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The Curse of the Mark.
Those who developed a Mark... were all doomed to pass away at the age of twenty-five...
An ignominiously quiet and pointless death.
The complete opposite of the glorious and dignified death in battle, that Michikatsu anticipated for himself.
The curse had already claimed the lives of many of his fellow warriors.
It would not be long now, before it would be his turn to be washed away by the relentless tides of the Sanzu River.
He was born a waste of space. After two woefully fleeting weeks, he would die as that same waste of space, before he could even earn and prove his own worth and purpose.
And with his last breath, the meaninglessness of his existence would be set in stone.
It was... utterly, unbearably unacceptable.
But time was not an opponent that could be beaten by the likes of him. Or anyone else.
His heart ached almost perpetually upon that revelation, as though it was being squeezed by an invisible force.
He could not help but chuckle bitterly and humourlessly.
No matter how hard he toiled away for the sake of his ambitions, no matter how much he sacrificed for his goals... None of that mattered to a God who devoted all His love to his Child, His Chosen One...
He would perish while wallowing in the anguish of his unfulfilment, insurmountable mediocrity and unrewarded efforts, whereas Yoriichi would return to his rightful place beside his Father with no material attachments or unfinished business.
He had no control over the suffocating indignation that was on the brink of inducing a nosebleed.
Yoriichi, oh-so-perfect Yoriichi...
In the end, he would still triumph over his useless older brother, without even raising a singular finger.
But Michikatsu simply could not abide that.
He glared at the vial in his hands, as he scraped the outer surface of the glass with his nails angrily.
It had been all too easy to acquire drugs to encourage sleep, from an apothecary at a nearby village.
He had just sent an invitation for tea to his infuriatingly blessed younger twin through his crow. Now, he just had to wait for the leaves to infuse the water in a kettle suspended above the flames of an irori hearth, and for his guest to arrive.
Yoriichi was a courteous man who observed filial piety consistently and dutifully. Barring an emergency, there was no chance he would decline his request for his company.
Steam billowed from the spout of the kettle, as just he heard a knock on the translucent door.
As expected of his infallible brother. Even his timing was flawless.
Michikatsu rose from his zabuton and pulled the door open.
Yoriichi was as expressionless as ever, when he bowed respectfully at his older sibling before entering the tearoom.
'Thank you for inviting me, aniue. To what do I owe this pleasure?'
Michikatsu's eyebrow twitched in irritation imperceptibly.
'Nothing of importance... It had recently occurred to me... that we may not have... communicated as much as we should have... as brothers related by blood...'
He beckoned Yoriichi to sit on the second zabuton he prepared on the other side of the irori.
'...I merely wish to rectify that issue... before the end of our numbered days...'
He was more accustomed to lying through his teeth than he would have liked, but he could not deny the practicality of deception.
Before Yoriichi's arrival, Michikatsu had already added a few drops of the soporific concoction to the teacup meant for his guest.
Thus, he just had to pour some tea into it before handing it to him and filling his own cup.
As they waited for their drinks to cool down, Michikatsu initiated the conversation.
They talked, perhaps with a little more formality than required, about their most memorable missions, opinions of their comrades and successors, and lifestyles before joining the corps.
Yoriichi wordlessly took a huge swig of the tea when Michikatsu asked about his past connections and acquaintances.
Michikatsu acknowledged it as an indication of Yoriichi's unwillingness to divulge that information, and shifted the topic elsewhere.
A few moments later, just when Michikatsu was beginning to doubt the effectiveness of the drug, Yoriichi finally exhibited signs of drowsiness as he started nodding off.
'Aniue... A thousand apologies... for my impudence... but I suddenly feel... very sleepy...'
Suppressing a sigh of relief, Michikatsu swiftly stood up and walked to his younger twin's side.
'No apology necessary... You may stay here for the night... at the guest room... Allow me to guide you there...'
Michikatsu helped Yoriichi get to his feet by wrapping one of his arms over his shoulders and supporting him with his other hand under his armpit.
He dragged him to his destination, and put him down on a futon he had unrolled and laid out on the floor in advance.
Yoriichi had fallen asleep at some point during the short trek from one room to another.
The atmosphere darkened, as Michikatsu stared at his unconscious brother malevolently.
This was it. An opportunity to turn the tables, defy his fate and obtain the victory he desired so vehemently.
An opportunity he could ill afford to squander.
Grimly, he retrieved his Nichirin sword from a corner, and straddled Yoriichi while holding it by the sheath and the hilt over his neck.
He ignored the turmoil brewing in his mind, and partially unsheathed his weapon.
Even in the dim light of the candlelit lanterns around the room, he could still see the lavender-tinted sheen of the blade.
Throughout the last seven years, it had been stained with the filthy blood of countless foul demons. Now, it shall be tainted with the innocent blood of his own kin.
But why should that matter? It would all be over for them both soon anyway, regardless of his actions.
So why not let him win against his superior sibling, for once in his life?
Fuelled by his desperation, Michikatsu slowly pressed the sharp edge of the metal against Yoriichi's unprotected throat.
His hands began quivering inexplicably when it pierced the epidermis.
Why... why was he trembling? What was stopping him from just... just pushing the sword down and slicing his jugular veins and carotid arteries?
Only when some transparent droplets of liquid landed on his knuckles and Yoriichi's cheeks, did he realise that tears were dripping from his eyes.
What... what was he crying over? Shouldn't he be... happy about this?
A red bead formed from the cut and trickled down to the hollow between the collarbones.
A childlike and high-pitched voice rang out inside his head.
NOOOOOOOOOOO!
Michikatsu jerked his arms backwards and launched himself away from Yoriichi.
Dropping his sword with a loud clang, he shakily gaped at his own palms, and Yoriichi through the gaps between his fingers.
Was he... was he truly going to murder his own twin brother... in such a dishonourable manner?
Nausea quickly built up and threatened to overtake him. He rushed out of the guest room to the storage room, and managed to find a wooden bucket before succumbing to the urge to vomit.
All that he expelled were his gastric juices. There were no half-digested chunks or debris of food.
(He had not eaten for the whole day. He had absolutely zero appetite.)
He heaved and hyperventilated over the revolting mess in the bucket, as a jumble of thoughts churned in his brain.
He only moved from his spot after he had sufficiently calmed down.
Bringing the bucket with him, he staggered back to the tearoom to grab his half-empty cup and rinse his mouth with the now-lukewarm tea. Then he spat the mouthful of tea out into the bucket.
He repeated the cycle with the remaining amount of tea in the kettle, until the acidic tang and pungent stench lingering in his pharynx were thoroughly replaced by the comparatively pleasant flavour and aroma of herbs.
Only then did he recover enough of his wits to think coherently.
First things first, he dumped the bucket in an outhouse and went back to the storage room to search for some bandages and ointment.
He mentally cursed when he remembered the supply of the former had been depleted. Fortunately, he still had some leftover ointment.
He hurried back to Yoriichi, and wiped the thin trail of blood seeping from the nick above his Adam's apple with a sleeve of his purple kimono, before applying the ointment and ripping off a strip of his other sleeve.
Sweat oozed from Michikatsu's pores as he tied it around Yoriichi's neck as a makeshift bandage, both to stem the bleeding and to conceal the proof of his transgression from view.
How... how could he have stooped so low, as a samurai who prided himself on his adherence to his code of honour and his principles of earnestness?
To sedate and assassinate his own flesh and blood, the omnibenevolent embodiment of the almighty sun, God's beloved Son...
What he had attempted... was the height of blasphemy.
He... he could not remain here anymore. He had to go, now.
He marched into his personal room to pack up the most essential of his belongings in a kate-bukuro bag.
Rations, check.
Money, check.
Clothes, check.
Katana, his katana, where was his kata-
He had forgotten to pick it up from the guest room.
Groaning internally, he exited his room and dashed to the guest room for the very last tim-
The futon was unoccupied.
Michikatsu's heart skipped a beat.
Where... where did...
'Aniue.'
Michikatsu pivoted on his feet.
He couldn't hide his fear at the sight of his would-have-been victim standing right behind him.
Never before had his younger brother's signature blank gaze been so terrifying.
'Yorii-'
He was interrupted by a fist that mercilessly buried itself into his solar plexus.
An overwhelming spasm of pain radiated from his stomach to the rest of his body, as he choked and coughed out a spatter of blood.
Stars swam in his vision, and his consciousness gradually faded. As he collapsed, he could faintly perceive the sensation of being caught and lifted by a pair of arms sliding under his back and knees, and the oddly comfortable warmth emanating from the chest he leaned against...
Yoriichi had always been aware, on some level, that his aniue harboured a lot of resentment towards him.
Not that his aniue had ever expressed it outwardly. He had consistently maintained an air of dignified indifference that masked his true emotions.
But his organs could not lie, and nothing could be hidden in the Transparent World.
It had initially disheartened him, to watch how regularly his innards wriggled and contracted in disgust and how frequently his blood boiled in frustration, whenever they were in each other’s presence.
His later recognition of his aniue's unfaltering willingness to interact with him, despite how difficult it must have been to bottle up his visceral discomfort and disgruntlement, had been an intoxicating balm on his soul.
He had considered it to be evidence of his aniue's continued gentleness and affection for him. The same gentleness and affection that had compelled him to craft a functional gift for his baby brother, something to use as a whistle to call for his help, even after he had suffered the consequence of fraternising with him.
And so... he had happily indulged himself with his aniue's companionship. He had taken it all for granted.
He had been so delighted to receive his aniue's message to meet him at his quarters for a drink, that it had not dawned on him to suspect the unusual gesture of amicability.
But he had found it strange, how unnaturally lethargic he had become after swallowing a large gulp of tea to avoid the subject of... his past with Uta.
But thanks to his extraordinary physiology, the drug he had unknowingly ingested had been metabolised within a minute, and he had regained wakefulness while being led to the guest room.
The abnormal speed of the recovery of his lucidity had clued him in on his aniue's trickery, along with his aniue's lack of surprise at his abrupt exhaustion.
His prior joy had deflated into resignation, and he had decided to play along by pretending to be knocked out.
...Mayhaps he should have known that there was a limit to his aniue's tolerance, that not everyone shared his laidback attitude to the idea of dying so prematurely.
And if it would assuage his aniue's despair, to expedite his predicted expiration (and delay their inevitable reunion in the afterlife) by a measly fortnight... then so be it.
He had not even flinched, when the coldness of sharpened Nichirin had grazed his skin...
...or when warm teardrops had splashed on his face, before the weight on him disappeared.
He had listened to his aniue's racing heartbeat, agitated panting and involuntary gagging as he had lurched out of the door. Through the shoji paper walls, he could hear the noises of his purging and subsequent mouthwashing.
Yoriichi had then opened his eyes, and delicately wiped up one of his aniue's tears with a finger to inspect it.
He had contemplated the possible meaning behind it, but only briefly as he had to feign slumber again at the approaching sounds of frantic footsteps.
Momentarily, he had wondered if his aniue had intended to finish the job. That assumption had then been promptly disproven with the tender treatment given to his minor wound.
After his aniue's next departure from the room, he had fiddled with the torn piece of fabric encircling his neck, and reached a conclusion upon sneaking out and witnessing his aniue hastily organising his luggage for long-term travel.
He could no longer bear the notion of being separated from his aniue, whatsoever.
He had noticed how puffy his aniue's eyelids were, in spite of his terror at being discovered.
And that was when Yoriichi knew...
...he had to keep him, at all costs.
Michikatsu woke up groggily to the off-key notes of a flute playing somewhere in front of him.
A single glimpse of the amateur flutist dispelled all traces of his stupor.
Panicked and alarmed, he tried to scramble up from the ground, only to be hindered by both a sudden stomachache and ropes binding his wrists behind a pillar and his ankles to his thighs.
He gasped in pained shock, and he curled up as best he could to alleviate the ache in his gut.
The dissonant cacophony that barely qualified as music halted.
'Good morning, aniue.'
Yoriichi greeted him with an affectionate smile as he glided his fingertips over the holes embedded on the crudely-made instrument appreciatively, like it was a work of art.
'It appears you have been truthful with the promise that you would come to my aid if I blow into this. I performed a melody for you, and you awakened for me.'
He carefully slipped it back into a flowery pouch and stashed it inside his obi sash, while Michikatsu glared at him hostilely and incredulously.
He was bewildered that Yoriichi had kept that worthless trinket for all those years, but he was even more infuriated by the restraints immobilising him.
'How dare you... humiliate your senior... with such blatant disrespect...! Untie me this instant...!'
Yoriichi disobeyed his command, and knelt down on one knee to dangle a vial in front of his face.
It was the same vial he had used to spike Yoriichi's tea.
Michikatsu's fury instantly dinimished, as he averted his eyes in guilt and shame.
He braced himself for Yoriichi's wrath.
But Yoriichi did not even raise his volume.
'Why did you buy a sedative... instead of some actual poison?'
Michikatsu was rendered speechless by that unexpectedly mild enquiry.
Yoriichi calmly but firmly grasped his chin, and forced eye contact with him.
Michikatsu balked at the scrutiny.
'It would have been so much simpler. You would not have even needed to draw and dirty your blade. So why?'
Michikatsu had no answer for him.
He had mulled over his options before making his purchase, and eschewed lethal toxins in favour of an incapacitating agent because he had deemed the former more distasteful.
...But ultimately... was the difference even relevant? Either way, there was no changing the fact that it was an act of cowardice.
So why...? Why did he select the more inconvenient method...?
Yoriichi had a theory.
'...You could not bring yourself to harm me, could you? Even just inflicting what basically amounted to a papercut on me caused you great physical distress.'
A rosy blush dusted his cheeks as he toyed with the scrap of cloth around his neck contently by rubbing it between his thumb and index finger, as though it was his favourite jewellery.
'It hardly required such care... But nevertheless, I shall regard and cherish this as another present from you.'
Michikatsu was about to stammer out a protest when his capturer closed the miniscule distance between them.
'Permit me to demonstrate my eternal gratitude.'
Without warning, his lips descended hungrily on his prisoner's mouth.
Michikatsu was stunned. Only when Yoriichi inserted his tongue into his oral cavity, did he process that he was being kissed by his own twin and start squirming and struggling futilely.
With his limbs bound and his jaw seized in an unyielding grip, he was helpless against the tongue that intertwined with his.
He recoiled at the taste of Yoriichi's saliva and the stifling moisture invading his senses.
By the time Yoriichi was satisfied and broke the kiss, they were both drooling, and Michikatsu was breathless.
'...What on Earth... is wrong with you...!?'
Yoriichi was unfazed by Michikatsu's outrage. He just yanked the folds of his kimono apart to lick his left clavicle and pinch his right nipple.
'Sto-ah! Stop it! We are bro-ugh! Brothers, for heaven's sake!'
In response to his objections, Yoriichi bit down, and dug a nail into his nipple before twisting it.
Michikatsu shuddered and hissed.
He had assumed that his saintly sibling was above the mortal trappings of sarcasm and grudges. But apparently, he was mistaken.
Because how was any of this debasement a display of gratefulness?!
'I-I understand! If you wan-oh! Want to punish me for my crime, then just exe-agh! Execute me and be done with it!'
Yoriichi paused his movements and straightened up to fix Michikatsu with a soft frown.
'No... You misunderstand me. This is far from a punishment. Nor do I have any reason to kill you.'
And with that said, he resumed molesting his older twin by sucking his left nipple and palming his groin.
Michikatsu jolted and moaned against his will, which motivated Yoriichi to nibble and flick his nipples with his teeth and fingers respectively, and to wedge his other hand under his fundoshi and stroke his hardening erection.
His captive writhed more and more wildly (and beautifully), until he threw his head back and ejaculated all over his hand.
Fatigued, Michikatsu slumped against the column he was fastened to, as his cock wilted and reverted to its flaccid state.
Yoriichi slurped up and savoured some of the semen coating his palm, and smeared the rest of it over his own manhood along with the pre-ejaculate leaking from his urethra after stripping off his hakama and fundoshi.
Then he tore the seam connecting the halves of Michikatsu's hakama at the crotch, and tugged his fundoshi off to expose his genitalia and, more significantly, the orifice below it.
Michikatsu, who had been too drained to pay attention, was startled when Yoriichi propped him on his lap and angled the tip of his lubricated member to his entrance.
'N-No, wai-'
His incomplete plea morphed into a scream when Yoriichi rammed the entirety of his length inside him.
He wailed and convulsed as his anal sphincters clenched tightly around the enormous intrusion. Even with the lubrication, the agony was excruciating.
And it only worsened, when his tormentor clutched him by the waist, and pounded in and out of him at a progressively rapid pace.
'Aniue... Aniue... A-Aniue... '
Yoriichi chanted the honorific reverently, and stuttered as escalating waves of ecstacy crashed through him with each thrust into the velvety depths of Michikatsu's rippling core.
Stinging rope burns marred Michikatsu's skin from the friction generated by his fruitless resistance, which could not prevent Yoriichi from deepening the penetration further and further into the rectum.
The prostate was stimulated repetitively, but it did not lessen Michikatsu's suffering at all, as the shape of his assailant's phallus visibly protruded through the abdominal region under his navel again and again.
'It hu-urts! I-It hurts! I'm so-orry, Yorii-ichi, I'm sorry, I'm s-so-sorry, I-I'm sorry!'
Yoriichi engulfed Michikatsu in a hug and mumbled sweetly into his ear, amidst the fleshy claps of their union as the latter was shoved up and down the former's shaft.
'Do not apologise, ani-aniue... We are alm-almost there...'
He was nearing his peak, and he could not contain the mounting torrent of the deep-seated feelings within his heart.
'...I love you, aniue.'
A confession of infatuation, followed by his climax, as he unleashed and flooded his biological other half's anal canal with his seed.
Some of the milky fluid spilt out, and it was tinted with a crimson hue. Through the haze of his afterglow, Yoriichi interpreted it as virgin's blood.
Michikatsu was wracked with sobs and hiccups in his younger brother's, his defiler's embrace. He was still impaled on his girthy prick.
'... ... ...W... h... y... ...?'
Why?
That monosyllabic question sparked off a string of reminiscences, of his most treasured memories.
His aniue's jubilant grin as he taught him how to fly a kite, in a garden of flourishing trees and colourful flowers, the inverse of the lightless void of the three-tatami room.
His aniue's precocious aura of patience during his simplified explanation of the rules of sugoroku, while he arranged and distributed the gameboard, tokens and dice.
His aniue's glances of worry for him when he occasionally crept into the three-tatami room to provide him with snacks, sweets and uneaten dishes or to lend him commodities like proper bedding.
His aniue's darkening bruise and a rudely suspended game of koi-koi, with cards scattered everywhere, and their chichiue scolding him for his disobedience after hitting him.
His aniue's handicraft of compassion, carved with blistered and calloused little hands, and offered to him with the fondest of smiles in spite of his sore cheek.
His aniue never blaming him or losing his temper with him, even after he jeopardised his future as their family's heir, or when he failed to save his subordinates a decade later.
His aniue's words of determination when he resolved to accompany him back to headquarters and enlist in the corps, even if he had to abandon his wife and children.
His aniue's paired Marks, that manifested and adorned his forehead and jaw as proof of his diligence, so similar yet so much more impressive than the birthmark that horrified their chichiue.
His aniue's proximity to him, as allies on the battlefield, dancing in tandem to devastate their inhuman enemies with the crescent slashes of Moon Breathing and the solar flares of Sun Breathing.
His aniue's initial toleration of him upon learning of his and their colleagues' drastically shortened lifespans, even as his periorbital shadows grew more and more pronounced with each passing month.
All those recollections coalesced, to be conveyed in one succinct statement:
'...Because aniue was a kind boy.'
And that had not changed in the slightest.
Yoriichi nuzzled the hickey decorating Michikatsu's collarbone, and inhaled his scent hedonistically.
His precious moonbeam... His exquisite moonflower...
'...So please, can we be together, for the remainder of our ephemeral lives, and beyond?'
'... ... ...'
Michikatsu's weeping did not subside.
Eleven days later...
A foot stepped through the threshold.
Luminescent scarlet irises and slitted pupils surveyed the scene before him.
Ah, there he was - the swordsman and practitioner of Breathing Techniques that had piqued his interest.
He was sitting on the floorboards, with his back reclined against a thick pole he was confined to. He was also semi-conscious and naked, with a red haori draped over his torso like a blanket.
The interloper crouched in front of him and flung the haori aside to assess his anatomical fitness.
'Hmm...'
With his formidable height and remarkable musculature, he would have seemed awe-inspiringly intimidating... if it were not for the viscous streams of cum flowing from his lips and anus, and the accessories piercing and hanging from his earlobes and nipples.
He shivered and whimpered when the trespasser tilted the ornaments up with a knuckle to examine them.
Hanafuda, with artistic pictures of the rising sun and the pearlescent moon painted on them.
'...Huh.'
Next, his finger drifted upwards to tilt the human's head up by the chin.
The unseeing stare that met his was shineless and devoid of energy.
'... ... ...He... lp... ...me...'
The outsider smirked.
He may currently look weakened and fragile, but that was not an problem that could not be remedied with a sip or two of demonic blood.
This soldier would be a fine addition to his army of henchmen.
~Fin~