kinkfest | Saiyuki (Hakkai/Gojyo) (Reply)

Title: The metonymy of gloom and horror
Rating: PG 13
Warnings: worksafe, AU, teacher/student
Word count: 4000
A/N: thanks to

emungere for invaluable beta and helping me with names. This is for the prompt: Hakkai/Gojyo and lessons - with a younger Gojyo

Summary: Milan is spending his summer with ghosts, until a new tutor arrives.

The metonymy of gloom and horror

Milan stood in the library, staring at the shelves. They climbed up to the ceiling, far higher than he, or anyone else, could reach. As far as he could remember, no one had ever taken a book from up there. Walter, his father, had had the shelves designed and fitted by New York architects but someone had forgotten to order a ladder.

He ran his finger down the spine of The Mysteries of the Forest. It was glossy red and dust-free, unlike the books that surrounded it. There was a smooth metal click, and a book shelf swung open, not wide, but enough for him to squeeze through.

Mr Hepplethwaite would be in the bath now. He checked his watch. It was platinum and had a mini-gameboy on it, but the best thing about it was the tiny hi-beam LED. He pressed it now, and its white light lit up the walls around him. The gap between the walls was narrow and smelled of aging plaster and old dusty wood. His nose itched as he walked, taking care to put his feet down softly. The house creaked, sometimes all by itself, but always when Milan walked, squeaks and groans and wails that he'd learnt to tune out. Walter blamed the builders, but Paige liked to say that the house was in pain. Walter liked to tell her to shut up at that point, and then Paige would yell, and then Milan would storm off to his room and turn up the volume on his CD player. Apart from the time he'd gone out and crashed his new Ferrari. Walter had taken all the keys off him, which sucked and completely wasn't fair. Not that Milan cared: he didn't even like Ferraris.

The house was better without them. He wasn't totally sure where Paige had gone. Paris, maybe. She'd texted him with some foreign number, telling him to stay in touch. His dad was in Aspen, 'tying up some deals', he said. With his skis and his secretary, yeah. Milan knew all about those deals, mostly from Paige telling him in horrific detail. He was probably scarred for life now.

The floor squealed under his feet and he stopped, breathing in dust. His pulse was raised. He ran his fingers over the lathe and plaster, feeling for the edges of the small hole. It wasn't spying, he was sure. Well, except Mr Hepplethwaite might think so. But what Mr Hep didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Warm damp air drifted through the hole, and as Milan leaned in he got an eyeful of Mr Hepplethwaite's naked back and ass. He had one foot up on the bathroom stool, clipping his toenails or buffing them or something. His back was still beaded with water, and his hair was dark and slicked to his head. Drops slid off the ends and ran over his shoulders. Milan tried to keep his eyes just on Mr Hepplethwaite's back. It seemed fairer than completely ogling the guy. He mostly failed, like now, because, holy fuck. He pressed closer to the wall. Mr Hepplethwaite's ass was all firm and tight and Milan could see the shadow of his balls from this position, and the end of his cock. Milan craned forward. Mr Hepplethwaite straightened up, then turned and reached for his robe. He was half hard.

Milan's pulse picked up and he watched as Mr Hepplethwaite stroked a palm over himself then tied his robe closed. In the small dark space the sudden blare of Super Mario from his watch was almost painful. Milan jerked back and managed to thump the wall behind him with his head. The watch shrilled until he clapped his hand over it, forcing down all of its tiny, flat, impossible to press buttons. He froze, heart thumping hard, half expecting to hear Mr Hepplethwaite's voice asking who was there, or, worse, addressing him personally.

Milan was tempted to look back through the hole, just to see his reaction, except he might meet a piercing green eye staring back at him. If his tutor said anything tomorrow about strange noises in his bathroom wall, Milan could always blame the ghosts. The ones that wore digital watches.

He made it back out into the library, collected the backpack and flashlight that were sitting on the mahogany reading table, then trotted quickly across the room to the door that led to the west wing, where the old nursery was.

He switched the lights off as he went, until he was walking in darkness along the hallways, his night-vision camera on one shoulder. Exactly why ghosts should like the dark so much, he wasn't sure. Maybe it made them easier to see. Or it would've, if he'd ever seen one. He could feel them though.

Mr Hepplethwaite would be in bed by now, lying back in his cool white sheets, his skin smelling of soap and hot water. Milan scowled and pushed open the nursery door. The hinges groaned, one long pained sound that seemed to go on much longer than it should. Dim light came in from the window, from the security lights that stood on fake cast iron poles all along the driveway. Paige said it made the place look cheap. Walter said that she'd know all about that.

Like that, over and over again. They should get divorced, Milan thought. Everyone would be happier and they'd be able to find people they actually liked. He was seventeen and could look after himself just fine, just like he'd done for the last three summers. Now, suddenly, Paige and Walter were freaking out about 'his mental wellbeing' and next thing he knew there was Mr Hepplethwaite. He should probably've never mentioned the ghost thing to them.

There was a dolls' house here. Victorian, Paige had said. Creepy, Milan had thought. It had tiny perished rubber dolls in it, posed stiffly in armchairs or leaning tiredly against the walls. He sat down next to it, propping himself against the wall. He had coffee in his pack, and chips in case he got hungry. It was a long way down to the kitchen and he wanted to put in a good few hours before morning. Mr Hep had something planned for then, reading or whatever. Like it mattered.

***

"Mr Manners, I'm starting to believe that you don't care about our classes."

George Hepplethwaite pursed his lips and surveyed his class of one.

"Yeah?" Milan said, yawning hugely, so that George got a good view of his back teeth and tonsils. Milan slouched back in his chair and stuck his legs out. "Why zat?"

"Because you are consistently late for classes. The fact that you merely have to walk down three flights of stairs does nothing at all to mitigate this."

"Mitiwhat?"

"Please don't pretend you're stupid. It's very boring."

He felt a little surge of satisfaction at the faint shock on Milan's face. Not a good sign, if they were to have a productive summer. Outside, the sun shone, but it didn't seem to warm the house. Light fell in through the tall arched windows. They were leaded and at the top were stained glass panels that showed manly-looking pre-Raphaelite women. George had given them each names, sitting here waiting for Milan to bother coming down for lessons. The one in the purple was named Edna.

"Sorry, Mr Hep," Milan muttered.

George stared at him for a long moment. There were black rings under Milan's eyes and his hair was lank on his shoulders.

"My name is Mr Hepplethwaite."

"Sorry, Mr Hep," Milan said again, only this time with a little smirk that made his long mouth curl up.

It was better than his semi-permanent scowl, George had to admit.

"Mr Manners-- "

"Call me Milan, dude."

"Milan. Perhaps it's time once more to refresh ourselves on the purpose of this summer's teaching plan. Also, the purpose of me being here at all."

"We went over it last week."

"And yet it has not sunk in."

"Says who?" Milan sat up straighter, setting his shoulders back like he was squaring up for a fight. "I know why you're here."

George put his notebook and pen down, retrieved a cloth from his pocket and began to clean his glasses. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Milan began to fidget. George smiled. Milan often said exactly what he was thinking. It was charming, and George thought he might allow himself to be charmed. At least it would pass the time. Also, he hadn't failed to notice the way that Milan looked at him sometimes, or the strange noises in his bathroom walls that could surely only be caused by a adult male clambering around in them. He should probably do something about that.

"Do you, though?" George said.

"Paige and Walter couldn't live with themselves if their son and heir dropped out. Oh yeah, and they don't trust me in the house alone because they think I'm some sort of freakazoid."

'The house' - the family all called it that. They never called it by its proper name, Winterkill. It was vast, squatting like a grey stone gothic carbuncle in the hills near Tarrytown. There were whole wings that George had not been in, but Milan seemed to know the place intimately. It had been built in 1897, Mr Manners Senior had told him, and George had read some of the local history books he'd found in the library. It had seen a series of extraordinary mishaps, its owners dying horribly or suffering terrible luck in some way. The books all pointed out that it was haunted, which George had found amusing until Milan had told him what he did all night, every night.

"Milan, what's the point of me being here if you're not going to pay any attention to my lessons?" George said.

Milan folded his arms across his chest. "You could go?"

George shook his head.

"If I left, that would mean you've won," he said, with a pleasant smile. "And I really cannot allow that."

"You're crazy," Milan said.

"My last student said that too."

"And what happened to him?"

"Her. She went on to study politics and economics at Oxford."

"Oh. Huh."

"What are your plans for the future?"

He thought of Milan roaming alone in this place every evening, in the dark. Heaven only knew what else he got up to apart from spying on guests. A maid and a cook came in every day, but in the evenings they went home. There were plenty of other teenagers in the town, all rich and bored and with sports cars to play with. They never came to call, which was surprising given Milan's good looks and ability to turn on the charm when he wanted to. Perhaps he never wanted to.

"I don't know," Milan said. "Mr Hep."

His long hair fell across his face like a curtain, but he looked up at George almost fiercely, as if he were daring George to ask further questions. George sighed.

"I know it's rather a mouthful."

"What?"

"Hepplethwaite. George Hepplethwaite."

Milan grinned suddenly. "It's funny. You get a lot of shit about it, yeah?"

"Only when I meet people."

Milan laughed, a soft pleasing sound. "You should try being called Milan Manners."

"It's an interesting name."

"Not when those asshats at school keep asking me if I'm Paris's brother."

"Well, perhaps you'd like to call me George," George said. "Rather than Mr Hep."

Milan blinked up at him, then smiled again. "Yeah," he said, slowly. "Okay, yeah."

***

The next day, he tried again.

"There must be something you'd like to do. Languages? Learning to play an instrument? You're very bright. From what I've seen so far I think you could even get into law school if you -- "

He tailed off. Milan was watching him, their copy of Northanger Abbey open on his desk, its spine pressed flat. Catherine Morland was failing to capture his attention. A shame, because George was beginning to think they had a lot in common.

"I don't want to leave the house," Milan said, in a tight breathy way, like something had him tight around the ribs.

"The house?" George frowned, and Milan nodded, a single sharp jerk of his chin. "Will you tell me why?"

"You know why."

"I do?"

"The ghosts. This's a dangerous place."

"Ah. Yes."

"I know you think I'm crazy. They all do. I don't give a shit."

"Many misunderstood geniuses have said the same thing."

Milan snorted and folded his arms across his chest, but he looked up at George in an almost hopeful way. Somewhere far off in the house came the slam of a door and George jumped.

"It's just Genevra," said Milan.

Genevra made lunch and dinner, leaving them fresh dishes each day on the worktop in the vast kitchen. George had never yet set eyes on her. Milan seemed to be the one who laid out the table and reheated the meals, because he was always there waiting in the dining room before George got there.

"So. George." Milan scuffed his boot across the thick Persian rug. He swallowed, quite audibly. "D'you believe in supernatural shit?"

"I have heard some strange banging in the walls," George said, very seriously. "For the past few nights."

Milan's eyes widened and he ducked his head very slightly. "Uh. Really?"

"Yes, in the bathroom of all places. A strange place for ghosts, don't you think? I do hope they're not easily shocked by male nudity," he said, smiling.

He stopped, because the round-eyed look on Milan's face was just a little too pleasing. He should stop this. It was unprofessional and not exactly fair, and now Milan was sitting up straight and crossing his legs. He really was very pretty.

"Apart from that, have you seen anything else?" Milan said, after a moment.

Winterkill was full of shadows; sharp angles and too long stairways and rooms that seemed either too narrow or too wide. It would be possible to grow up here believing in almost anything, and at night, listening to the threshing trees and the creaking wooden floors, he could almost believe in ghosts himself.

"No."

Milan chewed at a nail for a few seconds and jiggled his leg.

"You wanna?"

"What?"

"Do you want to come on a stakeout with me?"

George thought about what a bad idea it was. It would be very misguided: inappropriate and encouraging all the wrong things. The door slammed again, which would be Genevra leaving. She hadn't spoken a word to Milan - she never did. The silence of the house seemed to ring all around them, and Milan seemed at the centre of it.

"All right. Yes," George said.

***

Milan hefted his backpack onto his shoulders. In it was a thermos of coffee and two muffins. He'd deliberated about the coffee and muffins, wondering if it'd look like he was being a suck-up, but had decided that he was being dumb. Mr Hep— George —had said he'd come. He could easily've just pissed on the idea. He could've easily just packed his bag and left too, over the spying thing.

Milan tried hard not to think about that, because it made him go hot with embarrassment. Mr Hepplethwaite knew, even if he hadn't come right out and said it. If it came up again, Milan'd say he was catching rats or something.

Lightening flashed white through the windows and above the house thunder cracked, shatteringly loud. In the foyer, two floors down the wide curving central staircase, the lights flickered. Up here it was dark. Milan had switched the lights off, ready. Through the night vision camera the dark wood walls looked green, like they were underwater.

"It was a dark and stormy night," Mr Hepplethwaite said in his ear, making him jump far more than the thunder had.

"Jeez. What?"

"I'm setting the scene," Mr Hepplethwaite said. "For our adventure."

Milan eyed him, then lowered his camera. "If you're not gonna take this seriously… "

Mr Hepplethwaite raised his brows. "Yes?"

Milan frowned and turned away. "… You can leave."

He only said it quietly though, and it was drowned out with a rumble of thunder. Mr Hepplethwaite didn't say anything for a minute, like he was thinking about going back to his room and reading a novel or playing sudoku or whatever it was he did all evening. He tried to wipe out the mental image of Mr Hepplethwaite naked.

"I'm sorry," Mr Hepplethwaite said.

Another burst of lightening sent white flickering patterns across his face. Milan nodded for a bit too long, feeling dumb. He couldn't help it if apologies so far in his life had been rare. Walter and Paige didn't apologise for anything, ever.

"'Kay. Um. So I thought we could start in the East Wing. There's a music room there that's got—well. I think it's a dog or something."

"A dog?"

"Something like that," Milan said. "I heard it growling. Or maybe it's a wendigo."

"A wendigo in the music? Perhaps it likes to play the piano?"

"There are people too." That just came out all defensive. "But not in that room."

"Where, then?"

Milan gestured. "Everywhere."

Mr Hepplethwaite went quiet after that. Milan was very aware of him and the soft pad-pad of his feet on the carpet behind him as they walked through the house. It creaked around them, wood groaning like it was an old galleon on the sea. Milan could almost imagine that it swayed beneath his feet. It'd be a good night tonight, he knew it. Could feel it in his guts. They walked along twisting corridors; past the study, then the Thin Library, past the room that was empty and the sewing room. Milan hated the sewing room. There was another crash of thunder. It faded out and then Milan stopped. He couldn't hear footsteps behind him.

"Hey, you okay?" he said, over his shoulder. Mr Hepplethwaite didn't reply. He turned. "You there?"

The camera gave everything a spooky not-quite-light look: walls, floor runner, that marble bust on a plinth. But not Mr Hepplethwaite.

"Where did you go? Mr Hepplethwaite?" Milan blinked. The corridor was empty. "…George?"

No reply. He checked the rooms, feeling his heart start to pound, which was dumb because George had probably just decided this was stupid and had gone back to his room. It wasn't like the house could hurt him. Probably. Somewhere in the distance, ahead of him, a door crashed closed so hard that Milan felt it through the floor. He began to run, swearing under his breath.

The music room was empty. The grand piano lurked by the tall windows, reflecting spits of lightening in its glossy black surface. Maybe George had gone back to his room for something-- a sweater-- and was planning to come back. It was cold in here and there was a draught blowing in his ear from somewhere.

There was a creak behind him. Before he had time to turn, something heavy landed on his shoulder, gripping him hard. Milan squeaked, then tore away and spun round: it was an arm, lunging at him from the darkness.

He stabbed at the camera's on button and raised it shaking to his shoulder. "Who are you? Come forward."

George's pale face loomed eerily on the camera screen, his eyes glowing like a cat's. The hidden door panel squeaked as it opened, as if it hadn't been used for decades.

"Shit," Milan said, and lowered the camera, laying it on top of the piano. "Where did you go?"

"The passages are awfully useful. Although I think I got rather lost for a few moments." George brushed cobwebs from his shoulders.

"I didn't know where you were. I thought you'd gone." Milan couldn't seem to lower his voice and now George was staring at him. "You might've been hurt."

"But by what?"

A spatter of rain hit the windows hard, sounding like someone had flung a handful of gravel. They both flinched. Milan reached out and grabbed his sleeve and got a good hard grip on it.

"Milan," George said, moving closer. George looked from his hand to his face.

"Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

George's voice was soft but very clear. Good enunciation, George would say. The door in the wall swung closed with a soft thud. They both jumped again.

"I-- I've never discovered that passage. How did you find it?"

"Just a lucky guess." George didn't seem to mind the fact that Milan had his arm in a death-grip. "I know you use them a lot, don't you? You've been watching me."

Milan nodded, hardly daring to breathe. Lightening flickered and cast a pattern of water on glass across George's white shirt. His gaze was fixed on Milan's face.

"Are you a ghost?" Milan said, digging his nails in to George's skin.

"No," George said. He didn't laugh, just smiled, and it was so warm. "You're hurting me," he said, softly, and then he put his hand over Milan's and just held it there

"George… "

"Milan, this isn't a good idea."

"I don't agree."

He swayed forward and put his other hand on George's shoulder, then pressed his mouth to George's. His lips were warm and soft and they yielded under his when George made a little shocked noise.

"Milan," he whispered.

"I'm sorry."

George had spread his palm flat on Milan's chest, but he wasn't pushing him back. Milan leaned against him and kissed him again. Their lips slid together this time and George made another sound, like an almost silent moan in his throat. Milan stayed still, not daring to move. Against his thigh he could feel a hot hard bulge-- Oh, God. He realised that his hands were fisted in George's shirt.

George cupped his face and drew him closer and kissed him slowly. Milan's knees turned to water at the first soft touch of his tongue. George slid his other arm around Milan's waist and turned him so that he was pressed up against the piano. Dimly, he was aware of rain pouring against the windows, of the freezing air on his face and the distant thud of a door. But mostly, all his senses were taken up with the way George was holding him tight, pressed up against him hard, pushing his tongue into Milan's mouth.

Milan gasped and pulled away, and George let him.

"George, we-- we shouldn't."

"No," George said. "I know. We won't," he said, and he sounded very sure.

He looked shocked though: wide eyed and Milan was sure he could hear his breathing. Locking lips with a student-- that couldn't be a normal item on the curriculum. They stood for a moment not speaking, except it wasn't silent at all. The storm had gotten even stronger and the house was filled with the muffled roar of wind and rain.

"Milan… "

"Yeah?"

"It might be better if I left."

Milan picked up his camera and his rucksack.

"Okay, but I bought coffee and muffins, and we still haven't made contact with the other side yet."

"Milan, that's not what I-- "

"And there's still eight chapters of that book--"

"Northanger Abbey. There are other books too, after that."

"Yeah. So, we should read them too. And I have to have a plan for my future. You said so."

Milan's heart was racing in a crazy way and if he thought the words 'don't leave' at George any harder, he thought might get a brain hemorrhage. He almost gasped with relief when George nodded.

"But no more hiding in my bathroom walls, please," George said, very gently.

"I don't know what you mean."

George paused, then simply nodded. "And perhaps we can take some lessons outside in the grounds, or further afield. I assume there are several cafes in town?"

"I guess," Milan said. He couldn't remember. It'd been a while since he'd gone into Tarrytown in the daytime. "Why?"

"Lessons in cafes can be very useful."

"What? Really?"

"Yes. For focusing the mind."

Milan was going to say he didn't need his mind focused and also that he was pretty sure George had just made that up. But then, maybe it was George who needed to focus his mind, away from— Their eyes met for a brief awkward moment. Yeah.

"It might be okay," Milan said, picking up his camera. His hands had even stopped shaking, nearly. His mouth was dry and he could still feel the slick thrust of George's tongue against his own. Focus. "But listen, we still have the stakeout to do."

Something that sounded like hailstones flung themselves at the window.

"Do you really believe this house is haunted?" George said. He ran one finger along the top of the piano, picking up dust.

"I believe in ghosts."

"Not quite the same thing, but still."

"So, what d'you want to do?" Milan asked.

Their eyes met again and this time it wasn't so painful and sweat-inducing. George even looked faintly amused.

"Lead on. I'll follow you."