title: Allemande
fandom: Blood+
characters/pairings: Saya/Haji
rating: Teen
warnings: masturbation
summary: Saya wants Haji to play for her.
notes: spoilers; takes place during the 'missing year' after episode 32.

She pushed her foot up out of the water, and wiggled her toes. She wondered if she could feel them, or if they were dead. She felt like she had swallowed up so much death, it was bleeding out her pores. And still. Still.

She wasn't done.

The water had long since gotten cold. Haji might knock on the door and check on her. He might even look in, although she knew that he wouldn't. She didn't know how she felt about any of it. She was... tired. And her only chance of rest...

She moved her hand through the water. She used to do the high jump. When she left the ground, she had the feeling she had wings, and she would float... until she hit down again. It was a feeling like no other. The world would go quiet, and she wouldn't even hear her heart beating, and the sky would loom and sway above her. She wondered if she jumped now, if she would feel anything at all.

Before the high jump, there was...

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and slipped down into the water. She wanted to block out all sound. She wanted the sky to sway again. She wanted...

Her eyes snapped open. Haji was tuning his cello in a graceful way that sounded more like the prologue to a song. And naturally, smoothly, without lifting his bow, he did indeed begin a song. Bach, of course. Because she had always...

She got out of the water messily, and pulled the plug. Italian baths were so old-fashioned, ornate, beautiful. She quickly toweled herself off and grabbed the robe, soft jersey knit, light grey... Did Haji buy it? He must have. He did everything...

She tied it off quickly, and went out into the room.

Haji's bow stopped at her entrance, and he started to get up, started to set his bow aside. "No, no," she said quickly. "I wanted to hear you play."

He hovered for a moment, and then nodded. "As you wish," he murmured softly, sibilantly. She blushed and turned her head aside.

He sat back down, and introduced the bow to the strings again. He picked up a measure or so from where he had left off. She took a deep breath.

The apartment they were in was small, only one large room, with a kitchenette to the side and a bathroom. The walls were plaster, and the sort of grey that walls were if they were not painted for many years. The only furniture was a bed with a wrought iron headboard, a bedside table, a small table to eat on, two wooden chairs, and a small armoire. It was adequate, because it was better than a cave, or an empty church, or an abandoned warehouse. Haji knew someone in Milan, he said. That person lived in the room below, and he managed the building. He gave them the room because he liked to listen to Haji play. He was an old man, so he must have known Haji when he was younger...

Saya had nearly refused the room on two counts, neither of which she could tell Haji about; she didn't like that anyone else would try to lay claim to Haji's music, and she didn't like associating with people Haji knew when he wasn't with her. Ever since... since... Riku...

Since then, she realized, without Haji...

Because she didn't want the room that was nicer than anyplace else they had been staying in for over three months, she decided to throw a temper tantrum and refuse to speak to Haji. She was ashamed of her own childishness, but thankfully, without thinking, she had broken her silence.

Her head felt funny.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, her eyes half-lidded, listening to the music. She remembered teaching him that piece, holding his small hands to show him the proper way to hold the bow, the proper placement of his fingers, the proper way to move the bow over those slides... She had been listening to his interpretation of the song for a century.

He'd gotten quite refined, quite mature.

She laid down, and put her arm over her eyes.

Back then, she remembered, her hair was long, and every morning, he brushed it out. At night, too, using short strokes near her head, holding her hair as he brushed out its length. He would braid it when she told him to, and style it according to her wishes. He cut her hair when she could no longer stand it. He still cut her hair, though she hadn't wanted him to since...

His bow moved like a sparrow through the sky, dancing over the notes. That's right, she thought, before jumping, before anything else, there was music. She loved all music, but she chose to learn the cello because of its deep, melancholic sound. It spoke to her of loneliness and searching, and she wanted to discover its voice. She played it well, but Haji played it so much better. She resented it, because.... because...

Because Haji had no right to feel lonely. He had her.

She touched her lips, pressing her nails to the sensitive skin. Her fingers moved down as his bow slipped lower and lower, down her chin, down her throat, and down... until they came to rest between her breasts.

That's right, she thought.

Her breathing became labored, her chest moving up and down. The music was so powerful. There had been times, she remembered, she had felt human. There had been times when she had laughed, and cried, and been held. She closed her eyes. The music still moaned on, sighing of loss, of desperation, of need. Haji's Bach had become so strong.

She started to open her robe a bit.

Her fingers moved down to her stomach. Right, at one time, she had wanted to travel the world, with Haji, with her sword. At one time, she had loved the song the metal made as it whizzed through the air. She was a competent musician and, clearly, a better than average teacher, but her artistry lay in her sword. She used to love it so. She used to think that it would be her freedom.

Haji's bow swayed between notes, lingering just long enough to seduce the next note. She untied the belt, and ran her fingers up the inside, moving one leg up as well. Her fingers moved over her breasts.

She remembered falling asleep on Haji's lap, and when she woke up, he was asleep. They had been in the music room in Joel's house, and he was still not yet the man he was now. She tried not to move so she would wake him. She had put her hands on his chest, wondering why he wasn't a woman, wondering what he would have looked like with soft curves, with slowly forming breasts like hers. He opened his eyes, blinking, sleep still clinging to his lashes. She pulled her hand away, and realized that her face was quite close to his private areas. She had never seen a man's naked genitals, not in real life. She had thought the ones in books were rather ugly and repulsive, but she wondered if his would leave her with the same impression.

When he had realized she was awake, he smiled at her.

Saya exhaled, half a grunt, half a moan. She arched her back enough to shrug the robe off her shoulders.

Haji's bow faltered.

"S-saya..."

"Don't stop," she begged. "I want to hear your music."

Her eyes were shut tightly. She couldn't see his fingers trembling, but she could hear them. It took him a few measures, but he got himself under control. Still, there was a tightness to the notes. He was no longer lost within the cello's mournful cries.

He was watching her.

She kept her eyes shut tightly. "Play for me," she murmured. She felt feverish and scared. Her hands caressed and cupped her breasts, her hips turning. She barely grazed her nipples, trying to control her hands. Haji was watching her. She could hear his breathing underscoring the sound of the cello, matching her own light panting.

She moved one hand down, over her stomach, to where her leg was attached to her body, teasing her skin, and her other hand went up to her throat.

His bow started to move sharper, long graceful strokes that seared her. She couldn't hold out. She slipped her hand between her legs.

The music started a slow crescendo, speeding up and then lingering over a note before speeding up again. As Haji moved the bow over the strings, it was like he was moving her hand as well.

She turned her whole body, turned her back to him, curling up to give herself greater access. Her heart was pounding, and her skin felt hot. She bit her lip, and tasted blood.

He moved delicately through a complex aggregation of notes, and she moved, too, feeling on edge, like a string on the cello, until finally, finally, finally.

She opened her mouth and brushed her teeth over the cotton pillowcase.

He set the cello aside, and came to the edge of the bed, sitting down gingerly. He covered her with his long coat. The smell was overpoweringly of him, and she felt dizzy.

"Saya," he whispered, he murmured. She couldn't take it.

She got up, lunging at him. She ripped his collar away from his neck, and sunk her teeth in. His rich blood poured into her, and felt...

She broke away, careful as always. His blood was his life, after all. Blood was life.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why is this blood different? Why... does it affect me differently?"

"Saya..." he whispered, his voice passionate, mournful, like his music.

"Doesn't matter." His arms came around her, held her tight. She took a deep breath, and then licked the last trails of blood off his neck. "Play for me.

"Let me sleep to your song."

"As you wish," he replied, his lips against the skin of her neck, but he didn't press, didn't push. He let go of her, almost regretfully, he got up, and he obeyed her.








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