoming in comparison to the softness of your pale skin. I have dreamt about all the things I want to do to you… about every single detail. It is much like a hunt – the waiting for the prey and the gratification of hungry senses much later. Looming above you like a wild beast, not knowing whether you will subdue or bite back. Taking everything thats forbidden. But before that – the silent studying your body, the subtle movement of shivering muscles under your skin that hints at the way you will move under me during the act. The dance of your chest – rise and fall, rise and fall, in sweet expectation. I need to end this performance and finally touch your bare skin before my lust becomes unbearable. There has been enough of admiring the wrapping – now I want what´s inside.

Your hands seem so cold on the warmth of my skin, yet at the same time, I feel unbearable heat emenating from between our bodies. Fire and ice entwined… Closing my eyes, I can´t help but shiver under the butterfly touch of your palms mapping my form. You have bared my chest, but the long shirt is still on place. Now I feel your hands sliding under it, lifting the petticoats, softly caressing my legs and then thighs in circural movements… Gentle strokes in the area near my groin, on the soft skin of my inner thighs, purposedly avoiding touching my already half erect penis. I frown slightly without you even noticing. Is it too soon to give me this kind of pleasure? Instead, you begin to remove the skirt and roll down my stockings, one by one, teasingly kissing every inch of skin you have revealed, not stopping until you reach my feet. Only then, quite unexpectely, you shift back up to lean over my upper body, supporting your weight with one hand, so that your arm is pinning me down.

I squirm as your finger begins to draw painfully slow circles around one of my erect nipples. They are sensitive, perhaps overly so for belonging to a male, and you´ve already learnt that little secret about me. It seems like there is an invisible string nested somewhere inside my body that serves as a direct connection between my nipples and my groin, and everytime you run your tongue over my chest, this string is being pulled at wonderfully. I expect you to stop this torture and finally close your mouth around its tip, but this time, you just look at me teasingly with a devious smirk, followed by a sudden question: „How do they taste?“ I blink confusedly, shaking my head. „I… I don´t know…“ In the moment, I´m not certain about anything but the fact that I need you to finish this. You smile again – somewhere at the bottom of my mind clouded by passion, I appreciate the rare occurence – this time sweetly, eyes glittering with expectation. „I think I prefer cherries… Little cherry princess nipples. Think you can satisfy me?“

CHAPTER 9: Face to Face

2007, October 9th, 9.10 am, Hilton Paris

At this time of the day, Mana assumes, the entrance hall is not going to be enormously busy yet. According to the rules stated on Hilton´s website, check-in only starts after 2 p.m., all the party-goers would still be asleep, and those tourists who like to start their sightseeing tours early will hopefully be in the dining room already, nibbling at their continental breakfest. Having gotten his hopes up, he finally moves, giving the driver a simple nod instead of a greeting. The street is quite empty, which works just fine for the guitarist, because the daylight is mercilessly revealing all the damage left on his appearance during the night… Those few people rushing past him to work are thankfully way too busy with themselves to pay any attention to a smudgy black-clad Japaneese with messy hair, who is climbing of the taxi. Yet the guitarist feels their eyes burning imaginary smoking holes into his skin through the dirty fabric covering it.

He pokes into the bird nest on his head a few times, wipes his face with the back of his hand, and makes a hysterical attempt to dust off the coat, as well as clean his boots on the crimson doormat. All in vain. Hoping luck won´t turn its back on him, the guitarist vigorously pushes the glass door open and hastily makes his way aross the entire hall towards the elevator, not looking left or right. His hands are rummaging in the pockets, trying to find the electronic key, when all of a sudden a hand falls onto his shoulder heavily. „Mouurning“, Sugiya manages to pronounce, not without a certain difficulty, and Mana – slightly stupified by the alcoholic odour streaming out of his bandmate´s mouth - realizes that the other man is not tapping his shoulder, but actually leaning on him. Normally, he would have shaken the bassist off immediately, but under current circumstances, Mana supports the younger man and even slips an arm around Sugiya´s waist, just to be sure. Gently, he leads him into the velveteen elevator cabin, praying for the door to close soon.

Unfortunately, although the bassist - due to his drunken haze - hasn´t previously noticed Mana´s messy appearance, he DOES spy something suspicious in the behaviour of his boss. „Are you alright…?“ With a little delay, he begins to inspect Mana´s muddy face, squinting in the funniest way as he tries hard to focus. „Absolutely fine, thanks“, Mana nods politely, impatiently watching the two halves of the metallic door slide together. As soon as both men are safely out of sight, he swiftly lets go of his friend and adds pointedly: "And I will feel even better, if you and your smelly breath move as far away from me as possible." Sugiya nods hapilly, comforted that things have taken their usual direction and Mana is angry with him after all.

It seems like a small eternity has passed before the cabin finally stops in the 5th floor and the two of them stumble out. In that very moment, Mana´s wishful thoughts about a warm bubblebath with soft aromatic foam and those wonderful silken sheets on his king-sized bed dissolve. Lined up on the sofa in the small lounge, right in front of the elevators, there are the other three members of Moi dix Mois, finding themselves in various stages of dozing off. Yukie, the so-called manager, is towering above them, arms crossed, the tip of her awkwardly pointed shoe tapping on the marble floor with metronomical accuracy. Sugiya giggles, leans closer to Mana and whispers loudly enough for everyone to hear: „Dyou know why… ssspecially at times like thisss…she reminds me of my mother?!“

The woman purposedly ignores his little silly comment and makes a few tiny but sharp steps in their direction. „Can you explain to me where you´ve been?“ Mana notices that her voice has crossed the fine line between human speech and snake tongue. "It´s 8.40 in the morning! You have a concert in about ten hours and you obviously haven´t slept a bit, I already had to cancel the sound check that you should have had at 12 and move it towards late afternoon… I kind of expected this kind of behaviour from Sugiya, but YOU Mana! I thought better of you. What did you think, to wander off all on your own without telling anyone where you were heading to! For all I know, you could have been already kidnapped, or robbed..." All at once, she cuts the waterfall of well-measured and rehearsed words and eyes Mana´s shabby visage suspiciously. „…wait, you weren´t robbed, were you?“

Mana shakes his head, pretending to be inspecting the veiny pattern on the tiles. That only brings his mind back to the red or golden dragons that made the luxurious carpet he has seen that night, the one in the cave, seem so alive. He doesn´t have any reasonable explanation for the adventure he has just experienced, or at least not one that Yukie would understand. Moreover, he promised to keep it a secret. He and Étienne promised that each other. Mana´s eyes authomatically roll towards his right hand, where the antique ring is decorating his finger, reminding him of all that happened and how much it means to him. "This is the first slip in my entire career", he mutters dejectedly, „maybe you don´t realize that, but I am also only human, Yukie, and I´m tired. I´ll go to sleep now, and so should everyone else.“

Before the woman can raise her voice in answer, a tall figure jumps up from the coach with a happy sounding "Boss!!!" on the lips. Yukie´s yelling has woken up K, and as the guitarist gets up, Seth´s head, that had been previously resting on K´s lap, hits the sofa with a muffled thud, which pulls the singer out of the deep waters of sleep as well. They both begin to circle around Mana, searching for possible injuries, and the horror in their voices lets the band leader know just how terribly he looks like. „Oh my… what happened to you???“ „Wait, I´ll bring you some water..." „Did someone hurt you??“ „Should we… call the ambulance?“ „Or police?“ "Where are you injured?"

„It´s nothing…“ Mana objects with an edge in his voice. „Please…“ They mean well, that much he knows, but in the moment, their care doesn´t help him – on the contrary, it annoys him beyond words. Moreover, a fairly large group of mischievous dwarves equipped with massive hammers seems to have found temporary home in his skull, and their talking slowly becomes too much for him to take. However, nobody is listening to him. „Nothing?“ Yukie joins the crowd with obvious satisfaction. The coldness of her voice doesn´t show any kind of concern – clearly she has noticed just how much all the questions are upsetting Mana, and feels the urge to add to that. „You are covered in dirt and… is it blood on your face? I wouldn´t say that´s „nothing“. Actually, I called the police in order to report you as a missing person, but they announced that one can only do that after said person hasn´t been seen for 24 hours.“

„You did what?!“ Mana raises his eyebrow, a menacing tone creeping into his voice. Instead of yelling back at the woman, though, he is slowly carried away in mind once again. Police… He recalls his recent experience with them down in the catacobs too well… still, it seems surreal now, almost otherwordly. He wonders if, after a while, it will feel as if it never happened. If the entire night will stay written in his memory in form of a lucid dream. If, one day, he will definitely cease to believe that…

„No“, Seth denies firmly, pulling the band leader out of his thoughts, „in fact it was me and K who did that, Mana-sama, not her. We din´t meant to upset you… we were simply worried about you, when we came back from the club at 4 in the morning and Yukie told us that she hasn´t been able to reach you all night. I´m sorry if this causes you any inconvenience, but...“ The singer doesn´t get a chance to finish his appology, because all heads suddenly turn towards Sugiya, who, completely without warning, doubles in half and vomits on Yukie´s pointy shoes. The deadly silence that follows is broken up a while later by Hayato´s faint voice, coming sleepily from the couch: „Good job, man…“

 

2007, October 9th, 10.00 am, Mana´s room

„Oh God. No wonder they were circling around me like hungry vupltures and nearly called the cops…“ Mana mumbles for himself, shaking his head in desperation. Waiting for his bathtub to fill, the guitarist is hovering over the marble sink, gawping at his mirror reflection in utter disbelief. Twelve hours ago, his hair had been spiked up with care to create the deliberately messy look, however, the styling didn´t survive rain and crawling through tight passages. It is plain messy now, sticking out in odd angles and laying flat in other places, matted, tangled and almost grey from the dust and limestone fragments that got caught in it. His face doesn´t make any better impression, for it is not only covered in dirt, but also in patches of make-up and mascara.

What´s worse, Yukie wasn´t lying when she said it looked like there was some blood, too. Apparently, he had scratched the back of his hand at some point during crawling through the tunnels, and smeared the not yet dried blood over his cheek as he attempted to wipe the dust off. Mana decides to reach to violent means and fills the entire sink with hot soap water. Carefully, he slides the valuable ring off his finger and places it safely on the shelf, where it cannot get sprayed. Then he takes a deep breath and simply submerges his entire head into the sink, hair included. And he rubs.

As the next thing, he untangles himself from the confines of his dirty clothing, now slighly wet from his dripping hair, torn on the knees and elbows, and kicks off his boots that have successfully resisted all the previous attempts to be cleaned on the doormat. The entire pile looks like its owner has just been chewed and spit out by the swamp monster, and Mana just cannot stand that. Without further thinking, he sweeps everything into his arms and throws it into the trash can, regardless of the material and emotional value of each item. Better not to see any of them anymore. To look at them would always mean to imagine how awful he must have looked like in front of his band members, Yukie and... in front of Étienne.

How could the man have looked at Mana with such respect and admiration in his eyes, when, at least in the second half of the night, Mana was as far from the beauty icon he usually represented as possible? Was it just an act, or was there a chance that despite of all that, Étienne still thought him beautiful? And what about the young man himself...? Did he at some point also loose his elegance, did he get covered in dirt, too, did his hair turn wild and his make-up smudged? If so… how was it possible that Mana didn´t notice any of that, that he only saw unearthly perfection in his companion even at the end of their adventure? Somehow, Mana´s thoughts, no matter what they started with, always come back to the boy eventually... And he has yet to decide whether he likes this fact or not.

It is probably just weariness that fills my head with such nonsense, he figures as he stops the stream of hot water and adds foam with essence of rose petals that he had brought from Japan. He finds himself in the strange state of mind that some people describe as similar to being on a drug-induced high, when one knows thats one´s body is beyond the point of exhaustion, one hasn´t slept in days, but one´s eyes are wide open, refusing to shut, and the mind still keeps working on and on, ignoring those facts. The hot steam raising from his tub, attacking his senses with its aroma, isn´t helping.

Testing the warmth of the water with one finger, he lets out a soft moan, almost unable to wait for its comforting embrace. One long leg after another, he climbs in, immediatelly disappearing under the surface completely, indulging in the moment of apparent drowning, which brings unexpected safety along. The guitarist knows too well that, taking the late hour into account, a quick shower would have been on place instead of a prolonged bubble bath, but he simply needs this feeling right now… besides, he is absolutely certain that there´s no possibility of him falling asleep. Not before soring the thoughts that are swarming in his head. All the experiences and impressions have to sink in at first…

He stood alone on the board of a warship, tears gathering in his eyes, longingly looking back to the coast of Japan. Knowing with certainty that he would never see his homeland again. Lonely... He was the only one who survived, and the flames were already licking at his feet. If only his voice hadn´t left him, he would have been screaming in pain... but he couldn´t. And who would have heard him anyway?

Wind gusts were becoming aggravatingly strong, helping the flames rise from the ocean and swallow Mana´s fragile body with unexpected force. In silent awe, he succumbed to the captivating melody that only the forces of nature allied with dark magic could compose, a melody as slow and sombre as the deep waters of the flaming sea itself. Falling into pieces, devoured by the burning flames and cradled by their boiling waves at the same time, he fell into solitary slumber. Slow rocking and wilder thrusts changed periodically…

There was no feeling left in his limbs, they ceased to exist... and his inner self was close to the black pit of nothingness, too. Unwillingly, he let himself fall through it into an unknown, alien dimension, gradually claimed by unconsciousness, where everything seemed like a puzzle made of frightening dreams. Yet, from a faraway place out of those hallucinations, he could hear soft tones of an ancient piano… The sounds of paradise. Sometimes, it even seemed that awakening was approaching, but the comforting music was always replaced by hellish guitars and deafening drums... the roaring of a prehistoric monster that calls those flaming waters his home.

Devoid of everything that used to make him human, a simple torso, Mana never stopped taking in the magic of the unearthly music that knew no borders. It floated into his body through all his organs, using all his senses, and eventually thin ropes, less visible than those of a cobweb, wrapped the leftovers of his body into an smooth cocoon. And somewhere deep inside, he knew that the hands producing the supernatural tone were white, elegant, attached to a slender body of a young boy with a mind of one who had seen the creation of the world... that the protective spiderweb was an elongation of those hands. When his body rose, carried on the wings of music, floating above the leftovers of his ashes like a Phoenix, Mana knew that together, they were aiming towards the shore.

Home.

2nd INTERMISSION: Another Version of the Truth

6th of September 2008, 11.25 PM

The paper is thin and handmade, using an ancient technology. Beautiful seafoam pattern in light tael color, embroidered on the sides. There are several pieces... It whispered tenderly in Mana´s fingers as he pulled the folded letter out of its crudely torn envelope. Seth has style, Mana smiled for himself, appreciating the kanji signs written in black ink rather than with a regular ball pen. Under different circumstances, he would have read the letter immediately upon recieving it – after all, it was supposed to contain important news and explanations. For a person who has never spent several days behind the bars, it would be beyond understanding why he didn´t. Indeed, he had been eager to know from the minute when Katsuo put the envelope into his hands on, yet...

It resembled some kind of ritual, the way he approached this. After all the time of his inprisonment, spent in utter desperation a loneliness with nothing but his own dark thoughts to entertain himself with, a letter, no matter if the information it contained would be positive or negative, was a blessing for the man. He had to relish such a gift properly before sinking back into musing about his unwelcome fate. There were questions to be pondered, guesses to be made, expectations to be outlined, before getting to know the actual content of the letter. If he had read Seth´s message immediately, all would have been already over... It would have been impossible for him to spend a day just thinking about it, and looking forwards to it. An entire day filled with pleasant thoughts of something as wonderful as a letter from the outside would have gone to waste!

Mana closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Without this encouragement, he wouldn´t be able to read more than the first line: „Dear Mana-Sama“. Maybe, he tried to persuade himself, this will provide me one more day… A day of afterthoughts and contemplating about the letter… One more day of clinging to something real, material… Another day of being saved from the insanity the separation and boredom will undeniably cast upon me, sooner or later...  Soothed by that hope, finally, he was ready to read.

„Dear Mana-sama,

Before saying anything else, let me first express my utmost sympathy for your situation. Although I know that you are not the kind of person who would ask sympathy of others, I do feel great pain knowing how you probably feel like, and that there is nothing I can do to make it even slightly better and easier for you. Please, do not sink into misery. You are a strong person who reached a lot in life. This is just another obstacle that I am certain you will overcome eventually and reappear even stronger and more powerful, with knowledge you can use later in life and share with others. I believe in you, and so do the rest of your friends.

Perhaps it will comfort you a bit to know that everyone is alright, although we worry a lot about you. From what I know, all your acquitances have been – or will be very soon – interrogated, but noone has been accused, and noone has spoken a word against you. As for the business matters, we have put the band on hold, but it will be waiting for you (WE will be waiting for you) whenever you are able to join us again. Your assistants from Middi-Nette and all your shops are managing well so far, and they asked me to inform you that sales have gone up swiftly in recent days. You know, negative add is still an add, right? They have been wondering whether you would like to appoint a temporary director. You can think about it and tell me your decision, I shall make it happen.

Now, please, forgive me, but I have to bring something unpleasant, too. Postponing it would only be unfair towards you. It concerns K... I bet you are worried about him, and although the positive news is that he is not, and has never been imprisoned, there´s quite a painful downside to this. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but someone has to. The reason why they didn´t arrest him is that he had in fact cooperated with them from the start. It was him who made your hiding place known to the police. Understand, though, that it wasn´t his intention to put you into this situation. He had been hoping that the police would simply remove Étienne from your life. Neither me, nor the others had known about this until he admitted it several days ago during a long debate we had. He did so with tears in his eyes, swearing to us that he had done it all for your sake, in belief that Étienne was a great danger to you and everyone concerned, which you refused to see, blinded by love and Étienne´s power of persuasion.

You have every right to be angry with him - after all, everyone else is, maybe even hate him, but… just know he meant well. In this weird way, he meant to protect you. But he forgot in his fear that Étienne was manipulating you, that you were, as he said, „his puppet“, that by this action he would do exactly the same. By misusing your trust and revealing your position, he took away your right to decide about your fate yourself.

To be totally honest, now that I know what Étienne did, I am very happy that he is gone from our lives, too. But despite of that, I understand what you felt for him, and regardless of everything else, I appreciate one thing: how happy he made you. Now… Although I would like to ask you to follow every piece of advice Katsuo is going to give you, because he knows what is legally the best thing to do – that is, the thing that would ultimately lead to your release - I won´t do it, because I am not going to make the same mistake like K and abuse your right to influence your own life. I believe you will make the best decision, the only decision that is right for you: the one that is not going to bring you any regrets. Remember, you are strong, and you have friends outside who will always support you.

Thinking of you...

Seiji

P.S.: In case you don´t know, you have rights for visits (one hour in total) every Sunday and for one personal call a week. Katsuo promised to arrange it that they let you use this right. You may also see your lawyer twice a week – of course, only if you decided to take one. “

He folded the letter and put it back into the envelope, then hid it all under his mattress, all with mechanical movements. There, he sat down carefully, as if he could burn himself on the words soaking through the material that so-called bed was made of, as if he was afraid of them becoming imprinted on the white skin of his body as surely as they had been already engraved into his tortured mind. Silently, motionlessly, Mana watched his surroundings with wide-open eyes: the dim, dark room, the unwelcoming steel of the wash basin the tap of which would never stop dripping, the toilet he had hidden from view by covering it with a spare blanket of an uncertain color, half eaten by moths, the greyish wall, on which only spare spots still showed that it had been painted once. The single lightbulb that illuminated the cell at odd times, but was always switched off when he needed it. The heavy door, his biggest enemy, a massive gate that would forever keep him inside. The small window, too high for him to look out – and even if he did, what would he see? Skies and trees, or grey walls of a building opposed to his? Maybe imagining what could be behind it was better than experiencing disappointment with his view.

He watched for a minute... he watched for an hour. He watched forever. Such a small cell, yet so hollow. Or rather... full. Full of empty spaces. It could have been sinister, it could have been cruel, it could have been surreal, it could have been detestable, it could have been devastating, but it was nothing… Just like the insides of his mind. Barren.

It would have been right to feel something, anything, when there were so many things to feel. He could have been grateful for knowing. He could have wished not to know. He could have laughed at his foolishness for putting trust in someone – again, and being bethrayed – again. He could have been confused, wondered why… and how. He could have cursed fate for always letting him get close exactly to those people who would, willingly or unwillingly, make him suffer. He could have thanked fate for still having people like Seth to miss him, pray for him and comfort him through their words. He could have hated K for treating him like a lunatic and casting him into prison to be in fact turned into one for real. And, most importantly… he could have hated himself for wishing the one who stayed faithful had been K, his voice, not Seth.

There were so many feelings attacking him from all sides, though, that he couldn´t afford himself to feel them, because then they would all join up and devour him. If he opened the gate that held them locked outside of his soul, they would come pouring in like a waterfall, sweeping up everything… He would feel them all at once, in the very same moment... And, that much he knew, the waterfall of emotions might then change into a flood of tears he would never be able to stop. Part of him prayed that it would happen, the other part dreaded it.

Ironically, inside the emptyness, the thought that emerged first was a memory of Gackt. "A real warrior never allows himself to feel pain, never cries", he had once told Mana when the guitarist was watching the vocalist excercising with his katanas. „What does he do then?“ Mana had asked out of duty, expecting Gackt had only just started one of his monologues. "A real hero jumps onto his horse and rides out into the heart of nature… far away from what had originally hurt him, and then he stops and lets out a single scream, the longest, loudest scream he is able to produce, from the bottom of his soul. Through that, he lets the pain out and absorbs the power of those things that heard him into himself, acquiring strenght in return." „Who could have heard a person that has ridden out into nature?“ Mana had wondered skeptically… Gackt had only smiled in reply, putting the katana down to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. "The trees have heard him,  of course, and the grass… the eagles in the skies have heard him, the wolves roaming the woods have, the mountains and the lakes… and the echo has brought him their power, greater than the power of men."

[	Tags	|	art, kaya	]
[	Current Mood	|	creative	]

As some of you know, I challenged myself to draw Kaya for the "happy new year wishes" book Tarariri is making for him.  Well, let me say I kind of like the result as a picture in general, but it ended up not bearing much resemblance with Kaya. I suppose I could have made this easier for myself and just copy some of his photos that I have, but in some silly twist of mind, I thought he would be more happy to receive an original artwork that isn´t just some of his promotion pics done in pencil. So, all I did was look at several of his photos for reference and then try to come up with something. Unfortunately, I kind of also drew the bow and the hat he is wearing just because I had the idea they would look nice, and the hairstyle I picked, because I simply like black hair (and blue eyes) on him - although he doesnt wear it anymore-, and I borrowed the gloves from Mana... as a result of that, he is wearing clothing he doesn´t even own... so there isn´t much left to identify him by. Basically, we can pretend it is a random person with a black rose :))) But maybe if you try realllllly hard, you will see a bit of Kaya-ness in it.

Here we go: (colored pencil and watercolor) - not photoshopped at all, because I dont own photoshop anymore (cracked trial stopped working geeeee)



For Tarariri, I put the original size of the picture here, so she can print it out:

https://www10.sendthisfile.com/d.jsp?t=javAaIBPBF9nAetBrlG4EDT9&mf=J4NZoLxUCETvBdOLe0AfQqbI

If anyone else feels like they might want to own it, you´re free to download too of course.

They are standing in the middle of a spacious cave, maybe the size of the most expensive type of appartement in Tokyo, and the miracles Mana sees when he looks around would easily outshine the work of any top interior designer on the world. The Nature itself had combined the powers of various elements and worked hard to create an impressive sanctuary expanding on three levels, richly decorated with stalactites and stalagmites of various sizes and shapes, some of them forming so-called veils, fragile and almost seethrough when illuminated from behind. A perfect reflection of this temple in the clear waters of the stream optically multiplies the vasteness of the cave. Contrary to the popular belief, it isn´t unbearably cold here and the air is, simply put, exquisite. Taking a deep breath, one feels like cleansed from inside, healed from the effects of smog in the world above. The greatest surprise, though, is the design created by human hands. 

           The shore rises towards a plateau, forming some kind of natural staircase on the left side of the cave, which is closer to Mana. The entire length of this flight of stairs is covered by a glorious crimson runner, the end of which reaches almost to the shore, pooling at Mana´s feet like a puddle of artificially created blood. It is richly embroidered with gold – a stunning pattern of dragons of all possible kinds, some spitting fire, some calm, but all of them depicted with open wings as if amidst of a flight. On closer look, they appear to be strangely moving… shifting from place to place on the carpet - undoubtedly some clever optical illusion. At first, it renders you dumbstruck by the fact that the mythical creatures are really beating their wings, then it amazes you by the complexity of it all, because once you´ve been looking at the runner for a while, you are no longer able to recognize if they are really golden dragons chasing each other on crimson background, or blood-red dragons soaring across golden skies.

Mana shakes his head and violently forces his eyes away from the winged creatures before they could implode, for there is much more to marvel at. It is not a fire Étienne has lit. There are massive, artsy candleholders standing on both sides of every other step, each pair showing off a different design, into which several candles are skillfully interwoven – a blossoming tree, a head of a Medusa, a group of dancing fey, little cherubs sitting on a cross, a gargoyle with multiple limbs. If Mana´s eyes aren´t fooling him, the material is polished dark Emperor marble with tiny purple veins.

And on a large plateau above the staircase rests an almost ethereal picture of a medieval living room! The furnishing looks like if copied and pasted from one of the castles that are open to public in the summer, those ones where you have to walk through miles of corridors in oversized slippers and watch the beauty from behind a rope. Look but not touch...

There are wonderful brocade armchairs sitting on what mana identifies as real brown bear´s skins, complete with huge open-mouthed heads, frozen in an eternal growl. There is a lovely ebony tea table with ivory inlays which, on the desk, are assembled to form a chess-board, while elsewhere they form the once so popular chinese patterns and images. There is an entire library stretching along the longest wall of the cave, full of antique books in heavy leather covers, the names of which are mostly inscribed in gold or silver letters and speak in various languages, Latin being the most frequent one. There is a larger table as well, clearly meant for eating, and the single chair - no, throne, a real gothic throne - gives away that this place had been inhabited by a single person.

Mana walks closer and contemplatively picks up one of the silver trinkets scattered across the table, holding it in front of his eyes for better inspection. He is able to tell it is indeed made of silver already from its weight, but only a closer look allows him to discover  the patina of time. He has vaste experience with collecting antiquities, with which he likes to decorate his house, and quickly makes an opinion. The trinket is authentic, and he would bet so is everything else around.

In this section of the cave, close to the library, one can also find a huge world globe balancing on a lion-legged cupboard overflowing with what Mana, not without amazement, identifies as music scores, both printed and hand written. He sinks onto his knees and begins to sort through them feverishly - Vivaldi, Bach, Händel, Gounod, Chopin, Smetana, Liszt, Beethoven, Mozart, Strauss, Rossini, Mendelsson-Bartholdy, Wagner… Some of the papers have aged and the notes became unreadable, probably due to the wetness of the underground, but a good number of them is still usable and makes an impressive collection.

The walls of the cave are covered with expensive looking drapings in various shades of crimson, black and gold, that beautifully match the runner. Their lenght surpasses anything Mana has ever seen in his life, for they stretch from the very top of the cave, which is nearly ten meters high in its uppermost spot, to the bottom. Such a high ceiling naturally leaves enough room for another level.

And indeed, there is a tiny bedroom, as if built into the rock, accessible by the means of a golden ladder that is fixed to the wall. This niché consist pretty much only of several colorful chests that people in middle age liked to use instead of wardrobes, a mirror and a bed. But what kind of bed it is! King sized, massive, obviously comfortable, covered by an embroidered sheet and encased with cushions of various sizes and shapes. Again, everything here comes in deep red, black and gold. Four wrought pillars rise from the corners of the bed, holding up support for the most impressive canopy imaginable. It is a resting place worth a prince.

„What is this?“ Mana finally asks, eyes wide like a child, unable to take it all in, „the lair of the Phantom of the Opera?“ Étienne laughs, and this time it sounds not only amused, but also rather proud. "As far as I know, the Phantom of the Opera is only a legend. There are no records available that would mention any disaster in the opera house or the ghost itself. But I don´t think it impossible that Leroux had discovered this place and it became his inspiration. After all, he was a journalist... Wandering around in the underground might have been his hobby." Mana looks at Étienne with renewed trust and adoration. „As it is yours?“ „As it is mine“, the boy nods with a smile. „Come up here, I´ll show you something.“

With that, he leads the way up the ladder, inviting Mana with a gesture into the bedroom. There, he bends down to open the closer chest. The guitarist rushes to peek in along with Étienne. His eyes immediately reveal many kinds of expensive fabrics, messed up and tangled, but whole. "I think these would fit you just perfectly", Étienne announces, pulling out several random clothing items and spreading them on the floor for Mana to look at. Mana chuckles, his eyes sparkling with joy. „You think so…?“ He picks up one of them, a wonderful deep purple coat in knee-lenght, decorated with silver and amethysts, and throws it over his shoulders, turning playfully in front of the mirror.

„It IS perfect“, he admits with a deep sigh, unable to hide that he would like to own the coat and possibly everything else in the chest. "Keep it", Étienne offers simply, as if reading his mind. „What?“ "Keep it", Étienne repeats, „it looks wonderful on you and nobody will ever miss it.“ Mana slowly turns around, the childish smile from before already gone as if it had never existed, and gives his companion a very sober look. „As much as I would like to, I couldn´t possibly… Étienne, this is a real historical item. I feel it has its own story… its own past, tied to this place. It belongs here, I could never carry it away with me. No. Let me just wear it for a while… alright?“

Étienne nods thoughtfully and sits down on the bed, looking up to Mana. „I know exactly how you feel. In fact, I´ve been thinking lately…“, he makes a dramatic pause that fully gains Mana´s attention, "you know how I told you that I would share this with you before I share it with the world? So, I´ve been thinking that... even if it should have a negative effect on my thesis, I´m going to keep this place a secret." Mana listens tentatively, surprised and genuinely touched by what he has just heard. „But… are you aware of how famous this could make you? Nowadays, there isn´t much more to discover…“, he reminds gently. „You might not ever get another chance like this.“

„I know this.“ Mana lets himself sink down on the bed next to Étienne. Both men are silently looking down, watching the fire dance, jump from candle to candle, illuminating the cave with an eerie light. "If I mention this anywhere, people will come down here“, Étienne says dejectedly, „they will destroy the silence and mystery of the underground. Drain the stream. Take everything apart, fight a battle over the most valuable objects and place them into different museums. All of this will cease to exist." Mana understands, and because the ties to the mysterious dwelling have already formed themselves in his heard, he whispers: "We can´t have that…" as if he had actually participated on its discovery.

„I won´t let it happen“, the younger man assures him. Somehow, his hand finds the way to Mana´s and squeezes it lightly, sending a stream of warmth into the guitarist´s slender body. Mana closes his eyes, allowing himself to inwardly smile for a second. Most of his life, he thought there is nothing like a perfect moment… but this night… this night is a row of one perfect moment after another. It is something he will be able to relive in his fantasies and entertain himself with night after night for weeks after, enjoying the exquisite feeling of angst melting into excitement and spiraling into amazement over and over.

„Are you ready for the last surprise?“ Étienne slides off the bed, hastily folding the clothing and piling it back into the confines of its chest. The older man watches him through heavy-lidded eyes, suddenly overcome by tiredness that has accumulated in him within the underground tour they´ve undertaken within the last few hours. It must be nearly morning, he thinks, sinking deeper into the cushions. The temptation to curl up into a ball and fall asleep amidst of this beauty, like the vampire prince he always wanted to be but could never turn into, is so hard to resist... Yet reality is poking out its ugly head. There´s a concert to play at tomorrow. Maybe even today… what´s the time anyway? Logic wins and Mana slowly rises. It would be unwise to loose consciousness on this place, what if Étienne was gone when Mana wakes up?

"I thought this was the last stop…" he mumbles, trying to push the unexpected and unwelcome tiredness off his lids. "Oh, it´s just here…", Étienne smiles, and the flash of his teeth brightens the cave for a second like a stroboscope light, „rather huge but well hidden.“ They pass the living room, descending back onto the shore - and into darkness. Étienne removes one candle from the snake-haired Medusa candleholder in order to show the way and leads Mana around the massive piece of rock that forms the plateau. On the right side of the cave, in a corner Mana has not yet inspected, an object monstrous in size, surrounded by a couple of wooden candleholders, rises towards the roof, almost touching the tips of the lowest hanging stalactites. One after one, the candles are being lit, and the shapes, even details are revealed to Mana´s curious eyes…

It is a large baroque organ, adorned with plentiful ornate golden decorations and fat marble angels, provided with a set of four fingerboards and massive, long pipes. „The musicals scores….!“ It slowly dawns on Mana, as he approaches the giant body of the instrument with uncertain steps like in a dream - longingly, but with a great meassure of respect. „May I…?“ Étienne nods with a wide smile on his lips, and Mana scolds himself for that question - after all, why should he need to request permission for anything? Because this place doesn´t belong to you, he hears the voice of his own conscioussness, because this man discovered it and you are the only person on the world he chose to share it with. You are just a guest, and some things don´t come authomatically along with the invitation.

„Please…“ Étienne adds with the eagerness of a fan about to recieve a private concert of his idol, when he sees that Mana doesn´t seem to want to take an action. The man needs a moment to settle down in the old, creaking chair and place his feet on the pedals. His fingers, though, are already soundlessly stroking the keyes, testing them, trying to figure out what strenght is required to press them, how much will he have to stretch his hands to create complicated acords and harmonies.

At first, he considers playing "Air“ by Bach, one of his most favourite musical pieces which, as he knows, sounds most wonderfully when played on a pipe organ – as originally intended by the author. However, as soon as the first tone sounds, his hands refuse to subdue to the dictate of a melody, composed by someone else, and freely skip across the black and white keys, as if driven by some invisible power. Possibly, it is Mana´s own spirit escaping the imprisonment of mind, zelaous to create, yet one thing is certain: it is the influence of this magical place that gives the spirit wings.

His fingers skip and dance effortlessly across the multiple keyboards, and music in its purest form spills out of the pipes, erasing the cave, the underground labyrinth, Paris, and eventually the world with its sound. Gone is the Earth we know, replaced by harmony that seems to be creating its own universe, where everything becomes more focused, more intense, more passionate, more beautiful... More. Exotic flowers flame in vision, forest trees lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasy, out of the water rise Naiads whose beauty dims eyes, the air  shivers with dragonflies. As the tone came back in echo from the caves and caverns, even the limestone breaks into distant song, as old as time - the swift-winged hours.

Such music can only be a gift from God, healing the whole being with sounds so sacred, vibrating throughout the universe. It´s heaven's official language, it fills the body with peace, the mind with creativity, the heart with love, the soul with complete union… so you can spread your wings and overcome divisions and barriers… travel to the wonders of the world, places of such breathtaking, astounding beauty and sweet ecstasy, taken in by all human senses…Indeed! You can not just hear the sounds, but also smell them, taste them, see them, and feel them vibrating on your fingertips, the shivering spreading into your inner organs, making them oscilate, tingle and burn. They leave an aftertaste of mint, vanilla and cinammon, and their colors form an undescribable, infinite rainbow over Mana´s and Étienne´s heads, combined with glorious fireworks.

The chubby angels seated on the pipe organ seem to be leaning down closer and closer, also caught in the web of silvery sparkling tones, some of them opening their marble lips in a silent scream, others covering their eyes and ears, yet others crying with their curly heads resting on the wooden body of the organ... By the end of the astral symphony, all of them are weeping, their frozen tears burning holes in the molten wax dripping from the many candles.

After the magic has dissolved and the final tones have been carried away into the underground labyrinth, several minutes pass before Mana is able to pull his hands away from the keys and let them fall into his lap. Étienne is sitting at Mana´s feet, curled up on the small carpet placed under the organ, and his white, white cheeks are also stained by tears… tears so dark that in the faint candle light, they look like oil staining a perfect canvas… or blood. The boy wipes them away, looking up with an expression Mana has not seen in his bold, self-conscious face yet, that could be best described as utter awe. „You cannot imagine“, he whispers, „how much you have just given me…“ The artist´s face lights up in the faintest hint of smile. „I just wanted to tell you the exact same words.“

There is no need to say more. Indeed. Such music can only be a gift from God - or a seduction from Devil.

2007, October 9th, 7.50 am, parisian undeground... and out there

For the last time, Mana´s eyes tiredly attempt to focus on the pillar of light Étienne´s torchlight is casting on the path in front of them. They are following the subway, he knows, because the sounds of morning trains passing keep coming to them from above with the force of a small earthquake. To their right on the tunnel wall, there are metal supports holding cables. One slip or miscalculation and you get impaled in the right side.

It is a huge relief, when they finally slither through a small opening into a more modern corridor, at the end of which rises a staircase, leading to a metal door. Étienne pulls it open and holds it for Mana like a real gentleman, although both of them are exhausted, covered by dust, wherefore the prince – princess parallel cannot be drawn without a certain mental compromise. „We have taken a shorter path…“ Mana comments with a thanful subtone in his voice. „There are many entrances, but one must be careful while using them“, Étienne explains, „right now we are in the city center. The taxi stops right behind the corner.“ Mana nods with silent thanks.

Together, they step out into the early morning. The sun has not risen yet, but the night is already gone, replaced by the reddish light spreading across the sky from the east. „Hilton, 51, Rue Courcelles“, Mana whispers to Étienne, when they reach the row of silver cabs. The boy blinks, undoubtedly surprised that he has to make the deal instead of the guitarist, but he doesn´t ask and leans to the half-open car window, repeating the chosen destination. Then, he reaches for Mana´s hand.

The guitarist submits, guessing Étienne is about to kiss his hand again, like he did when they first met. Instead, he feels something cold being slipped onto his finger. A ring. Lifting his hand, he inspects it properly. Silver... no, white gold, definitely, adorned by rubies and saphires, all cut into the heart-shape, forming a pattern of a coat-of-arms. „Étienne…“ he whispers, both amazed and confused, "you took it from down there, didn´t you? But we said…" „I know what we said“, Étienne interrupts him, „but I want you to have something… a memory on what we share… a proof that it will last forever. Keep it… please?“

That´s right, Mana argues with his better self, it is a small thing, just a memory… The ONLY thing that would ever be carried out. A proof that this really happened. His eyes are smiling, as he waits for Étienne to hold the door open for him, and he gives a small nod. „I promise you I WILL remember this forever. And I am not lying when I say it is going to be my favourite memory.“  

A minute later, after they´ve exchanged silent good-byes, the window is being rolled up, the motor starts, and soon the car disappears behind the corner. Mana is hunching in the backseat, unable to take his eyes off the ring, wishing the adventure wouldn´t have to end. For the first time in his life, his heart is filled with hathred, aimed at his work - the thing he used to love the most - because the duties awaiting him, the line of concerts, are taking away from him the world full of mysteries he wishes to submerge into for all eternity. He doesn´t turn his head, and so he can´t see the first ray of sun that´s tickling his messy hair through the window. And he can´t see the slim figure that is Étienne disappear through the metal door back into the catacombs either.

NIGHTBREED

CHAPTER 6 - Death Wish

2007, October 9th, 4.30 am, Catacombs, Paris

          „The Ossuary of Denfert-Rochereaux…“ Mana chants dreamily, his fingers tiptoeing over the wood, longing to be let in, yet unable to touch the handle. The words he has spoken sound like a mysterious mantra. The massive door under his palm is slightly wet, having collected some of the water that keeps dripping from the ceiling, and the ancient wood seems to be whispering… eager to tell him all the secrets of the world behind, if only he pressed his ear on the door and listened. But for that, there is no time. Étienne is already working on the lock. Mana knows they have just arrived at the very place that made parisian catacombs so famous - just inside this door rest the bones of millions of people.

He had been here once – in the official section of the catacombs – with Közi, in the times when Malice Mizer was at its best. Of course, the two boys who used to hang out at graveyards were immensely attracted by this underground macabre, sacred world, but despite of its undeniable exquisitness, one could not let the magic work to its full potential while in a tourist group. Artificial light instead of candles and torches, tourists in modern clothing clashing with their surroundings, the feeling of safety in the herd, people flashing photos, screaming kids, teenagers attempting to overcome the chilly sensation the grave had awoken in them by giggling... And so many doors locked, so many tunnels blocked, so many entrances forbidden!

It would be different now, that much he is certain about.

Beyond that door lays another world - one of the creepiest on one hand and the most beautiful ones on the other Mana could ever imagine. What at first appears to be walls built of small stones are in fact huge, orderly piles of human bones. Tibias and femurs by the thousands stacked neatly, interspersed with rows of skulls, which are sometimes arranged very artistically in a cross or other pattern. There are no intact skeletons; the goal of the arrangement had clearly been maximum compactness. One can only assume that the ribs, spines, and other bones are filled in the spaces behind the walls of large leg bones. Most of the stacks of bones rise to a height of one or two meters, and while some are just a couple of yards deep, there is at least one area where the bones stretch back for a good twenty meters, as Mana assumes from the narrow gap left on top.

The tunnels of bones stretch on and on; many side passages are blocked with locked gates, but even the path designated for tourists is about a mile long. Étienne, once again, plays the perfect guide. He reminds Mana of what he told him earlier about the cemeteries overflowing with bodies, and explains how the bones were moved to empty quarries, whose tunnels were at that time mainly on the outskirts of town. „The process of disinterring the bones from the cemeteries, moving them solemnly into the quarries, and arranging them there took several decades. No attempt was made to identify or separate individual bodies, but each set of bones was marked with a plaque signifying the cemetery they came from and the year in which they were moved. By the time the relocation was finished in 1860, an estimated six to seven million skeletons had been moved to the catacombs.“

The catacombs are eerie, quiet, except for the sounds of water dripping from the ceiling in what seems to be almost regular intervals. It´s unbelieavable how such a little sound can fill the entire place, Mana thinks, uncertain if there is some reversed logic – the tiniest droplets of water resonate like music in a gothic cathedral, whilst screams and steps dissolve in the darkness – or if the echo exists only in his own head. The torchlight seems to be exceptionally dim here, as if the bones had a different density than stone and soaked all the light into themselves… and perhaps… Perhaps some savage cells inside of all the skulls, femurs and ulnas are capable of transforming the light into energy, invigorating them. At day, they absorb all they can of the weak artificial light provided by the museum. At night, they leave their place in the piles and rise to haunt the corridors, feetless legs dancing, armless hands clapping and detached skulls altering the rhytm with their insane laughter.

Mana finds himself carried away by the fantasy and almost gives a jump when something rustles in the corridor behind him. Both men simultaneously turn around to see a skull rolling several inches across the floor, wobbling once or twice before it stops. The air has frozen in Mana´s lungs, but he succeeds in supressing a scream. Étienne bends down, picks up the skull and lifts it to the level of his eyes in order to glare into its empty eye sockets. „To be, or not to be… That´s the question!“ he exclaims with a pathetic tone, before throwing it casually onto the heap of other bones. "Probably a rat", he smiles, and Mana´s anxiety magically disappears, outshined with the boy´s cheery face.

Nevertheless, their surroundings are downright depressing in very many ways. And despite his well-meant joke and his familiarity with these bone-filled passages, even Étienne acknowledges the nature of this place… letting it work on both of them. They walk in silence, not intruding anymore, not even with raised voices. Observers.

It’s hard not to notice that the bones of these millions of people are all pretty much the same. The skull of a revolutionary may be resting on the leg of an aristocrat; noble and corrupt, young and old, wealthy and poor, all are indistinguishable now. „It can give you an entirely new perspective on the concept of human equality“, Étienne whispers. For some reason, Mana doesn´t get startled. It seems almost natural that in a place like this, another person could penetrate into your thoughts and expand on them, without you having actually voiced said thoughts.

It also, needless to say, gives visitors a very keen sense of their own mortality. Some bone heaps are more orderly than others. Many skulls are missing all bone below the cranium, and all, it seems, are missing their teeth and lower jaw bones. Yet once, all of them were living, breathing beings, warm on the touch and filled with their own fears, passion and feelings. And, because it´s natural for the human mind, all of them must have wondered at least once in their lives about the big „what“.

What will come after death?

Surely neither of them expected to end up discarded amongst millions of other deceased, displayed for public every once a while, loosing even the last bit of dignity. The morbidity of it is breathtaking. And what about those, whose job was to pile all the bones and create these walls? What did they think, what motivation did they have for creating these patterns out of skulls, more specifically – Mana´s eyes stop at a particularly stunning sight – the pattern of a HEART? Was it crude humor, known only to the lowest casts of society, the need to diversify their horrible job somehow, or did sympathy drive them? Is there a chance that behind this bone-art stood a fellow-feeling, that the workers knew this wasn´t the place where all those unfortunate dead people would have wanted to find their final rest, and so the macabre pictures were built as an attempt to create something beautiful, something that could supply a tomb adorned with statues or an ornate crypt?

Perhaps one day, Mana thinks, my bones will also be removed from my grave and thrown into some sewer in Tokyo or Hiroshima, because after a few centuries - maybe just decades – who I have been will not matter anymore. The world will have forgotten about me, about the existence of my music, my fashion, maybe about the existence of visual kei altogether, because such music is not a subject to be written down in encyclopedies or taught at schools. My family will have been long dead, and as I won´t have any children, there will be no relatives left to prevent it.

With these thoughts come other contemplations. Would he mind? Generally, would one care about what happens to their body several centuries after death? Because body and mind cease to exist in unity with the last breath. And the last, most alarming question: Is there a soul? Does this invisible entity exist at all, or is this all the univers offers, a heap of bones? And if that was the case, what point would there be to living...?

These queries are no longer unsettling for Mana, he is well used to being plagued by them. In the past, he had been often attempting to find the answers together with his friends from Malice Mizer. They would spend entire nights walking through the empty streets or along the coastline, sitting curled up in a coach in front of the TV with frightening movies full of blood spraying of every part of human bodies, hiding in churches or at cemeteries, or simply debating in the faraway corner of an otherwise deserted tea-house… bringing out new ideas and reminding each other of the old ones.

It had all began with a simple question: What is human? The undeniable answer to this question was… mortality. The only thing that all humans alike, regardless of their nationality, character of social status have in common, the only thing not a single one can avoid. Deep inside, Mana know that this is the key to a truly gothic personality… The willingness to submit oneself to thoughts that others attempt to push away, the eagerness to solve the mystery of death instead of blindly believing someone´s preaching or ignoring the fact that one will not be on this Earth forever. And only through attempting to understand death, one could fully understand life and its meaning.

Those who created this mass tomb were apparently troubled with similar thoughts. Mana´s eyes briefly stop on a stone plate, one of many they have passed, and reads the words aloud: „Man, like a flower of the field, flourishes while the breath is in him, and does not remain nor know longer his own place.“ The truth of that statement doesn´t even have time to settle in, when something absolutely unexpected happens: the electrical bulbs light up and illuminate the place. It is like a flash of lightening for the eyes, adjusted to cave-like darkness and torchlight, but the pain is only the secondary problem, because there are cries to be heard not far away: "Arrete! Stay where you are! This is the catacomb police!"

„Mérde… Retarded bastards, today of all days!“ Étienne mutters under his breath, already on the move, taking a quick turn into a side tunnel, away from the light. Mana follows, knowing they are in deep trouble, because the moment when he found out that sound isn´t carried too far down there is imprinted in his memory. „It is a dead end!“ he warns silently, although Étienne must obviously see himself that the tunnel he had chosen is blocked by another pile of bones. "I know…" the younger man hisses in reply, „they all are around here…“ And, shocking the living daylight out of the guitarist, he begins to climb over the heap.

If there was still time, Mana would have objected to this, but the voices are now in immediate approximity, accompanied by flashes of torchlight and stomping of many pairs of heavy shoes. And so he jumps up, grabs the hand Étienne is offering him, and begins to crawl over the pile, sculls under his body aimlessly rolling down as he places too much weight on them, trying hopelessly to forget that the non-solid ground underneath is built of human remains.

The floor, now paved, slopes gently upward now as they enter a long tunnel with many side-offs. Étienne randomly chooses one. And these tunnels are looking... different. They're not smooth. They're tight and there are signs of cave-ins. Mana suspects Étienne is taking them through an unsafe path in hopes that the police wouldn´t follow. However, another shout is to be heard very close on their right side. „They must have sent more patrols…“ Étienne grunts. A ray of light coming from a side tunnel very close. Too close. „Run!“

They are storming through the corridor, the stomping from behind forcing them to higher speed. "Let´s get rid of the light", Étienne decides, and before Mana can protest, he yanks the torch out of his hand and throws both of them away, into the path of their followers and pulls Mana into another side tunnel that leads to a small crossroad - there are three different tunnels leading forwards. They disappear into the middle one and darkness swallows them whole.

Étienne moves quickly and soundlessly, not stumbling once, as if he knew every stone on the ground, or as if he were wearing nightvision goggles. Mana, on the other hand, faces serious problems and stays behind. He has to be careful with his steps, and like a blind person, he touches the wall with his fingers all the time for security. „Hurry up“, Étienne whispers, turning around – which, of course, Mana doesn´t really see, but he can guess - "they might have sent people down each of the tunnels. Here. Put your hands on my waist." With that, the boy takes Mana´s small hands into his and places them on his hipbones, as if they were on a motorbike.

Surprisingly, it works, and Mana is being lead or dragged forwards without problems with drops and turns. They zig zag for a while then follow some ancient stone stairs down to another level. There, they hit water, about two feet deep. Here the catacombs are at their wettest; water drips steadily from the ceiling all around them, slowly forming stalactites on the ceiling, and cementing all the bones strewn around together with a shiny glaze of limestone rock. Mana tries and keeps in his predecessor's footsteps, almost like walking in snow, yet he slips and almost falls down anyway, painfully hitting his knee. „Slow down, I don't want to break an ankle!“ he pleads, the police is nowhere to be heard.

Étienne obliges, but he doesn´t speak. From what Mana can feel from his body - hands still clutching Étienne´s hips - he is somewhat upset by the whole ordeal. He also feels that the boy is slightly limping. "Have you hurt yourself?" he asks sympathetically and recievs an unfriendly „no“ in reply. „I thought there´s something wrong with your left leg…“ His leader turns around, obviously frustrated. „No… it´s… Well, it´s nothing, just an old injury. My leg was broken and not treated properly, usually this doesn´t happen, only when I´m tired or…“ There´s the faintest hint of a sigh. „I´m sorry this happened. The entrance is of course forbidden, but usually they only spot out bigger groups… foreign tourists or kids who want to party in the underground…“

Mana´s grip on Étienne´s hips tightens and cuts his words. He understands he has touched unsafe ground with accidentally discovering something that the boy sees as his weak side. „That´s not your fault...“ Usually, Mana isn´t one to comfort people, so he isn´t sure if it´s proper, but he adds: „Main thing is it doesn´t hurt anymore.“ He still cannot see anything, but he can FEEL Étienne is smiling at him. „No, it doesn´t…“

Paris again. Deep night. On the cemetery, raindrops are still drumming against the rows of tombs made of marble and stone in a steady rhytm that only nature can create, but the wind has been gradually calming down during the past few hours. Now, it only occasionally picks up a bunch of fallen leaves and lets them shortly dance to the beat before abandoning them again like a broken, useless toy. The garden of eternal sleep appears to be empty – or, we might say, devoid of any living beings – and silent. Only a stray orange tabby sends a lonely meow  skywards and disappears on the other side of the wall that divides the two worlds, the one of the Living and the one of the Dead.

The Moon hesistatingly peeks out from behind a dangerously looking, ill-colored cloud and decides to hide again. Maybe she´s not fond of the weather, maybe she is afraid to glance down, because in her omnipotence, she would be able to tell that a couple of living or already deceased mortals down there might be doing something she doesn´t particularly want to see. A minute later, the peaceful, almost sacral atmosphere of the rainy night is violently interrupted by a loud thud, originated in one of the many large ornate crypts. It sounds very much like if an enraged zombie had janked its tomb open, about to seek some tasty brains to devour.

The Moon seems to have been right. Something is definitely going on.

 


„Would you please hand me the torch already?“ Étienne insists, slight impatience coloring his otherwise pleasant voice. The inside of the crypt is now illuminated by no less than six flaming torches, and the entire room, considerably larger than one would have expected, is fully exposed. Behind the tomb decorated with the beautiful female statue Mana had been inspecting earlier, there are two more tombs. The hinder one is open, its heavy lid awkwardly half-laying on the ground, half-leaning against the neighbouring wall – a position it took when both men joined their powers and pushed it off. Étienne is hidden throat-deep in the confines of that tomb.

„Oh…“ Mana finally moves and takes one of the torches off the wall. "I´m sorry, I was just… thinking." „About?“ Étienne inquires, while experimentally pulling at the rope he has safely tied to the statue a couple of minutes ago. Mana sighs, but it doesn´t really sound stressed or upset at all. „How short is the way from an artist to a tomb raider.“ „Oh come on“, Étienne rolls his eyes, „we´re not stealing anything, and this is not really a tomb, anyway. You´ll see. Here, I´ll go first.“

One hand clutching the rope, he takes the torch from Mana with the other one and slowly submerges into the darkness underneath. The guitarist casts a glance into the tomb with renewed curiosity. To his great amazement, where the bottom should be, his eyes discover but a hole in the Earth, a roughly made pit, into which Étienne is slowly descending. There´s a simple wooden ladder leading down, illuminated now by the flame that´s dancing above Étienne´s head. „Hold on to the rope as you climb down!“ the boy calls, "some of the bars might be rotten."

Mana hesistatingly follows his leader into the shaft and attemps to coordinate his movements, so that he´d master climbing, holding on the rope for support, and not letting the torch fall down or set his hair on fire at the same time. Just this once, he would be grateful if Étienne abandoned his plan to make it all darkly romantic and brought torchlights instead – they might have spoilt the atmosphere slightly, but would have definitely imposed no danger. Moving slowly and with caution, he tries to make a conception of how deep under Paris they are going to get. The steps of the ladder appear to always keep a distance of about thirty centimeters; he counts them as he advances and when, after what seems like an eternity, his right foot touches the ground, he quickly calculates the depth may be between 25 and 30 meters.

Étienne is waiting at him with a reassuring smile, asking if everything is alright. Mana nods absentmindedly, his eyes already wandering around, inspecting the surroundings. It is now clear that this had, in fact, never been a tomb. The bottom of the shaft appears to be the beginning – or the end, depending on how you look at it – of a tunnel so small that one would have to access it on all fours. „Are you sure this is a good idea?“ the guitarist raises an eyebrow with a smug expression that totally fails at covering his anxiety. „I am fine with confined spaces, but this is… just a little bit too confined. It´s like a dog´s hole!“

„It gets better after a while“, Étienne hurries with an assurance, „and it´s completely safe. I´ve been there many times, don´t worry…“ Mana vaguely recalls a proverb that spoke about a jug that someone had been using for ages until one day its handle detached itself, making said jug fall down and shatter into pieces, but he decides not to make any more comments - at least not at this point. There is no way back anymore, and looking like a coward is not going to help. He doesn´t object when Étienne takes both torches - otherwise, he would definitely burn his companion´s soles while crawling through the passage – and reluctantly sinks to his hands and knees.

Thankfully, the tunnel isn´t muddy, slippery and clammy as Mana imagined it to be... the soil is quite solid and there´s a whisp of fresh air coming from the other side, a clear promise of an open space nearby. After five or ten claustrophobic minutes that seem to be stretching into hours, they come to a stop so abruptly that Mana hits his head on the stone above for fear of falling over the boy in front of him. He hisses, rubbing the injured spot, and glances over Étienne´s shoulder. „Is something wrong?“ „It´s right here… Give me a second…“

In the feeble light of the two torches, flickering on the ground dangerously close to Étienne´s leg, Mana sees that his partner in crime is trying to push away a huge piece of stone blocking the tunnel. "Ehm… I don´t think that´s gonna…" He doesn´t even get the chance to finish his doubtful sentence and already the path is being cleared away and Étienne´s head and shoulders begin to disappear somewhere on the other side.

Contrary to his belief, the tunnel doesn´t lead neither into a huge cave full of treasure beyond human imagination, nor into a secret chamber of some twisted religious group that would slay their sacrifices in its darkness. Instead, Mana finds himself standing in yet another tunnel, although much more spacious, longer and crafted by a hand of a proffessional. It is obvious that, unlike the hole they´ve been crawling through for the past few minutes, this corridor had not been created for the purpose of connecting the tomb to something. No...

He walkes a bit farther into the passage, casting light on the walls, then floor, then ceiling. All solid limestone, safe, supported by a wooden construction on some places. „Étienne…?“ he turns over his shoulder, "…where are we?" For reasons unknown, his voice is barely a whisper. The young man rolls the block of stone back in its place without any visible effort and wipes his hands into his coat. "This, my dear, is the other Paris." Mana´s eyes are burning a hole into Étienne´s forebrow.

„This passage leads to the maze of rock quarries totalling nearly 300 kilometers underneath Paris. Some of them have been around since the Romans, some were created in those times when all the massive churches and palaces were being built in Paris… The stone was quarried locally, which left behind all these huge volumes of empty spaces. An entire labyrinth of underground corridors.“ Mana´s eyes widen with recognition. „You mean we´re in the catacombs?? But I thought they are far away from the cemetary…“ „The bones are only stored in one small part of the catacombs“, preaches Étienne, leading the way through the tunnel, „but this complex spreads under the entire city, waste and largely unresearched.“

As they proceed, new quarries open on both sides of the corridor, doors, or rather openings that look just the same. They turn right, then walk straight, missing three junctions, then turn left and right again. Mana is trying to keep track, but after a while it proves impossible. The only difference between the single tunnels is the ground – sometimes it is composed of nothing else than wet limestone, sometimes gravel is covering it, probably preventing the stones from getting too slippery, sometimes there are little constructions and wooden bridges where a gap in the rock needed to be covered. Occasionally, they discover a surprising sign of previous visitation – abandoned machinery clearly decades old, broken bottles, a discarded rotting shoe.

Étienne leads Mana through the maze of turns and dead ends never needing a map. Now and then he directs his torch at points of danger – sudden fissures, bottomless pits instead of the wall on one or the other the side of the corridor. „Did you find out the purpose of the tunnel from the tomb?“ Mana wonders as soon as he his eyes have grown accustomed to the half light and his soul has settled down firmly in his chest, almost certain now that there are not going to be nasty surprises on the way.

„Who knows…“ Étienne shrugs. „The only thing I am certain about is, that the tomb has always been empty. It has never had a bottom, never contained a body. Maybe the family had estabilished this connection to help them with smuggling... things could be easily stored down here and picked up from the cemetery while you were visiting your family crypt without a trace of suspicion.“ „So you think that the possibility that… let´s say…“ Mana is trying his best to not sound foolish as he tries to express his romantic idea, „…an undead being would use that tunnel to escape from their coffin is absolutely out of question?“ „Excellent question!“ Étienne´s face glows with a smile. „I was hoping in that when I first saw it, but no… it clearly served for getting things INTO the crypt, not out of it.“

Under different circumstances, Mana would have been embarassed, but somehow ideas of vampires opening their tombs and crawling through narrow passages looks like a real option in Étienne´s company, especially while being lost in a dark underground maze. A labyrinth, where a monster or a serial killer could be hidden behind every corner and drive their fangs or their knife through any poor human being that was lead into this massive trap by fate, without the murder ever being noticed in the world outside. He can´t really trace back the moment when he started to think about danger as something coming from an unknown source, not from Étienne… yet it happened. Essentially, with every junction, Mana´s trust in Étienne deepened in accordance with the lowering if his own survival chances. If Étienne left him, he could walk through the labyrinth for days until he´d fall and die of exhaustion and thirst. He could never possibly find his way out... This dependence makes him believe Étienne´s honest intentions, because without this belief, the only things left for him would be insanity and despair.

„How comes you never get lost?“ he asks in a conversational tone, wondering if Étienne understands that he is in fact demanding reassurance, a confirmation that they indeed cannot get lost. „It´s just years of practise combined with projection…“ Étienne explains, „I have been here more times than you could count and memorized most of the turns... But, should my memory fail me, all I have to do is to imagine where would we find ourselves in the real Paris up there, project the real streets on these tunnels in my mind, and then deduce the way to the closest entrance. The police have sealed most of them, but a few they don´t know about. Sometimes you will even find cornerstones with street names and dates that people have left here throughout the ages... They correspond with parisian streets.“

Knowing this, Mana starts to pay attention and rejoices at the discovery of several variatons on street signs along the way and even a couple of graffiti from revolutionary times – 1789 and 1968. Surely back then this place must have served as a safe hide out for refugees… Mana leans closer to the wall to inspect the details of one of them thoroughly, when suddenly he glimpses a movement with a corner of his eye. Swiftly turning to the left, he casts his light on - not a ghost, but a misguided bat, the tiny kind that usually finds home in ice caves. The little animal flaps its wings and, probably scared by the fire, makes an escape into a nearby opening.

Intrigued by the bat, Mana follows its flight through the tunnel up till its dead end. Above, theres a shaft leading up towards the „real Paris“, as Étienne called it, but it seems to have been blocked ages ago. Now it serves as a home for a colony of bats. A few of them are flying about, but most are sleeping, wrapped tightly in their winged arms like vampires dressed in dark cloaks. A sound not unlike chirping comes from the right. Mana turns his attention that way and discovers an adult bat trying to hide its spawn from the intruder.

Étienne finds him there, looking up with a tiny smile, eyes glowing like gems. "Mana", Étienne starts, a little breathless, dropping the polite "sama", but the guitarist silences him with a gesture and points towards the ceiling. „Look… aren´t they adorable? They´re the only kind of pets I wouldn´t mind having at home… But bats are known to suffer and die soon in captivity.“ The forlorn expression in Mana´s eyes equals the one of a child who is allowed to watch his favourite toy through the shop window but knows he can never bring it home with him. This makes it much harder for Étienne to be angry.

„Mana-sama“, he says softly, unobtrusively touching Mana´s shoulders in order to lead him out, „you have to tell me the next time you want to look at something. This is really dangerous, sound doesn´t get carried far in these corridors, if I loose sight of you, I may not find you again.“ And of course, he is right. How comes I didn´t notice this before? Mana mentally scolds himself, listening to the silence. His shoes do not make any sound even when he deliberately stomps, there´s no echo, n-o-t-h-i-n-g. Yet he isn´t scared - on the contrary. Danger seems to be fuelling both his passion and curiosity, running in his veins instead of blood. And what more, there´s something Mana has discovered through this: Étienne was worried. Genuinely worried about him.

They do not speak anymore until much later, when Étienne stops in front of an iron gate and without any problems opens the lock with a knife. A massive spiral staircase leads furher down. At the bottom… a small gallery. And from there, a long dark tunnel. At its end… another door, and over it a sign in french that reads: ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE.

Étienne turns over his shoulder, his unnaturally white face almost ethereal as he stands there, right under the sign. „We´re here.“

NIGHTBREED

1st INTERMISSION: Time of Despair

 5th of September 2008, 10.00 am, Hiroshima prison
           
           The laughter echoed in his ears, over and over, like an annoying screeching of a broken record… Androgynous. Maddeningly loud. Decadent. Insane. That irritating roaring fed at his helplessness, drunk his fears and grew stronger minute by minute, looming over his head like an enormous blade of a guillotine. The merciless being producing those ungodly sounds delighted in the agony of it all, ridiculed him for being kept like a caged animal and ignored his silent pleading. And he didn´t know who it was. He didn´t know…

No body, no face. Just a sound, as threatening as a nightmare that survived beyond the waking point and somehow, unbound by the surreal world of dreams, kept on attacking him in daylight.

He pressed his back into the wall in anxiety so forcefully that the stones immediately begun to injure the vertebrae, poking sharply out of his backbone. Mana didn´t mind. The pain was something real, something physical, therefore simple and easy to understand, something the source of which he could clearly identify and eliminate - if he so pleased, which he didn´t. It helped, even though just for the shortest of moments, to take his mind off the real horrors – those ones raging inside of his head.

Scared. He was so very scared… A thin voice deep in his soul knew, who had been laughing, and wanted to raise, but Mana was afraid to demand even a whisper of an answer. And so he concentrated all his efforts on silencing that hint of a voice, so that it would never speak again, mute just like Mana himself. The accusation would never be made, the question never answered.

And the laughter came again, as if on command, cascading from the sky somewhere outside, sky that Mana hadn´t seen in days and would perhaps never see again, rushing like flood through the corridors and thumping at the door of his cell, making it rattle. This time, it was worse. Along came the alarming feeling of being watched… no, not watched, but thoroughly inspected. His soul was being literally taken apart and put together again, piece by piece. Black piercing eyes with burning flames instead of pupils, orbs that could possibly kill. And they were looking at him with such stoic cruelty, constantly, with no need to blink.

They were swimming in a white face, too hazy for Mana to make out any facial features, seemingly surrounded by thick greyish mist. All he could do was study the eyes itself, the hathred and the animal-like ferocity they were expressing, an almost bestial longing for blood… but also a certain level of ignorance and resignation to time that was passing by unnoticed. It was like being hypnotized and not loosing consciousness... knowing all the time what is happening to you, awake, but unable to fight the pulling. Yet that was exactly what he had to do, and so he pressed his eyelids together forcefully, making the enchanting eyes disappear in a caleidoscop of flashing lights, and covered his ears by the only means avialable - bare hands. „I won´t let you make me go mad…“ he whispered, voice barely audible due to the anxiety that was slowly possessing every organ of his body and squeezed his throat as a part of it.

Try as he might, he still wasn´t able to escape the eyes, or the voice, and as time passed, minute by minute the realisation of a frightening truth he had been attempting to bury deep inside became clearer: Those eyes were his own. It was him, who had been laughing at his own helplessness. He was the driver of the black limousine aiming in direction insanity, and its sole passenger at the same time. Nevertheless, although he knew he had been sitting there, the backseat was empty when he let go of the steering wheel to turn over his shoulder, the backseat was empty. The mirror, too, only reflected the irregular pattern of the coating...

„It´s been just a week. One week. I can´t be mad yet…“, Mana whispered again, this time a little bit louder than before, and aimed his hazy eyes on one particular place on the wall next to the so-called bed. There, starting beyond a thin ashen-colored pillow, was a short line of jerky dashes, carefully carved with the kind of plastic knife you only get on a plane or in prison - in the first case in order to prevent any harm caused to other passengers, in the other… so that you couldn´t cut your own wrists. Mana had tried. It didn´t even leave a line on his skin.

One, two, three, four, five. Not yet a week. Only five days, and the fifth had just began a few hours ago. Oh God, I always thought I was stronger than this…

When the sheet covered door opened, Mana was completely unprepared. It wasn´t the time of day when they usually took him out for hearings, and it certainly wasn´t the time for lunch yet, judging by the fact that the leftovers of his breakfest hadn´t yet started to smell. Usually, Mana was able to foresee such occasions, and he would always whip himself to composure, coating his inner misery by a well-practised mask of ignorance, ensuring that he gave nobody the satisfaction of being seen beaten. This time, they arrived unexpected, and he just about managed to raise from the ground where he had been curled up for hours. The look of a wounded animal was still present in his eyes, when the warders lead a tall balding man into Mana´s small room. „Your lawyer.“

The prisoner´s eyes widened in surprise. Both men greeted each other with a polite bow, and as soon as the door was shut again, Mana exclaimed: „Katsuo! What are you doing here?“ His visitor gave a deep sigh and, before answering, he cast a reproachful look on the bed, pondering whether or not his custom-tailored suit would suffer any damage, if he sat down. Finally he did so, probably out of sympathy with his client. Mana couldn´t help but notice that he was ballacing on the edge, most likely afraid to touch the wall. Suddenly, his happiness to see the man was all gone, replaced by a mischievous longing to use the lawyer as a target for his bitterness. "Don´t be afraid to lean, Katsuo", he hissed, „the cockroaches only come out at night, and they are all hidden under the sink“.

The older man purposedly ignored the quick-witted remark. „Mana…“, he sighed again, looking as troubled as if it was him who had to spend days and nights in the cell, „why on Earth didn´t you call me? Why did I have to find out about this from the news? I would understand if you chose another attorney, someone who works in criminal-law, but from what they told me, I´ve gathered that you even refused the pro-bono guy…“

Mana was silent, unsure of what explanation he should provide. It would have been logical to call Katsuo… The man was indeed a good lawyer and, aside of that, he was also the father-in-law of Mana´s beloved cousin, who happened to be the only family member that still spoke with the guitarist. It was him who had helped Mana with the legal side of starting his own business, him again who had been successfull in dealing with Gackt, when the singer attempted to rip Mana off a great amount of money that belonged to Malice Mizer, and it was also him who had saved Mana´s ass that one day when his new band forgot to extinguish all candles in their hotel room and half of the furniture burnt down to ashes.

„I´m not in need of a lawyer“, he finally said. „My dear boy“, Katsuo uttered with the nonchalance that allows a person over 50 to call another adult person a child without leaving a hint of whether they are referring to the other person´s lower intelligence, or merely showing parental affection, „do you realize how big a hole you are digging for yourself? I would say by now you´re about half the way to USA, and you don´t seem to be stopping. You are suspected of having assisted to numerous murders, a serial-killer case unseen in Japan in this millenium. If they decide you´re guilty, in the best case you´re going to spend the rest of your life in here. In the worst case, you will have no life whatsover! If this doesn´t sound to your ears like need for a lawyer, I´d like to know what does.“

„They won´t dare to kill me“, Mana shook his head, „at least not yet“. The lawyer´s face wrinkled in a grimace. „How so?“ „So far, the only thing they are certain about is that we were lovers. There isn´t a proof against me taking part on anything. It is him they want. They need me to find him, and I´m not being helpful. I am trying to win as much time as possible… I´m waiting.“

Katsuo´s grimace was slowly changing into the expression of a man, who is about to pass out in near future due to a severe heart attack. „Waiting?? For.. what exactly?! Gods, Mana, you need to be helpful, don´t you see? What you have to do is go and tell them everything that you know about him, swear that you had no clue about the bestialities he´d been entertaining himself with and beg for a low penalty in exchange for information. The sooner you do this, the better for you!“

Mana closed his eyes, a sad smile dancing on his dry lips. „…see? This is exactly why I didn´t call you. I knew you wouldn´t agree.“ He walked across the cell and took a place on the bed next to Katsuo, making it an eye-to-eye conversation. That was the only way he could convey the importance and definitiveness of his decision. "You cannot help me, Katsuo. I am simply waiting for the one who can… But please, if you want to do something… do help K… I mean, Takeru. He was there when they found me. He just… he isn´t a part of this and shouldn´t…"

A hand on his shoulder stopped Mana from babbling further. „Takeru has never been arrested.“ Mana´s eyes widened, but he didn´t try to avoid the touch like he would have, were they both free men. As much as he always hated being close to other human beings, loneliness proved to be a bigger enemy behind the barrs. Any sign of affection suddenly felt very welcome. „How do you mean? I have seen with my own eyes...“ Again, he was stopped in mid-sentence, this time by a series of loud bangs from behind the door. "This is your last minute for visits!"

The older man hastily pulled out a yellow-tinted envelope and pressed it into Mana´s shaking hands. „Here´s a letter for you from one of your bandmates… Seiji, I assume. It has been opened, but they didn´t modify anything. He told me it explains all...“

NIGHTBREED

CHAPTER 4 - The Reaper Behind Me

2007, October 9th, 2.05 am, Montparnasse cemetery, Paris

The rain grows heavier minute by minute, thick drops of water quickly making the leaf-covered path slippery and dangerous. The two men have managed to hide under a tiny roof of what appears to be a very old family crypt, but there is hardly enough space underneath to protect them completely. Every now and then, a gust of wind brings a cold splash of rain into their faces. Mana presses his back against the wall, as if attempting to sink into it and blend in with the stones, and turns his head towards  Étienne - to discover the younger man fiddling with something on the small entrance door. „It is a bit rusty“, Étienne complains, squirming uncomfortably, because a trickle of water has just found its way into his coat and tickles him on the back on its way down, but suddenly there´s a click and the padlock falls open. Just a little pull and the door creaks, revealing dark space of uncertain size and contents inside. Étienne steps in first, beckoning to Mana, who follows like a lamb without giving it another thought, inwardly obsessing about the state of his make-up and hair.

Mana is standing still at the door, waiting for his eyes to get accustomed to the darkness, and takes a deep breath in order to warm his fingers. As he blows on his frozen hands, clasped together in a gesture involuntarily imitating  a silent prayer, it occurs to him that the air is not as stale and suffocating as it should be. Yes, there is a certain odour of rotting wetness, udoubtedly caused by fungus that torments these middle-age walls, but there is also a surprising amount of oxygen, at least for a place that had not been opened for several hundreds of years… or had it?

A loud thud behind him announces that the wind has slammed the door shut. Now there´s no point in trying to see – the darkness is rich, cave-like, thick like black coffee, so solid that one could grab a fistfull and veil one´s body into its folds. Mana finds it strangely comforting, to be cut off the world outside, craddled and adorned by this darkness mixed with complete silence… for nothing exists here, nothing matters, only his heartbeat, only his smile that remains unseen. Here, out of reality, he is allowed to smile. In the darkest place, filled with nothing but strange whispers that would evoke fear in most, Mana feels safe… at home.

Suddenly, a strand of black hair falls into his face. A strange touch upon white cheek – in the darkness, it almost feels like if the hair didn´t belong to him, like if something inhuman was creepingly sliding across his skin. A ghost maybe, one who dared this close because it knew that even with open eyes, Mana could not see it. And again, this - maybe a product of wild fantasy, maybe disturbing reality – does not make him jerk in fear. What could be more breathtaking, more exciting than a private nightmare to explore?

He makes a long step into the sea of darkness, careful not to cause the slightest ripples on its perfect surface, admiring its wastenes. Slowly, he walks into the depths of the tomb, arms extended as far as possible to prevent bumping into unseen objects, until the tips of his fingers touch stone. Like a blind man, the guitarist awkwardly examines its curves – and curves it has: small mounds of breasts, elegant waistline, broad hips (although only one of those can be traced, because this being made of marble is resting on one side, supporting herself with an elbow), seemingly endless lenght of thighs and legs, perfect little toes… all neatly laying in pillows made of a material that feels like cold metal, maybe gold.

A sepulchure, Mana realizes. A woman is spending eternity here in this place, a beautiful woman, if the statue is telling the truth – which it may not be, because naturally, everyone is being portrayed as an image of unearthly perfection after their death. Those who had been overweight while alive suddenly loose pounds and recieve a waistline once they become an artwork, crooked teeth magically straighten and shine with whiteness, hair that had looked like wet straw in reality becomes a shining rich mane, the old become young again, midgets turn into full grown men, because only a work of art has the ability to turn back time, erase wrinkles, capture beauty that had long ago faded and make it immortal. And while the piece of marble reflects this woman´s youthful limbs as they once had been, casually spread on the hard, uncomfortable golden pillows for eternity, her body is in fact in a state of decomposure, rotting away deep in the earth under this lovely portrayal… Or maybe there is no body anymore. Maybe it had been eaten away by worms centuries ago, taken in by the soil, tissue had dissolved, already weak flesh had fallen apart into small pieces, then dust, then molecules, then… nothing. Only anonymous bones are left now, and their size and fragile structure probably give the sole hint that they had once belonged to a female.

With a morbid interest, he runs his fingers across her face, trying to make out the features and imprint them into his memory. And, quite unexpectedly, a warm, golden light, that quickly fills out the small space of the inner crypt, helps him see. Mana gazes into the illuminated face of the statue, then lowers his eyes to her body and further down, where an ornate marble plate states who she once had been: Solange Odette De… The rest of her surname seems to have been erased by time. Mana wants to leans closer and make an attempt to decipher it, but a growing feeling of anxiety prevents him from doing so. He can no longer ignore the other train of thoughts, running in the background of his mind. There is something wrong… The light. There shouldn´t be any light. Where did it come from?

Hesistatingly, he turns away from the statue and his eyes fall on Étienne. The boy is holding a torch, smiling at Mana with his predatory smile again. „That´s better…“ His elegant fingers casually close a box of matches and throw it aside, into a small niche in the wall. The alarm clock that has been silently ticking just a while ago suddenly explodes in Mana´s head with a force of an A-bomb. You fool. You stupid fool. „Étienne?“ he asks carefully, sliding his small hands into the pockets of the black coat, „do you smoke?“ „No, I´m sorry…“ Étienne shrugs, mistakenly thinking that Mana wants to ask for a cigarette. Finding a torch by random in this darkness would be a small miracle, Mana thinks, making a few careful steps towards Étienne, but perhaps it could have been done. But to find a tiny box of matches by random? Downright impossible.

„Are you alright?“ the younger man asks, rising his well-shaped eyebrows. „Perfectly alright.“ Aside of the fact that I am locked up in a middle-age tomb with a dangerous madman and noone will ever find my body if he succeeds in the murder he had undoubtedly been planning for gods know how long… Mana mentally adds, feeling the panic building up in his intestines and dangerously swelling with every breath he takes. But he won´t succeed. And as soon as he makes this decisions, a quick sequence of events follows.

Étienne turns around to place the torch into a holder on the wall, and Mana, driven by pure self-preservation instinct, immediately rushes after him, pinning him to the wall with a single jump, and a small knife appears in his gloved hand. The torch that has slipped out of Étiennes hand during this attack hits the ground and Mana feverishly kicks into it, trying to extinguish the fire, however, he only manages to roll the torch several steps away. At least Étienne won´t use it as a weapon. „What the hell!!“ the boy exclaims, trying to look over his shoulder and wiggle himself free at the same time, but the touch of cold steel against his bare neck makes him calm down.

„I am the one asking questions here.“ Mana hightens the pressure of the knife, enough to prove he means his cold words, but not enough to draw blood. „It wasn´t the wind that slammed the door shut, right?“ he hisses, skillfully masking his anxiety and fear for life behind anger. „Why am I here?“ he inquires with a tone devoid of any emotion, „and what did you want to do with me?“ „It doesn´t really matter, Mana-sama.“ Étienne´s voice sounds defeated, beaten. „You have already decided that I am a criminal. But why?? Do you really think I brought you all the way here just to break your neck, when I could have done it easily long ago? What would be in it for me?“ The quitarist refuses to let him slip so easily. He knows too well about the existence of serial killers, who aren´t satisfied if the setting for their dirty deeds isn´t perfet, and who display various kinks ranging from retouching thier victim´s make-up after death up to cutting off their fingers with nail clippers. „You tell me. I am not a murderer, I can´t even begin to guess what gets them off.“

 „Mana-sama, please…“ Mana shakes his head, although Étienne cannot see it from his position. Pleading has no chance for success. Not with him. Although it does worry him a bit that the youthful body he is trying to prevent from moving is now violently shaking, perhaps with fear or embarassment, perhaps with supressed crying. „Who are you?“ he keeps persiting, „how comes you know this place?“

Étienne sighs silently and it almost sounds like a sob to Mana. „I am just a fool who saw the only chance to impress his idol by giving him the adventure of his life“, he mutters dejectedly, pressing his forebrow against the cold stoney wall. Surely he isn´t swallowing tears…? Mana loosens his grip, slightly unsettled by this kind of unexpected behaviour, and realizes his mistake way too late. Étienne stops pretending and spins on his heel with an unnatural speed, yanking the knife out of Mana´s hand before the Japanese can even raise an arm to defend himself, and after less than half a minute of furious fighting, Étienne has the panting guitarist by his wrists. There must be much more strenght in him than Mana would have guessed, because he is effortlessly holding the smaller man with only one hand, while the other one is casually reaching into his pocket for… what? A knife? A gun?

It is not unusual in movies, that the seconds before the victim´s death stretch into minutes. Mana was never able to find out why add this particular effect, when everyone just wants to finally see it happen. Now he understands. The scene is running in front of his eyes in slow-motion and it seems to be forever until Étienne´s white fingers brush the cloth of his jacket. To Mana´s surprise, the young man pulls out a black wallet and before he releases his wrists, he places it firmly into his hands. „It was just a game Mana-sama“, he says quietly, stepping back, away from his „victim“ in order to show that he doesn´t mean any evil, „a scary game for you to enjoy that I prepared with best intentions. I am familiar with this place and many of the other places I showed you today, I even own the key – yes, it was a key I opened the padlock with - because I have been studying them for years. Not to bring my victims in them. Merely out of interest… and also duty.“ Mana doesn´t say anything to that, but bows his head ever so slightly, allowing Étienne to continue.

„I am a student at Sorbonne“, the boy explains, „majoring in history and archeology. I have finished the four obligatory years, but I am taking an extra one to write my master thesis in peace. It is called Hidden Paris…“  He makes a gesture towards Mana´s hands. "Open the wallet.“ Mana, still speechless, gives him a questioning look. „My student´s card is in the second pocket.“ The older man obeys, and indeed it takes just a while to find a green plastic card, the type that young people under 26 get discounts on. On the right side, there´s a small photo of a boy, whose black hair is tied back in a pony tail and who is wearing no gothic make-up, but who still bears a close resemblance to the young man standing in front of Mana. The tiny letters on the left side read: „Étienne Deveroux, 2007/2008.“

„Please, forgive me my ignorance“, Étienne says silently, and although his head is hanging low, those green eyes of his are searching for Mana´s ones in hope to find the slightest sign of understanding. „This here is pretty much my life… well, this and music. I have been following your career since forever, and like every fan, I have read and watched a bit here and there, from which I made a  certain picture of you that I carry in my head. Maybe it is idealized, maybe it doesn´t do your any justice… doesn´t matter really.“ At that, his eyes finally drop to the floor and begin to study the stones under their feet with feigned interest. He is ashamed for talking about his admiration for Mana, which makes him look like an innocent boy – but is it the truth or a well calculated step?

„One of the things I like to believe is… that we have something in common, the two of us“, Étienne carries on, „namely that we do not only belong to the gothic culture for the music and fashion, but that both of us are driven by deep interest in its origins, a burning passion for old mysteries, haunted places and adventures that others wouldn´t think of. Mana-sama, what you have seen so far was nothing yet. I made this passion my future job and… recently, during my preparations for this career, I discovered things beyond belief already, right here, in the city of my birth. And because your music gives me so much joy and inspiration, I wanted to share them with you before I show them to the world – in attempt to give, in return, something to you. Something unforgettable that you couldn´t experience elsewhere. In my enthusiasm, I forgot that this could look wrong on so many levels, when you don´t really know me.“

Pondering, Mana turns the card in his fingers, thankful that Étienne started talking again, because he isn´t sure what he should say in such a situation. There´s a first time for everything, but he had certainly never expected to have to apologize to someone for thinking that said person was about to murder him. There are simply no words to sufficiently express his feelings, especially not because the situation is complicated by his persisting uncertainty about Étienne´s honesty. After all, who is to say a history student cannot be a criminal as well? Education has never prevented anyone from inclinations to violence. He should be definitely feeling more ashamed for the irresponsible accusation he has made, and the fact that this shame is not completely present clearly implies that he still doesn´t trust Étienne at all.

It seems like his mind has split in two, and while one half is urging him to run if possible, the other one yearns to latch onto Étienne and follow him even to Hell. „Maybe this was too much for you“, Étienne contemplates with a soft, almost remorseful voice. That statement has a similar effect on Mana like a push in the back would have on a person who is deciding whether or not they should run down the hill. „No!“ he exclaims quickly, immediately regaining composure. „You haven´t misjudged me“, he starts again, this time giving every word a deep thought. „Étienne… all of this is so glorious, so exciting for me. But still… no matter how little I fear ghosts and monsters, it´s different with people. People I don´t trust.“

The words are almost inaudible and give no hint of remorse or appology. For a while, the two of men remain in complete silence, unsure of where to take this. Then, Étienne finally moves towards the door, searching for the keys in his pocket. His fingers are nervously shaking. „I would never hurt you, Mana-sama. If you want, we can see if the rain has stopped… and call you a cab to the hotel. Unless…“ Mana fixes Étienne´s emerald eyes with his gaze. „Unless…?“ „Unless you are able to pretend I´m a monster for the rest of the night.“

The voice of reason reminds Mana that this is his ticket out. He can just shake his head and walk away, forget the what if´s in his head, possibly hurt an innocent student by lack of trust, but certainly save his life. Except he finds himself unable to, because he, in fact, CAN imagine Étienne as a monster. He pictures the young beauty as a Medusa, slithering in zig zag movements towards him, snake-like hair twisting around his temples, before he freezes his victim´s body with one glance of his precious eyes. He imagines Étienne´s see-through skin as he walks right through the wall of the crypt, through crosses and statues, non-substentional, sits down on a tomb and starts to play a mournful, ghost-like melody on a violin. He sees him running across a neverending plain, hair floating in the wind, spreading his faerie wings and take up to the sky, where he seems to be smaller and smaller until he finally melts in the shining orb of sun. He envisions the young man twisting in the moonbeams, while, accompanied by desperate howls, his clothes rip and reveal the transforming body, covered by dark fur, and when the howling subsedes, the only thing that remind of Étienne´s humanity are his enormous eyes. He fantasizes about Étienne, leaning over a shivering female body, giving his last predatory smile before he sinks sharp vampiric fangs into the whiteness of her neck. He can see him walking a flaming path, burning but not being burnt, dressed in a cape so dark that it blends in with the night sky, stars reflecting on his reaper´s scythe.

Against all logic, Mana nods. „I think… I think I can do that.“

NIGHTBREED

CHAPTER 3 – Shadow of the Moon

2007, October 8th, 11.50 pm, outskirts of Paris

The moon stands now high on the sky, half covered by a cirrus cloud, spreading over the darkness like a torn greyish blanket, wind whispers in the trees and plays hide and seek in the hair of the two men in a wooden charriot, hooves rustle in the grass – parisian streets have been left behind. Behind them stretches the town like a sparkling sea, in front of them lay barely visible ruins.

„…the tower over there…“ Étienne points his gloved finger towards a gloomy silhouette and Mana obediently turns his head to the left, leaning over the other man, „…the one with the top that seems to be falling apart, that´s rumoured to be the tower where Magnus took Lestat to give him the dark gift.“ So he does read vampire books, Mana notes momentarily, adding several points into the chart that forms his opinion on Étienne, before his heart skips a beat due to the sudden realisation that he is actually REALLY seeing things that nobody else would be able to show him, things he had only been reading about so far, while laying in his king-sized bed that reminded of old times he enjoyed to fill his dreams with. „Can we get a bit closer?“ he pleads eagerly, hands clasped together in a girly gesture, and Étienne nods – having successfully supressed a grin –, and carefully leads his horses forward into the darkness.

They have been roaming the streets of Paris for two hours already, before getting this far to the outskirts, and every building, every stone in the pavement, every statue, even a flock of pidgeons they saw on the way, Étienne had a tale to tell about. He spoke about the voluptuous lives of french kings and related nobles, battles fought – both well known and private ones, countless affairs between parisian comediants, writers and chansoniers, and of course about blood, ghosts and urban myths. He knew the oldest tree in Paris and discovered the tiny carving in it – a message left by a stable boy for the king´s misstress some time in the 17th century -, he was able to point out the exact place where the guillotine had been standing between the years 1792 and 1851, he recalled the little window in a half forgotten inn that Rimbaud used several times to accept his male lovers.

This is the top of the night, Mana is quite certain of that, a special treat from one darkling to another. „It is a pity that I cannot show you the inside“, Étienne sighs as they stop at the side of the massive tower and Mana inspects the blackened stones. „Why not?“ „They blocked the entrance some twenty years ago“, the boy explains, „apparently it had become popular amongst drug dealers. Immense ammunition of heroin had been found in the cellar… Well, that´s Paris for you. Not just the glitter.“

„And how about the Theatre des Vampires?“ Mana asks with hope clearly reflecting in his voice, recalling his favourite part of Interview with the Vampire, „does it also exist in some form?“ „I am afraid I will have to disappoint you. That has always been just a tale. It seems as though Anne Rice was inspired by The Grand Guignol, a theatre in Pigalle which, from its opening in 1897 to its closing in 1962, specialized in naturalistic horror shows. I think you would like it there, the building was a former chapel, and the boxes looked like confessionals... Sadly, it no longer exists. But look, over there…“ They encircle the tower and Étienne shows Mana a little barred window placed almost on the very top, „this is where he kept Lestat.“ Mana tilts his head backwards and his eyes are momentarily coated by a thin veil as the scenes from the book replay somewhere behind his pupils.

„It is a pity that all those other places disappeared or never existed…“, he lets out a little sigh, „take for example the cemetery of the Innocents… I suppose we live in the wrong era. Wouldn´t it be wonderful to be able to see the places where the coven once gathered?“ „I doubt you´d have come near Les Innocents in the time period Rice wrote about“, Étienne grins sarcastically, refraining from commenting on the way how naturally Mana talks about the book like if it were reality. „Not unless you wanted to walk away with plague. By 1300, it turned into a site for mass gravis, because of course, burial fees brought lots of money to the church. A pit was closed only when it was full – and they were dug to hold around 1,500 dead at a time! Still, by the end of the 14th century, all the ground was used up completely. Instead of slowing the burial rate, the church did quite the opposite; they intimidated their richer parish members into donating enough funds to build long galleries to the inside of all four cemetery walls. When the cycle of mass burials had filled the entire cemetery, the contents of the oldest pit would be dug up and moved to one of the eaves and walls of the long houses. This kept going on in the 18th century, still, which means for more than four houndred years!“

„The way you make it sound, Armand or Louis would not have set a foot in such a place, as cool as Anne Rice made it seem…“ Mana shudders, not failing to notice how much passion Étienne puts into the description, like if the state of parisian cemeteries in middle ages was still a valid environmental problem. „They sure wouldn´t“, Étienne frowns, „and of course the whole Les Halles quarter suffered from this beyond imagination. Inspectors recorded local stories of meat that rotted before one's eyes, a perfumery unable to sell its wares because of the overpowering smell of the cemetery, tapestry merchants whose wares changed colour if exposed for long periods of time in Les Halles, and wine merchants whose barrels yielded only vinegar if they stayed in the cellar too long. Louis XVI, in 1775, in his first year on the throne, ordered the elimination of all Parisian cemeteries, but the church openly opposed this measure.“ „What was it then, that put an end to it?“ „Rain. On the 30th of May 1780, a cellar wall in a property bordering Les Innocents gave way under the weight of excess burials and humidity, spilling a mess of decomposed bodies and infected mud into the room… and streets. Quite horrible, really.“

Mana is both enthralled and disgusted - his companion again describes the situation as if he had actually been there. „How can you know so much about everything?“ he wonders, leaning back as the horses speed up, for the charriot is now aiming back towards the centre of Paris. „I have lived in this city all my life…“, the boy shruggs. „You are so young though“, the guitarist voices his disbelief, mixed with obvious admiration, „some people live in their hometown for sixty years or more and never reveal anything but the way to the closest bus station.“ „I read, I listen, but mainly, walk with my eyes open…“ Étienne smiles softly, „it´s what I always did… walk with my eyes open and look for holes.“ „…holes?!“ The young man´s laughter echoes through the night. „But of course! For example, just a few steps behind the right corner, there is a large hole in the wall that surrounds Versailles. During the day, the chateau is literally bursting with tourists… but at night… oh, nothing can match the beauty of those empty gardens in moonlight! If only you had more days in Paris, I would take you there… Alas, it is far away and we have other plans for this night.“

That comes as a little shock - Mana thought the night was over, and now he finds out there is something else in store for him, perhaps equally grand like what he has seen so far. To his own surprise, the attitude of a proffessional and perfectionist, which he so rarely put aside during his life, and which invites him to catch the medically recomended eight hours of sleep before an important concert - the first one of the european tour - dissolves into the velvet darkness of parisian night. Instead of thoughts about their sound check in the morning, there are images of majestic cathedrals, dark streets and hidden passages swarming in his head, each of them leaving behind uncertain smell of adventure. Somehow, it is easy to give in and follow curiosity…

And somehow, it is not a surprise when, half an hour later, the charriot stops at the Montparnasse cemetery.

2007, October 9th, 00.40 am, Montparnasse cemetery, Paris

„I thought you had explicitely mentioned looking for holes“, Mana grits between his teeth as he pulls himself up onto the wall with his hands, while his feet are still ballancing on a tree branch. He can´t help but imagine the embarassing newspaper headlines back at home: „Mana-sama arrested during an unauthorised attempt to enter a parisian cemetery by climbing over the wall one hour after midnight“. Whatever got into him, that he agreed to this childish adventure?! Thankfully, for once, he had chosen shoes that do not impose any restriction in form of several inches thick platforms or magnificent heels. „Sometimes there are none…“, Étienne chuckles, and with one mighty swing, he conquers the top of the wall and lands on all fours in the grass on the other side, accompanied by a disgraceful thud. Mana sits on the wall like in a saddle, one leg dangling on each side, contemplating the best strategy. There are more than two and half metres of darkness separating him from the ground, definitely not enough to break his neck, but quite enough to twist or break an ankle. Jumping like Étienne did doesn´t strike as a good idea.

He casts a reproachful look at Étienne, who is hinting with outstretched arms that he would catch Mana if necessary. „No, thanks, I´ll manage. I do have a little issue with finding myself in the arms of a person I have known for just a few hours. Very ridiculous hours at that, if I may add.“ Somehow the words sound harsher than intended - after all, Mana had stepped into this willingly and Étienne was merely offering help… However, no matter how much Mana enjoys listening to the french man, the thought of being touched by him – or anyone else at that matter - makes him shudder. Having thoroughly judged the situation, he decides to grip the wall with both hands and slowly let his body down with his back facing the cemetery. Hanging like that minimizes the distance between him and the soil, so that when he finally lets loose, he only sligtly stumbles after the fall.

„It almost seems like this is not your first time…“ Étienne grins, again that wolf-like smile, as if pleased that he has just found a partner in crime. „Actually, it is not“, Mana returns the smirk. „Some time ago, with my old band, we used to frequent the cemeteries. We were young and… well, we had our heads filled with the romantic ideas of ellegant vampires dressed in lace – so we gathered around the tombstones, sometimes bringing the instruments along and playing under the moon… Hoping, in a way, that the music would arouse the immortals from their sleep and call them out, draw them to us, make us one of them. Those were eerie nights full of magic. Mind you…“ he snaps out of the dreamy mood, feeling a bit uneasy for having shared something of personal value with a complete stranger, „we usually hid somewhere before the closing hour and got ourselves locked in, instead of climbing over the walls.“

For a while, they walk silently on a path Étienne had chosen, taking in the atmosphere, until the boy unexpectedly turns his head to face Mana, emerald eyes sparkling with interest. „Why would you want that? To become vampires?“ The Japanese contemplates for a while, seemingly captivated with a pair of stone doves, one sprawled over the top of a marble tombstone, its slender neck and white wings hanging limp downwards, the other one gracefully hiding its head under the left wing – perhaps to conceal tears, while the right wing gently touches the corpse of his companion. „I could tell you it was for the sake of our music, so it would live forever… but it was much more simple, and much more egoistic“, he finally admits. „Yuki loved the whole concept of it – the heroism, the ellegance, the supernatural powers, the ability to cause fear in others, and the gore, too, like in our favourite movies. Gackt… he simply loved himself too much, and still does, I think. He was intrigued by the possibility to stay forever young, forever beautiful and perfect. Közi was turned on by it. Sucking blood, pain, lust, taking away someone´s innocence, destroying lives by causing pleasure. It goes all too well with the way he prefers to have sex. And Kami… he never really wanted that at all. For him, it was an adventure game – and he played along because he was a friend.“

„And you?“ Mana jerks, as if he wasn´t expecting the question, but authomatically open his lips, and through his pupils, Étienne can see the battle that´s going on inside of his head. Then, those full lips fall close again and the raw, conflicted look disappears from his eyes. Whatever it was he would have revealed, had his control of him self not been this strong, will remain locked away from the world. „I wanted more time“, he offers simply. „There is never enough time for all the things you need to do in one lifetime, don´t you think? Speaking of which… It is getting quite late. Would you care to show me, what is here to see?“

Étienne nods, he has understood the hint, and again he plays the well-educated tourguide, leading Mana around the most elaborate tombstone and heart-touching statues, pointing out all those famous personalities who lay in their eternal rest within the cemetery walls: Susan Sontag, Camille Saint-Saens, Alfred Dreyfus, Andre Citroen, Cesar Franck, Guy de Maupassant, Philippe Noiret, Jean-Paul Sartre and Charles Baudelaire. „I love his poetry… All of the damned poets hold certain magic of the dark romanticism, but they do not reach Baudelaire´ s cold and sinister beauty, not by far.“ „But of course“, Étienne agrees, „he was, after all, the first one. Fleurs du mal caused quite an outrage in the mainstreem literary magazines at that time. They wrote… how was it? „Everything in it which is not hideous is incomprehensible, everything one understands is putrid”.“ For the second time that night, they exchange a half-smile.

„My favourite one was always Beauty“, Étienne confesses. „Mine was The Sadness of the Moon“, Mana replies, and as he says it, his eyes roll upwards to the moon, which seems to have turned slightly, illuminating the gravestone with more force than before, as if she had heard. He knows it must have been only an illusion… however, the soft yet firm voice that suddenly penetrates the silence of the burial site, is very real.

"The Moon more indolently dreams tonight

than a fair woman on her couch at rest,

caressing, with a hand distraught and light,

before she sleeps, the contour of her breast."

Mana turns towards Étienne as if in trance, eyes following the line of his red, red lips as they move. His voice has the quality of steel, wrapped in velvet – it cuts through the night like a knife, but strokes the ears with gentleness beyond imagination.

"Upon her silken avalanche of down,

dying she breathes a long and swooning sigh;

and watches the white visions past her flown,

which rise like blossoms to the azure sky."

The wind seems to play into his hands, stealing the words from his mouth and carrying them, like dandelions in the fall, wide and far. The Moon paints moving pictures in the fallen leaves and reflects on the tombstones, making them seem colder, menacing.

"And when, at times, wrapped in her languor deep,

Earthward she lets a furtive tear-drop flow,

Some pious poet, enemy of sleep… "

Now, the whispers an underlaying melody in the trees, accompanied by the drumming of first raindrops. The statues on the cemetery are desperately reaching towards the sky, but the clouds refuse to soothe them – instead, they add their own cold tears to the misery of those mourning angels.

"Takes in his hollow hand the tear of snow

Whence gleams of iris and of opal start,

And hides it from the Sun, deep in his heart. "

NIGHTBREED

CHAPTER 2 – Waiting for the Night

2007, October 8th, streets of Paris

The sky above Paris is slowly stripping its fancy blue dress, exposing bare grayish skin, occasionally marked by a black scar of cloud. On the south shines a single beauty mark – the make-up artist didn´t make it big enough - the first star. It is still possible to walk the uneven streets without stumbling over unseen objects, but what human eyes can perceive are mostly just shapes, forms, undefined spots - no details. Soon enough, the city will be brightly illuminated… This uncertainty which leaves you on doubts, if the person you have just seen on the other side of the street was really substantial, will be erased by quickly spreading golden lamplight that takes away some of the spookiness of the historical city, but leaves just enough mysteries to still have something to discover and to marvel at.

Mana walks swiftly but without extra effort up the cobblestoned street, stops at the corner to check the map and turns right. He resembles a black ghost as he moves forwards, slides through the darkness like a knife through fresh butter, attracting the curious eyes of random passersby. It is exactly 9.25 pm and his final destination is close enough to be reached at 9.30, which means things are going according to the plan. Mana is always on time, never too early, never too late – that’s one of his countless little quirks. He is alone.

Earlier that day, he asked Seth to phone the booking office, hoping to buy the ghost tour tickets for the entire band. Unfortunately, a polite but resolute female voice informed them that the event was fully sold out due to its popularity and low frequency ­– once per month. However, she thought it possible to sneak in one more extra person, just because they were from such a faraway place and unlikely to come back to Paris any time soon, but she stressed it can be just one - definitely not five. The boys of course insisted that Mana should go; after all, it was him who had found out about the event and who had been looking forward to it the most, while the rest of them could easily have as much fun in one of the clubs. He didn´t protest. Yes, he had been looking forwards to sharing that experience with the others, but it would be much better to see the wonders of Paris after dark alone, than not to see them at all.

And so he finally passes an old church, St. Nicolas, to see rue de Turbigo cutting the rue Réamur, follows the path he had imprinted into his memory by studying the map and makes a few steps to the east. There he turns into rue Volta and, eyes inspecting the old buildings, tries to read the numbers, blurred out by time - 2, 4, 8, this is it. However, something is wrong here... His eyes wander to the flyer in his hand, then back up to the street sign. The name is correct, the number as well, it is exactly half past, but something MUST be wrong, because there should be other people waiting, lots of people actually, yet the street is deserted but for a lonely bird rustling in the leaves under a nearby maple. If Seth wasn´t lying, and Mana honestly couldn’t imagine why he would have been, the event is supposed to be completely booked out, and somehow it is difficult to believe that everyone except for him would be late.

Mana is still looking around in slight puzzlement when the row of street lamps light up, one by one, like a sparkling chain, and uncover a single male silhouette that was hidden in the shadow of a tree on the opposite side of the street before. Something in the casual way in which this man is leaning against the wall makes him appear to be a mere decoration, an asset, a stone statue that had always been a part of the old house. He belongs to it like a gargoyle belongs to a gothic cathedral, and Mana silently regrets that he cannot paint a picture or take a photograph of that scene.

„Good evening“,  the figure suddenly greets him, and Mana realizes with a start that he has already heard that deep but youthful voice quite a short time ago, „are you here for the tour?“ Mana nods and moves towards the young man, whose name he already forgot, although he still remembers his distinguished style very well. „Where is everyone? Have they already left?“ he asks without thinking. In the next second, Mana´s gloved hands fly up to his face to cover that famous heart shaped mouth, eyes widen in what may be surprise, shock, or sheer horror, and an unusually strong feeling of anxiety spills through his spine into his intestines like icy water. For the first time in many years, so many that he doesn´t even recollect if it actually ever happened at all, he has allowed someone who had not previously won his trust to hear his voice, and what scares him the most is the undeniable fact that it came absolutely naturally. He is certain that he had not been planning to speak before he opened his mouth, no, had not even considered to attempt to. Although he of course wanted to know why nobody was present, no intention to ask was there at all. Simply put, in one moment, he was looking at the French boy, and in the next moment… the question was in the air and his brain only belatedly indentified the raised voice as his own.

It takes all of Mana´s mental capacity to try and understand how on Earth this could be possible, wherefore he leaves Étienne´s answer unnoticed at first. Only slowly, the alarming truth creeps into the folds of his brain: the young man has just calmly replied with: „We are perfectly complete.“ Mana blinks. Not just once, but several times, his richly painted lashes almost causing wind. „…Excuse me?“ Minutes seem to pass before Étienne confirms: „Nobody else was supposed to arrive.“

Mana finally understands. Of course, it was not difficult for one who knew something about Mana to figure out that a ghost tour in his most favourite city would intrigue him, and cleverly place a bunch of ready-made flyers in the hall, close to the table where Mana would be sitting. The female voice who spoke to Seth, pretending to work in a fake agency, could be anyone – this sick boy´s sister, colleague or even a girlfriend. There is no booked out tour… or, more preciously, there isn´t a tour at all, just one desperate fan who, for some unknown reason, wanted to lure him out for… what exactly? An interview? Photos to sell later? Private date? „I do not posses waste knowledge of the laws in your country“, he hisses towards Étienne, „but I am sure that with this indecency, you broke quite a few of them. And I warn you – whatever it is you desire from me, you will not get it. Au revoir.“

„From you?“ Mana hears from behind, and the voice seems to reflect amazement mixed with a certain taste of innocence and sincerity. „I do not want anything from you. On the contrary, I would like to give you something.“ The guitarist has already turned on his heel and started walking, but these words make him slow down his pace – another surprising occurrence. Surprising because the slender Japanese is used to giving people chances about as little as he is used to verbally communicating. He doesn´t completely stop, though, but continues moving in the direction he came from with very moderate steps, intending to show that although he might be willing to listen, the person who has tricked him will have to put some extra effort into achieving it.

The boy´s steps are so light, so quiet, and his running so effortless, that Mana doesn´t hear a single noise of soles brushing against cobblestones, nor quickened breath, yet the boy suddenly catches up with him and walks on his side for a while, then rushes forwards to stop him. They are now standing face to face, dark and green eyes firmly locked, two men judging each other, trying to read the thoughts behind each other´s sparkling set of gem-like orbs, guessing who will, or who should, do the next move and where would that move lead them. The taller man is bending down ever so slightly, while Mana´s eyes are rolled upwards, but his head is in the position it would have been in if he were looking at someone of similar height to his own, he refuses to admit he has to look up to anyone. „Don´t go. Please“, Étienne finally says, and once again Mana is surprised at the gentleness and sincerity of his pleading, „you came because you are interested to see Paris in a different light than what anyone else would present you. I am here and I can make it happen.“

Mana gives him a pensive look. „Why should I trust you?“ He no longer wonders about his sudden ability to communicate with strangers – it isn´t any stranger than the rest of the evening´s happenings. „What if you are a murderer or a rapist? What if you are a kidnapper and your friends are waiting in the darkness where no one would ever look for me and will require all my fortune to return me in one piece?“ Mana could swear he has spotted amusement shining out of Étienne´s eyes. Is he being foolish enough to be laughed at? „There is nothing to be afraid of this night.“ That touches Mana´s pride as precisely as Vilhelm Tell has aimed at the apple. „I do NOT fear“, he seconds, much like a child. „Shall we go then?“ Étienne gloats in a false feeling of victory, but Mana quickly regains his usual disinterested expression. „Ten minutes.“ The boy´s left eyebrow flies up in puzzlement. „You have ten minutes to persuade me that you do know things that might be of interest for me and that you aren´t a greedy liar.“ „Deal.“ Étienne´s smile is the one a hungry wolf dedicates to a lamb before luring it away from the herd into deep dark forests and Mana´s hand subconsciously slips into the pocket where he is keeping a knife. Just in case.

„Incidentally, the house at the end of the street I chose for our meeting, happens to be the oldest house in Paris still standing“, Étienne starts talking as both men walk back towards number 3. „I thought it was the auberge built in 1407 by Nicolas Flamel“, Mana tries to outsmart him with his knowledge. „That is what people like to think ever since the Harry Potter books were issued and misguided everyone“, Étienne corrects him, „and of course, as greed frequents to be the biggest part of human character, the owners of that house made a sensation out of it. Back in 2001, they refurbished it with all the posh stuff – 17th century paneled corridors, 15th century vaulted cellars, dining room that sits fourteen, reading room, sauna, entrance hall with glass floor above, atrium with 18th century fireplaces and stone floor… but of course all with air conditioning and cable tv so it fits your needs when you are a millionaire and want to rent it.“

 „This one was built in 1240 and has been lived in ever since... Two hundred and fifty years before America was discovered, and it is still solid today! Louis the 9th was on the throne then, and this was country… On one side the old Temple could be seen from here, and on the other, the turreted walls of Paris, all about were Gross, gardens and twisting paths, many of which have become the stress of this old part of town.“ Mana pretends not to be even mildly impressed and follows Étienne to closely inspect the house no. 3. „Notice the arrangement of doors and windows“, the younger man points out. „See the stone coping here in the basement? This is called show-window, which used to hold the lower half of the shutter as a counter at which business was done. The upper half of the shutter made an awning.“

„It looks empty now“, Mana remarks, fingers lightly touching the old wood. „Indeed. After the second world war, it was returned to some distant relative of the previous owners in restitution. It was a strange guy in his early twenties. Apparently no one has ever seen him leaving the house or returning into it ever since the day he moved in. But, every time someone thought this guy had left or died, and tried to enter – no matter if it was a random guest, the mailman or an employee of a company interested in selling the house – the lights in the upper floor went on. The saying goes that he still lives there… though why he never walks out is in the clouds.“

Mana gives Étienne an expressionless look. He expected the story to end up more mysteriously, with a murder, ghost that rustle chains on request or at least random objects falling on the heads of those who had attempted to unravel the mystery. „This story was rather lame…“ he remarks and, following a sudden impulse, bangs on the ancient door with all his power. He hadn’t expected anything to happen, and nothing does, only the echo of the empty house returns his knocks several times like a cave would have. „You aren´t trying to enter“, Étienne informs him meekly. „Of course, it is just a story, but anyway… you are just making a lot of noise.“ And again, Mana feels like he has to prove he isn´t afraid, although it is nonsense – this boy is a French brat who just wants some time alone with his idol, nothing else. Definitely the last person on the Earth whom Mana should prove something, more likely, he should tell him that those aforementioned ten minutes were up and he would now be immediately returning to the hotel. He knows that, yet he puts his small hand on the doorknob and attempts to turn it.

His effort is followed by sheer disappointment: the door doesn´t move an inch and the golden knob is merely turning in his fingers, trying to slip out like a fish. He squeezes it and tries to support himself by putting a boot against the door, so gaining stability. Then, he pushes again and almost physically feels the light spilling over his hair, sliding over his shoulders like a sparkling cloud, covering his body and pooling around his feet, entering every single cobblestone, causing them to glow from inside. Nonsense.

With eyes shut, he stumbles several steps backwards, slowly turns his face towards the windows in the upper floor and looks. In all the rooms, the lights are on, shining brighter than any of the windows of the reconstructed buildings around, so intensively that it does not impose any problem to observe the furnishings behind the window panes: ancient cupboards and wardrobes, a vanity table with a huge mirror, large comfortable chairs, crystal chandeliers, a statue of a mermaid leaning on the piano with an elegance only supernatural beings and j-rockers can posses… But not a single silhouette or shadow of a human being. "Impressive", he mumbles under his breath and turns to Étienne to praise his trick, but the boy is standing several meters away, eyes widened in shock, head tilted backwards as he gapes into the windows breathlessly. He hasn´t done anything, Mana suddenly realizes, he only told me a story about which he didn´t think it was true...