Werewolves sometimes like to slowly stalk their prey...
Pairing: Hiro X guess!
Band: Bad Luck
Summary: Werewolves sometimes like to slowly stalk their prey...
A/N: If it wasn't for the always patient Kage Otogi, this story would be confusing and full of grammerical mistakes and typos, not to mention the major things she helped me rewrite! As always, Domoarigato! bows
Disclaimer: If I owned these boys, I'd be there with a camcorder for the last scene!
It was the hair, long and flowing out behind him in the cool, slight wind as he walked, a waving scarlet flag, that first alerted the hunter to his presence despite the fog. Hair like spun congealing blood, it looked so soft to the touch, the hunter just needed to reach out and...no, it wasn't a good idea to become attracted to your food, to your prey, for when you had to take them, it hurt all the more.
The hunter watched the redhead walk alone in the misty autumn night with a guitar case slung over his shoulder as he hummed. His keen wolf eyes watched from the shadows, ready to pounce as the prey came closer... closer... and walked right by the hunter's hiding spot, unaware that his life had just been spared, a few more breaths granted to him, as the prey began softly singing to himself, oblivious to the near-death that waited alone in the darkness of the alley he had had the unfortunate chance to pass by too closely.
He followed the man with the brilliantly flowing hair as he strode down the sidewalk, a surrealistic audio and visual beacon to the hunter, a dark ghost with no past and seemingly no future, living only for the moment as he stalked his quarry in the fog.
He had seen pictures of the crimson-haired man before on the cover of his band's latest CD, carefully placed in the bright glittery windows of storefronts. Brightly dressed schoolgirls in miniskirts hugged this latest acquisition to their still developing bodies as if they were hugging him post-coital.
"He's so cute, I wonder if he's still single?" he remembered overhearing one say to another as he walked by, hunched over against the brisk wind, his ears pricked for any information as to whom would become his next meal.
It normally didn't take much, a sign of weakness was all it took for only the weak, the sick, the old were taken.
But for some unknown reason, the crimson hair drew him like a fly to sweet honey, drew him in and trapped him in its sweetness. The hunter wanted to touch it, wanted to claim it as his own, a prize to be mounted, a trophy to be marveled at on bad nights when he was unable to find food, or felt his remaining humanity slipping away like rice through his fingers. Something to be touched and stroked and to remind him of what he once was, when he was human instead of wolf.
So he began watching, began planning, began scheming on how he would capture this prey and make him his.
On another lonely cloudy night, having just fed and hidden the half-devoured remains to later be discovered by a startled garbage man the next day, he caught another glimpse of the crimson hair as he strolled home. Walking rapidly in the chilly breeze, he strode by, his fur collar drawn up around his neck as he switched the grocery bag from one hand to the other.
The hunter watched as he waited for the streetlight to change, a solitary soul on a road leading to his own destruction. As the musical notes played from the crosswalk, the obsession crossed the street, the headlights of the three waiting cars temporarily illuminating him bright as daylight as his distance-eating strides took him farther away from his stalker.
Quickly cleaning up his blood-marked hands, he hurried after the prey, careful not to attract attention during this late night observation.
Hiding amongst the gloom, he too pulled up his collar as the wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of moldering autumn leaves and cold rains soon to fall. No bright moonlight that grey night to illuminate his prey, only circles of yellow light cast from streetlamps above.
The path taken by the scarlet-haired obsession, unbeknown to him leading the hunter directly to his supposed sanctuary.
The prey took out his keys as he approached the doorway, another chilly blast taking his hair from around his shoulders and temporarily waving it beside him, a flag to show the hunter where his quarry resided as he entered the apartment building.
Feeling the unseen moon's power in the blood coursing through his veins, he memorized the residence his prey had just entered, and, after making sure no one was around to watch his actions, he used a stream of amber fluid to mark this building as his hunting territory.
Thus began his observation of the crimson-haired guitarist.
He soon learned that during the day, the guitarist worked in a highly protected music facility, a facility that seemed oddly familiar. Sightseeing daywalkers hovered outside, longing for a glimpse of his quarry's trademark crimson mane for their cameras to prove that they'd actually seen what had been marked as his, their cellphones at the ready to announce to a speed-dialed faraway relative or jealous friend "I've seen him!" in a high-pitched voice.
But during the nights when the noisy crowds had dispersed, each person heading off to their warm little hovels to watch boxes filled with images and to dream of sights they would most likely never see, the prey would sometimes emerge from his marked home, guitar case slung over his shoulder to go play in a tiny, mostly unnoticed club featuring live music. The regulars kept his infrequent visits there a secret all their own, fearful of throngs of camera-waving fans overrunning their own private star and chasing him away, never to return.
On a night filled with drizzling rain, the hunter decided to enter the tiny place, just to warm up and get out of the weather for a moment. Glancing around curious about the surroundings, rainwater still dripping from his short hair, he realized that his quarry was about to take the stage. The overhead spotlight illuminated the musician's face as he walked over to the battered stool placed in the center of the stage, causing the varying shades of brilliant red to finally be shown to the hunter. A multitude of cinnamons, scarlets, and most of all a deep blood-red crimson nearly dazzled the hunter's sensitive eyes as he sat in the darkness at a table near the stage, watching. As the musician took his seat, the hunter's azure eyes managed to capture charcoal grey ones as he sat down upon the often-used stool. Smiling slightly, the prey settled the acoustic guitar upon his lap, moved the microphone stand a bit closer to himself and began to play for his audience of regulars.
His voice was soft and gentle, so unlike that of the lead singer of the band to which he belonged, whose name he could no longer remember. It carried over the smoky air of the tiny clubroom. Waitresses in skimpy clothes stopped moving during that first song, the ushering of drinks briefly forgotten as he sang. The once vocal crown came to a hush as he sang a heart-wrenching song of a college boy finding true love and happiness with --gasp-- another boy who loved him but had been ignored while they were both still in high school.
It seems to the hunter that the patrons knew and loved the song, for many of them mouthed the lyrics as he sang, tears apparent in the dark eyes of the waitress serving him, his cup of hot black coffee forgotten on her tray. Entranced, the hunter watched his obsession as he sang with his eyes closed as if to tune out the world.
Only the song existed for his sensitive ears as the musician on the stage played, not for the small audience before him, but seemingly only for the man sitting just out of reach of the brilliant spotlight, the grey eyes that he had previously captured now gazing upon him as newly unburied emotions played across his face. And as the song concluded, the scarlet-haired man turned and smiled at him, his face reflection hope and innocence, not yet tainted with the knowledge of the true way the universe worked.
The hunter left after the song ended, tears streaming from ducts that he had thought long incapable of crying. He tried remembering his former life, when he was human and had feelings such as those, but was unable.
It was the only time that he dared to show his face to his prey.
A few weeks later, the musician is once again spotted by the hunter. He is walking alone at night, this time without his guitar case. From the scent that's steadily blowing his way, he knows that his quarry has just stepped out for a smoke after eating dinner, for the aroma of fish and rice clings to his breath as he momentarily stops to light a cigarette, shielding it from the incessant wind and the current downpour.
Once again keeping to the darkest of shadows, the hunter trails his obsession as he casually strolls along the wet sidewalk.
Turning a corner, the strong wind shifts, causing the hunter to lose the scent of his prey. As he quickly rounds the corner, trying to catch up, he suddenly comes face to face with his obsession.
"Oops! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you!" the redhead gushes as he looks down at the shorter man standing mere inches from his chest, rivulets of rainwater coursing down his handsome face as he smiles an apology.
The hunter didn't respond, instead choosing to drop his head as to not show his face to the prey.
"Sorry for nearly colliding with you," the guitarist throws back at him as he hurries around the one now currently blocking his path.
Grunting, the hunter lets his quarry pass him, turning to watch as the redhead hurries by. Inhaling deep, his salivary glands watering at the scent, he watches him with eyes full of longing as the downpour begins to lessen.
Turning to follow, muffled footsteps splashing in the puddles on the concrete, he makes his decision.
Tonight is the night.
Rapidly catching up with his prey, he makes sure that the back of his scarlet-coiffed head stays within sight. Turning another corner, the musician quickly does a rapid cross of the street, bypassing the nightclub altogether and heading deeper into the neighborhood.
Ignoring the lessening rain, the hunter quickens his step, easily keeping the quarry within sight. Watching as he ducks into an alley, the hunter decides to follow. Eyes designed for night vision, he watches as the crimson beacon moves steadily down the alley, finally stopping feet from a wall of discarded chairs and boxes of rotting food behind a closed restaurant.
Turning, the prey faces his stalker, looking him right in the eyes. Smoky eyes dancing in the flame from his lighter as he flicks it, lighting another cigarette and shielding it with his hand as he inhales.
The hunter stops and watches him carefully as the cigarette is smoked down to half before his quarry speaks.
"I figured that if you're going to try anything, this would be a good place to do so," he explains and drops the remaining butt, a sly smirk on his full lips as the rain ceases its fall from the metallic clouds obscuring the moon. "I know that you want me, so it's about time you had your chance."
The Hunter bares his teeth, which the musician mistakes for a smile and returns the gesture. Moving almost too rapidly for the redhead's eyes to follow, the hunter closes in and grabs him one-handed around the throat.
His skin feels hot as delicate fingers rest against pulsating arteries within, he pulls downward, forcing the taller man to bend towards his face. Full red lips gently kiss the redhead as the brisk wind parts the clouds, allowing a beam of moonlight to illuminate the alley. Eyes shining, the prey closes his eyes and leans his head to one side, exposing his throat to his stalker.
Vicious animal fangs rip into the tender flesh as the hunter finally tastes the warm blood of his obsession. Razor sharp lupine teeth bite into the juicy neck muscles, rending and shredding the slender throat as the hunter's sapphire blue eyes glaze with satisfaction. The musician
attempts to push away his killer as his throat is ripped out and eaten, his lifeblood spilling out into a nearby puddle, staining the full moon's reflection red.
The former lead vocalist throws back his head and howls his enjoyment before indulging in the meal he has chased for so long.
The last thing the scarlet-haired man views in the shining moonlight as death overtakes his sight is a dirty pink stuffed rabbit watching from a nearby broken chair.