eritis sicut deus

Fandom: Saiyuki
Warnings: Kind of worksafe? Nothing explicit, but at least my breathing sped up a bit when I wrote this... ahem. PG-13 for this part I'd say
Pairing(s): Hakkai/Gojyo (maybe later some Sanzo/Goku if one squints)
Notes: It's the long dreaded Brussels Belle Époque!AU, beware! This is the first half of the story for indelicateink's glorious weissvsaiyuki challenge. The theme I picked was "Ch-Ch-Changes": (transformations and life changes! can be bodily changes [monstrous/mythical/magical transformations--selkies, mermaids, werewolves, mpreg, crazy science, curses...], time of life changes [hospice, new university student, new family, new disability, new relationship/marriage/breakup...], makeover [Pygmalion scenarios, rags-to-riches, imposter...]). The second (and supposedly the last) part is half-written and following soon, I swear. Usually I try to avoid posting unfinished things, but I wanted to meet the challenge deadline... I also posted this over at AO3, where you can easily choose the option to be informed as soon as the next chapter is up. Also, I added some bonus information there and an apology. :)


Rue Royale

"You are quite welcome to enter the shop as well, Monsieur."

From the outside he can only guess the definite silhouette of the clerk inside. "Right, of course," he hastens to announce in French, which is tinted with an English accent. "I just enjoyed the magnificent design of the front, Monsieur--" he looks up and reads out loud: "Niguet." Above the window front the letters are painted in a matte bronze: Chemiserie Niguet. "Chemiserie?" Because the shop is overflowing with supple green plants and delicate flowers.

The clerk laughs an unsurprised and slow, but sincere little laugh. "I'm sorry for the confusion. Both isn't correct, but I rather liked the letters. I think they fit the rest of the front very well." Still standing behind his counter he wipes his hands at his apron. "There is a small brass tile to the left of your head. It says what's really inside."

Joris could have sworn the clerk gave him a conspirational wink, but the distance makes it hard to be sure. "As if one could overlook this visual feast when looking inside," Joris says.

C. & H. Huit, florist, says the tile.

Joris doesn't feel wise-ass, just relaxed and chatty. Last night had been long and fruitful. He would see the gorgeous lady again tomorrow evening. Her bad luck at the roulette table, her eventually empty purse, and her obvious interest in him were his personal luck.

The florist's smile is broad --Joris can see it clearer now he squints his eyes-- takes a slight bow, and opens his hands. "Please, the invitation is still valid, Monsieur. My name is Henri Huit and I'd be happy to show you around if you're interested in the architecture and interior. Even if it's not flowers you want to purchase."

Joris grins and steps inside. He takes off his hat and places it on the worn, but clean counter. The different flowers' intense, mingled fragrance almost knock him out. "Well," he says while letting his gaze glide between manifold developed petals and magnificently embellished wooden and brass details. "Unfortunately one cannot wear flowers instead of shirts. You would make a fortune here, I'm sure."

Huit's eyes widen and his smile instantly falters. He can't be much older than himself, Joris is sure. Late twenties, both of them.

Hastily Joris puts up his hands. "I'm sorry, I meant no disrespect, Monsieur Huit. Your plants are flawless and the sprays are most tasteful!" He sighs and is quick to continue: "My manners are those of a ill-bred pixie, at least that's what my older brother used to tell me." He doesn't want Huit to look at him like this: affected, slightly panicked. "He even used to say I'm a changeling, but my not very secret secret is: I'm just our father's bastard."

The following heartbeats thunder in Joris' ear, and the silence slaps in his face.

Huit slowly finds his countenance again and divests himself of the apron. Then he pulls a monocle out of the breast pocket of his waistcoat, which is of the same rich colour like his eyes, moss drenched with rain. He polishes the lens and clears his throat.

"Damn," Joris curses under his breath, and then louder: "Now I apologize for throwing my past at your face, Monsieur Huit, and for embarrassing us both." He reaches for his hat, but can't retrieve it because Huit's fingers grab his wrist.

"No, I apologize, Monsieur." Well-coifed Huit then lets go of his sleeve, attaches the monocle to his right eye, and looks directly at Joris. "My reaction was completely inappropriate." Then he comes around the corner, shoves Joris towards it again as if to signalize to not move away so fast.

Huit flies through his selection of plants, only to hand Joris shortly after a very, very neat--no, stunning bouquet. There are ivory-colored lilies (or at least Joris thinks of them as lilies, because actually he's a gardening failure) and smaller blossoms that look like fragile, vermillion snowflakes, all held together with a few strings of something that remind Joris of a delicate version of sturdy ivy.

"Oh," is all Joris could say as he retrieves them.

Huit smiles at him. Outside the gas lights are lit one by one. "You are always welcome, Monsieur--?"

"Du Lac," Joris mutters, still surprised by the gift.

"Monsieur du Lac, then." Huit puts the monocle back into its pocket and pats the little dent it makes there. "As I said, my invitation for a little tour is still valid, but unfortunately I have to deliver something urgent. That's why I'm closing right after you will have left."

Joris nods behind the flowers. Their heavy scent makes his thoughts slow.

"Please drop by any time again," Huit emphasizes as he shoos out Joris elegantly, placing his hat on top of his head, tilting it a bit to one side--just as Joris uses to wear it.

"I will," Joris finds himself promising and staggers home.

:::

Huit is standing in front of his cupboards, a basket with moss is riding on his hips. Joris' formerly confident stride comes to a halt.

Imagine you return home from a long, strenuous day, and there she is, your young and lovely wife doing the laundry in your kitchen. A skein of walnut brown air obscures half her face, but she heard you and turns her tender head a bit to gaze coyly at you over her shoulder…

"Ah, Monsieur du Lac," Huit calls and hurries to store the basket beneath the counter. He beams at Joris. "What a pleasure. You dared to return. I hope you're not going to complain about the bouquet I gave to you two weeks ago?"

Joris shakes off the vision and enters the shop with a smile. "Well, I had to dispose of them lately." Originally he wanted to gift the flowers to Roulette Lady, but he found himself unable to: the flowers had delighted his cretin eyes and he had found just the perfect spot for them in his sparsely furnished rooms near the Kapellekerk in the Marolles district.

"I see," Huit says with a conspirational half-wink.

Joris' lifts his hat, hoping it looks fancy as he twirls it weightlessly between his fingers. "Maybe you have another bunch of lilies?"

He's almost shocked by Huit's clear and warm laugh. "They weren't exactly lilies, Monsieur du Lac. Hippeastrum, Knight's-star-lilies to be precise. And if I had to be honest: I didn't think chaste lilies would fit you that well."

Joris snorts wordlessly, but amused. Relieved. "You're a good observer, Monsieur Huit." Compared to the lilies he had seen with depictions of Mary Mother of Christ these star-lilies looked more roughened-up and severe. Not as mollified and clean as Mary's flowers.

"Well, thank you. I try my best." Huit leans closer to his counter and inclines his head a bit as if to say, Come closer. I have something more to say. He seems to be in a good temper.

Joris draws near enough for Huit to murmur: "Have you been at the Universal Exposition already?"

The whole city seems to be crazy about it, the king even implemented a temporary garden for the Mons des Arts, a huge site once densely populated but Leopold wanted control or space or whatever. So he brought down the houses and left vast nothingness--until the exposition.

Joris laughs, "Of course. It's hard to avoid it, actually."

Huit draws back and seems to examine him from head to toes, head inclined slightly to one side. "I haven't. The flower gardens are supposed to be extraordinary opulent."

"I must admit I didn't pay too much attention to the flowers when I went." Joris had been busy watching the ladies stroll and chatting them up eventually. He smiles.

"Then join me, please," Huit asks with a formal bow. "I'd be very glad to explain you the differences between lily and amaryllis."

:::

They make appointments with each other, about once a week at the Jubelpark's flower site. Huit is eager to explain Joris how he cherishes the different phases of blossoming of the different flowers.

And Joris finds himself more and more interested.

They stroll well-fashioned, and sit together often without much talk. They found they both like listening to the buzzing conversations of others: some are utterly lacking in content, some are almost over-burdened with deep meaning. But they are all well-purfled.

Their rather short meetings usually end with two cups of strong mocha, as black and sweet as a midsummer night. Sometimes Huit orders a glass of cognac to go with, sometimes Joris orders a glass or two of middle-aged port. Then they let the proud citizens roll past the little patio, and just watch them.

Joris offers him cigarettes; sometimes Huit accepts one, and when he smokes them languidly his eyes drift shut.

Huit likes to express his opinions via agile eyebrows and throat-clearing.

Joris likes to express his opinions via unambiguous leers and snorting.

:::

One late afternoon Huit seems agitated, his eyes start moving almost feverish. He sweeps the sweat off his palms and into the satin fabric of his vest for the fourth time since Joris has entered the florist.

Huit's uncharacteristically rolled-up shirt sleeves allow glimpses of metal on his skin, close to his right elbow. As he stretches to retrieve a box from an upper shelf Joris sees that they are two bracelets. They don't jingle against each other, but clasp the forearm, and seem to be of similar brazen quality like the partly polished metal decorum of the shop.

Huit makes a false step and Joris is almost sure he heard a minor expletive.

"Are you feeling unwell?" Joris hurries around the counter, closer to Huit. He refrains from feeling for his temperature, because any movement towards him apparently unsettles him more.

Huit's gaze zones out, past Joris, and through the window front. His head is tilted as if he tries to listen to something inside his head, his body. Maybe his mind.

"Henri," Joris tries again. "Look at me."

The sudden use of proper Huit's Christian name does the trick, and his eyes slit. He focuses on Joris. "Pardon me, Monsieur du Lac."

"It's Joris," Joris mutters irritated. "I just called you by your name."

"Joris, then." Henri nods a tiny nod and forces himself to smile. "I'm afraid I have to ask you a favour." He grips the top of the counter tighter, and looks directly at Joris whose throat suddenly feels like made of felt. "Could you please stay here in my place? Just for a few more minutes until a friend collects an urgent delivery." Sweat trickles off his temples, he actually shies away from Joris. "I feel… a bit off."

"Henri--"

"His name is Jérôme. He'll arrive between six and seven, as usual. A cheerful young spirit, a good boy." Henri's voice is becoming smoother and sends weird chills down Joris' spine. "You can lock the shop afterwards and keep the keys until next time you… come by again. I have a second set." Colour flees from his face.

His behaviour reminds Joris of Benjamin, back at home. But heroine withdrawal has made him also snappy and short-fused. Henri only seems to grow nervous and detached.

Joris rubs his eyes. "It's no problem at all," he says amiably. He knows that Henri's quarters are just above the shop. "Go upstairs and lay down. I'll wait until the boy has left and then lock up the door."

Henri manages to nod again and wipes his brow with a lace handkerchief. "Thank you, Joris. I'm terribly sorry." Then he drops his keys from his vest pocket into Joris' outstretched hand and stumbles past him, climbing the stairs under great effort. Joris thinks he hears him groaning slightly.

"Do you need a helping hand?" Joris asks behind him, unsure how much privacy Henri prefers.

There, definitely a moan. Then a deep chuckle and an appalled whisper. "No, please don't." And Henri disappears from Joris' sight.

:::

"I've never seen you around before," Jerôme says in a not un-kind way; he seems rather interested. Joris turns the key in the front door's lock, checks the handle: closed. "And now you have the spare key. That's quite a promotion!" The boy laughs and nods to the back of the shop.

There are two more doors and Jerôme shoves him towards the sturdier. Joris isn't sure where the door leads to exactly. Henri only said something about 'a delivery to be collected'.

Jerôme is probably about ten years younger than Joris, with an astute gaze, and a big, smiling mouth. His clothes are impeccable and pricey, but something in his gait tells Joris that he probably wasn't born in them.

"No, it's the smaller key," Jerôme prompts when Joris fumbles with the bunch Huit had dropped into his palm.

"You know your way around?"

Jerôme's bright brown eyes sparkle. "One would expect that. I come here every other week or so. Henri sends for me, and I come and get them."

"Them?" Joris dares to ask as he turns the key in it's lock. "What is it?"

Jerôme laughs for an answer. "Well, what do you think?"

And then, voilà, the heavy door swings open well-oiled. All of a sudden they are outside the narrow brick house, in the private refuge of Henri's backyard. He wouldn't have expected the middle-high fig tree, and over there is even a small kitchen garden. Flaming courgette flowers are adorning the meticulous rows of soil. Next to them are probably beans clambering up their sticks.

Joris feels like trespassing into something intimate. He then understands Jerôme's earlier remark.

"I don't know," Joris eventually acknowledges. "Plants?" He feels extraordinarily dumb. And he can't put away how distressed Henri had looked before.

Jerôme rolls his eyes. "Now you need the very old, long key, Monsieur." He is already heading towards a smaller wooden shack in the corner to the right, and Joris almost overlooked the glinting, chthonic construction in the middle. Presiding over the small backyard it's intriguing Joris.

"You can call me Joris," he says slowly, not exactly following Jerôme.

The boy sighs. "Okay, then. Joris. Look, could you please open the lock here?" He pokes at the shack's lock. "I'm already a bit late." He looks up. "What? Oh." He whistles, then laughs. "Well, God damn me. He's quick."

In the dusk Joris makes an asking face.

"He designed his own greenhouse. Is building it himself, also." Jerôme shrugs. "Okay, sometimes I help him, but not as often as I liked to. After all I'm the Procureur's assistant." There is a good amount of pride making his voice smoother.

Joris snorts. "You are what?" Another part of him wonders why Henri never told him about the greenhouse.

Jerôme waves him off. "Are you unlocking this now or what?"

Joris does what's asked from him and after a little bit of rummaging inside Jerôme triumphantly extracts a rather decent-sized pouch.

"Is this something," Joris lowers his voice in a conspirational fashion, "not exactly legal?"

Jerôme's laugh is definitely too loud to let him be part in something illegal, but then he also keeps his voice down. "Don't tell them I showed you," he says as he unknots the soft pouch and turns it carefully upside down. Two brownish, ugly balls roll unto his palm, and he looks at them fondly.

"We're doing this for two onions in a velvet pouch?!" Joris cries exasperated.

:::

Well, in the end Joris helps Henri with the greenhouse.

It took five very polite rejections and he literally had to beg Henri to let him help.

"Oh, my. Joris. What is it?" Henri looked genuinely concerned, yet definitely better than on that evening two days earlier. "Are you in trouble? Do you need to hide away?"

Joris sighed. "Please, just let me help you somehow. I… I don't want money. I just want to do something during daytime, so I'm tired enough at night."

Henri stared at him. "I know that feeling," he eventually said with calm. He shook off one or two thoughts and smiled. "I hope you have some spare clothes that can undergo some stains?"

"You bet I have, Monsieur." Joris felt relief surge up and clouding his brains. "Oh, and who is C. Huit? Why don't they help as well? I have never seen anyone else here; I must say you live a decent bachelor's life."

Henri's smile was a little bit forced and very much distressed. "Catherine," he says. "She was my sister. She's dead, unfortunately."

Damn. "Oh no, I'm sorry, Henri." Joris put a gentle hand on Henri's shoulder. "My mouth just won't learn to shut it."

"It's not your mouth," Henri had said and slowly swiped away Joris' touch. "It's my heart."

:::

If you asked him later he would say he wasn't sure why he thought it was a good idea to force his way into Henri's garden at night. There simply was no reason at all--except the thrill of being possible, maybe.

So Joris finds his cheek pressed against the smooth surface, his breath clouds the glass of the greenhouse wall. Things poke into his hips, his sides; into his thighs, the small of his back: metal railings, wooden planks. Flesh, and something sharp and pointy, he can feel it through his layers of clothing. His frock coat is pulled from his frame, yanking at his arms.

Joris is breathing heavily now, shocked by the sudden assault, and he stares at the dampness of the pane in front of his eyes.

"Not. A. Word," a mouth behind him rasps silently.

Joris' ear, it threatens to fall off. He carefully tries to shake his head, no. No, not a word. No, please stop. A sob crawls up his throat. He has never been touched like this before. Never knew how it could feel, would feel if someone stronger came this close to him. Handled him like this. No, please do continue. Shame surges up and almost constricts his lungs, because he's so damn sure that he can smell some undiluted desire in the night air. And he's not sure about the exact originator…

The rumble at his shoulders resemble a deep, deep laugh. "Good boy." Pleased, very pleased.

Another shove, this time there is no doubt about which part of the creature it is now. Joris' legs are spread a bit wider, he feels the insane warmth of the other rubbing against his behind: it encases his upper body, his arms. Delicate fingers snake their way down to Joris', and entwine with them. There is dirt beneath the long, long nails, no claws-- and Joris hopes he won't catch an infection.

Oh God, he thinks hysterically. Joris grapples for balance against the unfinished wall, but his damp cheek slips, and they both almost tumble to the ground. There lay Henri's bracelets, half-covered with rainy mud. A pang of concern rips through Joris. If they lie there, then what did the assaulter do to Henri?

"Watch out," the other says as he straightens them both again. He shoves more of Joris against the glass.

A whimper escapes Joris and before he can stop himself, "I'm sorry," and it's heart-felt, but his shirt is ripped from his frame. His coat is probably sodden now beyond fixing. It was his favorite, lined with real carmine silk. He hopes it's still in one piece. "Oh God," he adds voicelessly. I'm sorry for slipping. For breaking into this garden at night. Maybe he is just assaulted by the very reason why Henri hadn't told him about the kitchen garden and the greenhouse before?

"Neighbours," the looming shadow behind him adds under his breath, almost apologizing.

Yes, yes, of course, Joris frantically thinks. He would be detected in a more than inappropriate position if they chose this very moment to open their little windows and have a good look at the noises outside. He'd loathe to compromise Henri and his reputation in his environment for any reason.

Because after all it's Henri who rented the whole backyard for himself. So all trouble there must be easily attributed to him, Henri. Monsieur Huit, witty and soft-spoken connoisseur of rare Asparagales.

"Henri," Joris dares to whisper. He does not dare to address the forceful being behind him directly, just inclines his head a bit. "Is he alright? Did you do anything… to him?" He stares at a heap of freshly dug soil below; at the bracelets there. He resolves upon ignoring the creeping vines along his feet.

"Henri," the other repeats behind him solemnly. Rolls around the vowels, finishes the name with a hurtful hiss. The pressure against Joris falters and the grip around his wrists breaks away.

This time Joris slumps onto his hands and knees, his shoulder bumps against a pillar, and he tries to get a look at the assaulter. It's not easy through the mess his hair has become, but he manages.

Behind him, sitting on his heels, is Henri himself with his head cast down. There is no doubt about it, although he doesn't look right in the almost non-existing lights of the backyard.

Joris gasps, "Henri." Then he tries to reach out for him.

"Oh God," Henri rasps. "Please don't." He looks like ripped from a nightmare, tired and weakened. His eyes glower with reflections of the few light sources beyond the walls.

Joris stops mid-movement. He remembers that request. "Alright," his voice wavers.

Without any Brilliantine the rugged skeins of Henri's hair are veiling his face. It looks like there are vines crawling over his skin, like his delicate ears became all pointy and otherworldly. He is frantically digging in the mud at Joris' feet, exhuming the bracelets. Henri doesn't care for the dirt clinging to the metal as he re-fastens them on his arm.

The air around Henri starts to gleam, twirls and draws eventually towards him. Dust and sweat bursts from Henri's frame, for a second his hair, torso and arms are drawn upwards. It's like he does a little jump, then sinks down again to fold himself without consciousness against Joris.

A little yelp from his own throat surprises Joris, but he catches Henri before he glides into the soil. Even breathing indicates that his friend is something like asleep.

Almost every fiber within Joris screams RUN! but he cannot bring himself to do so. He changes places with Henri and folds him in a seating position against the pillar whose gentle, pale face looks still harassed while asleep; he is only wearing plain trousers and a once probably crisply white cotton button-down. No vest, no keys, Joris thinks. Damn. He pats the pockets of Henri's trousers, but they are empty.

Joris tries to make out the door between backyard and shop. It's unlocked, yet the inside seems to be unlit and dark.

"Fantastic," Joris mutters sardonically to himself. At least he has stopped shaking allover. Then he sheds the remnants of his own tattered shirt and rises. Pats down his trousers for his emergency cigarette and sticks it to his lips. He knows where Henri keeps the matches in a drawer in the counter. But first, he tells himself, first he has to get Henri inside.

Joris half-kneels beside him, drapes one of Henri's arms (the one with the bracelets, he sees now) around his neck, and drags them both into a somewhat upright position. A groan seeps from Henri's lips, but he stays asleep, and his legs don't do their part of the walking. Somehow Joris manages to shamble towards the dark door and inside, without too much noise and without loud bumps against tools on their way.

Then he drops Henri carefully and climbs the stairs to look if the door to his quarters was open as well. It isn't, and Joris has no idea where Henri left the key. He chiefly considers breaking down the door, but guesses that's too much. So he tries to cushion Henri's sleep with some hemp bags from outside, and some straw which is actually meant for the roses.

Henri still hasn't moved by himself. Specks of dirt cling to his clothes and skin, but Joris finds himself unable to do more. Every fibre of his brain screams NOW RUN YOU FOOL! This man is dangerous.

And before Joris can think about it any harder he's on his way, running through the backyard and climbing back over the brick wall, and he runs and runs and runs until his chest threatens to burst and he has to catch his breath leaning against a gas lantern which casts its aura of gentle gloom around him like a royal ermine.