FIC: Write Your Name a Thousand Times (And Maybe I'll Remember Why)

[bookofgramarye]

Title: Write Your Name a Thousand Times (And Maybe I'll Remember Why)
Fandom: 鬼灯の冷徹 | Hoozuki no Reitetsu
Rating: G
Relationship: Hoozuki and Hakutaku
Summary: On the morning of New Year's Day in Japanese Hell, after a long night of year-ending drunken revelry, Hakutaku blearily opens his eyes to discover that he's written Hoozuki's name in bright red paint on every possible available surface in Mortal Hell -- and has absolutely no memory of why he might have done so.
Notes: Written for Healiel for Yuletide 2017. (Also on AO3.) All notes are at the end of the fic!


Write Your Name a Thousand Times (And Maybe I'll Remember Why)>

There are hangovers, and then there are hangovers.

The kind where you wake up with no trousers on, and the kind where you wake up with someone else's trousers on but no underwear on beneath them. The kind where a ray of sunlight touching your face feels like an icepick driven straight through to the back of your skull, and the kind where it feels like the icepick has invited all of its friends and neighbours over to see how many of them can fit into your cranium at the same time. The kind where sudden, instant death would be the sweetest, nicest, and most wonderful thing that could ever possibly happen to you...and the kind where you strongly suspect that the hangover itself is determined to keep you alive out of pure spite and malice, just to see what will happen next.

Hakutaku has had plenty of the former type of hangovers throughout his centuries of existence. Only a few of them have been vile enough to qualify as the latter -- and each one of those has been memorable in its own repugnant way. So when his consciousness is dragged, kicking and screaming, out of the blessed darkness and into the hellish light of a hellish sun, his first thought is to make sure that all of his limbs are still attached, and mostly intact. You can never be too careful with those types of hangovers.

He's lying down, on his side, one cheek pressed against the ground. It's not the most comfortable position (nothing is comfortable, nothing will ever be comfortable again, what in the name of everything holy and unholy was he drinking when all of this happened?), but it's easy enough to lie still and gingerly wiggle his toes and fingers -- which means he's in his human form, which means he probably still has clothes on, because nothing feels particularly chilly at the moment. So at least that's all right, even if his head feels like someone is trying to pry it open from the inside out and the taste in his mouth is as unspeakable as if he'd been mixing his own medicines in it all night. There's some sort of murmuring around him, not overly loud but distinct enough for him to hear it over the regular throbbing in his skull, but it would take too much effort to focus on it at the moment. Now that he has a handle on his physical dimensions, it's time to truly take stock of last night's damage.

If he can see where he is, he can figure out how to crawl off home, hopefully without attracting too much attention. Through a combination of blinks and squints, Hakutaku manages to force his eyes open the tiniest crack, a sliver of vision through which he can see --

Red.

So much red.

Something bright red, and slightly sticky, all over his right hand -- the one inches from his face -- and from what little he can see, a darker red thoroughly soaked into the sleeve of his jacket from the wrist down.

If his stomach still had a bottom to it, somewhere beneath the roiling mess of bile, it probably would have fallen out at that moment. As it is, it's enough of an impetus for Hakutaku to try to push himself up off the ground, groaning, into a slumped-over sitting position, to see exactly how far down his sleeve that red goes.

(Oh, he's waking up!, he hears a high-pitched voice say, the first actual words that make sense to his brain.)

'Nngh,' is what comes out of his mouth at first, as the change in position sends the inside of his head and the contents of his stomach spinning off in different directions like a pair of toy tops whirling on strings. 'Fnfh. Yrgk.' But no one is asking him to be articulate at this hour of the morning (if it is still morning), so it's enough to be glad that he's mostly upright at last, and can get a good look at himself.

From his chest down to his ankles, the entire front half of his rumpled outfit is splotched and smeared with the same crimson substance that had saturated his sleeve, until there's more red than white in front of his eyes. His right hand seems to be more stained than his left, but on both hands the redness is all over his fingers, even caked under his nails. His head feels too swollen and congested to smell much of anything, and yet the more he squints at his hands and clothes the less he suspects that any of the stains he's seeing are blood stains -- his, or anyone else's. If nothing else, there's a perplexing vapor-aura to the liquid that's very much like alcohol, rather than copper, and it can't just be the fumes from last night's consumption.

It isn't until he slides his left hand over, groping for a better position to sit up properly, that his fingers touch the edge of an actual puddle of liquid. And when he (carefully, carefully) turns his head to look at it, he can't help but let out a weak giggle when he spots an overturned pot of crimson paint spilling across the ground barely a foot away, with rivulets of pigment the exact same shade as the stains on his hands and clothes.

'Heh, gooood,' he manages to croak out, groggily gleeful. 'I nuu'therrrrs reason fr'it.'

'Master Hakutaku!'

He'd know that skull-splitting cry of distress anywhere, resonating in the caverns of his ears. There's no escaping it, so Hakutaku turns his head -- or rather, lets it loll in the direction of the voice in question -- to see the horrified face of Momotarou looking down at him, eyes and mouth as wide as he's ever seen them. Those three animal companions of his are huddled close to him, but they're far from the only spectators on hand. Now that he can actually make his eyes focus, he can see that he's surrounded by a ring of shocked onlookers, demons and beasts and all of the usual denizens of Japanese Hell. Thankfully, a certain demon appears to be nowhere in sight, though he catches a glimpse of a fluff of white hair that suggests that a certain pair of minions are around...and that their supervisor might not be so far away.

There is only one course of action: pretend that everything is perfectly fine, until he can slip away and quietly drown himself in one of the lakes of Shangri-La.

'Ah, Tao-tarou,' he slurs pleasantly, with a rictus grin that has all the cheer of a botched beheading behind it. 'Whazza doin' down here? I'wuz jus'...jus' gettinup.'

'Sir....' Momotarou's lower lip seems to be wobbling as much as his voice is. 'Sir, the Crow-Tengu Police want to speak to you, right away.'

'Hnh?' Hakutaku narrows his eyes -- which is a mistake, because it nearly makes them stick shut, so he has to blink rapidly to keep them open. 'Whyzzat?'

'Because you...you....' Momotarou begins, but then that dog of his bounds forward, nose quivering as he delicately sniffs the air, then the puddle of paint, and finally turns to get a whiff of Hakutaku himself.

'It's the same stuff, Momotarou!' he barks eagerly, with the excitement of having solved a mystery. 'The same as the writing on the walls!'

'On th' walls?' Hakutaku repeats dumbly, blinking again. It takes a moment for him to build up enough strength to lift his head and look around.

Apparently, his stomach did in fact have a bottom to it, because this time it absolutely falls out when he sees that the walls of the buildings around him, all over Mortal Hell and as far as his bleary eyes can see, are covered from ground to rooftops in writing in that tell-tale bright red paint. And every single piece of writing is the same thing -- two bold characters repeated over and over again, some large and some small, some scrawled like a child's first clumsy brushstrokes and some as neat as a master scribe's calligraphy.

鬼灯

Hoozuki.

Everywhere. On every surface. That name, repeated with nauseating frequency. And every instance of it in a handwriting, however sloppy or crude, that he would be hard pressed to deny is his own.

(There are hangovers, and then there are hangovers. An apparently, there's a third level that completely puts the first two to shame.)

As he stares in utter disbelief at his apparent handiwork, the crowd around him rustles and parts just enough to reveal a tired-looking youth in the white robes of a Heian noble, flanked by two crow tengu guards armed with their customary spears. The young man's sandals clack heavily as he steps forward, and Hakutaku winces at the echo in his aching sinuses.

'Lord Hakutaku,' the young man says, with a weary shake of his head, 'I regret that I must detain you here on suspicion of having committed a grievous act of vandalism in Mortal Hell.' He glances around at the gawking onlookers, and waves a hand in dismissal. 'I request that all of you depart, save those who believe that they have evidence to offer in this matter. The Crow-Tengu Police thank you for your consideration, and hope to continue to serve all of you faithfully in this new year.'

The youth's pretty speech causes a few members of the crowd to murmur respectfully and take their leave, while the two armed guards are quick to shoo off the remainder who had been less moved by their commander's words. Within a minute, the supposed witnesses have dwindled down to a handful -- Momotarou and his animal companions, the two young demons (Karabiri? Nasugi? something like that), and, to Hakutaku's private dismay, the lovely Okou, whom he hadn't seen amongst the crowd earlier but who has come forward now, giving him a look of such sympathetic concern that Hakutaku's heart throbs along with his head.

'Lord Yoshitsune -- ' Momotarou starts to say, but the young man (Yoshitsune no Minamoto, Hakutaku's higher thought processes finally fill in the blanks for him) holds up a hand for silence.

'Please,' he says. 'I will let Lord Hakutaku speak first.' As the armed guards return to stand on either side of him, spears at attention, he tucks his hands into his flowing sleeves. 'The confessional nature of our justice system encourages the defendant to admit the full extent of his wrongdoing.'

'Wait, aren't we supposed to give him a bowl of katsudon first?' the fluff-headed demon pipes up.

'Nasubi, you watch too many police dramas,' his dark-haired companion mutters, nudging him in the side. 'No one's getting katsudon here.'

At the mention of food, however, Shiro the dog's ears have pricked up. 'Hey, hey, I want katsudon, too!' he says, pawing at Momotarou.

'You can't have any katsudon unless you commit a crime first,' Nasubi informs him sadly. 'It's against the rules.'

None of this is making any sense. For that matter, the mere thought of a greasy fried pork cutlet bowl makes Hakutaku swallow thickly, trying to force down the suddenly ominous gurglings in his gut. But he does have some fragments of dignity left, and his hangover has receded just a little bit, so he takes a moment to adjust his legs so that his feet are tucked under him and he is sitting on his heels properly, without sprawling all over the place.

'I really don't know what you expect me to say,' he replies, ignoring the others as he looks up at Yoshitsune and the Crow-Tengu police officers with watery-eyed defiance. At least he can talk without slurring his words now. 'If I did it, then I don't remember doing it. And if I don't remember doing it, then I can't confess to having done it, can I? Otherwise it's all circum...circul....' Even though he's not quite as smashed as he was, it's still hard to think clearly, let alone force the words out. 'It's circumspeculocution.'

His logic might not be flawless, but it does make Yoshitsune frown a little, considering the legal implications. 'What exactly do you remember?' he asks.

'Last night was...was New Year's Eve, right?' That much, he can recall. 'And I think...there was something about a party. And we were going to it, weren't we, Tao-tarou?' He looks to Momotarou for confirmation.

Momotarou nods, looking relieved that this line of inquiry seems to be turning in a more reasonable direction. 'Lady Okou had asked us to come here to watch the Red-Oni-Blue-Oni Song Battle, at a party she was hosting.'

'Because Peach Maki-chan was the team captain of the Red Oni team this year!' Shiro adds, with the air of someone who has made a vital contribution to the discussion.

Okou nods. 'That is true.' Her belted snakes sway and bob their heads gently, as if to confirm it. 'We were having a little get-together, just for a few close friends and valued customers.'

'I wish I could've been there,' the dark-haired minion who isn't Nasubi sighs. 'Watching the song contest with Okou-san -- '

'So Master Hakutaku and I came here together,' Momotarou interrupts, impatiently. 'And then....' All of a sudden, he stops, and a flush starts to creep into his face and down his neck. For the first time, he looks oddly guilty as well, fidgeting with his hands and unable to look anyone directly in the face. 'And then we...er, that is....'

'And then what?' Yoshitsune asks, raising an eyebrow.

Before Momotarou can pluck up the courage to keep going, Okou steps in. 'I had a special shipment of Chinese-style rice wine for the new year,' she says. 'The Drunk Ghost brand of baijiu, a limited edition bottling. It might have been a teeny bit stronger than some of our customers expected.' She gives Momotarou a patient, motherly smile, which only makes the young man's blush darken like an overripe peach. 'It's all right, Momotarou darling -- you were very cute when you fell asleep in my lap.'

For whatever reason, this sets the dark-haired minion off. 'You slept in Okou-san's lap!?' he wails, as Momotarou buries his face in his hands.

'Karauri and I had to finish filing the year-end paperwork last night, so we couldn't come to the party,' Nasubi says, over his friend's anguish. 'Lord Hoozuki wanted to get it done before midnight.'

Okou seems unfazed by the interruptions. 'I put Momotarou-san to bed in one of the storage rooms, and came back to the party,' she says. 'And yes, it must have been nearly midnight then, so I had to make sure that everyone had full glasses. I remember that I'd given Hakutaku-san a full bottle of his own earlier in the evening, so I didn't pay as much attention to him as I should have, I'm afraid.' She bows apologetically to Yoshitsune, whose cheeks turn pink in spite of his himself.

Momotarou scrubs at his eyes. 'And I...I don't remember anything else until I woke up this morning, and Master Hakutaku wasn't there. I thought that he might have gone home without me, but...then I came outside and saw him. With that,' he adds, gesturing helplessly to the spilled can of red paint, only to quickly drop his hand when Hakutaku frowns at him.

Yoshitsune nods gravely. He turns his attention elsewhere, glancing down at Shiro and the other animals. 'Did any of you see anything of note?'

'Shiro and Rurio and I were all out with our coworkers from Animal Hell,' Kakisuke the monkey replies cheerfully. 'There was a karaoke contest in the bar down the street.' He turns to the pheasant, Rurio, who flutters his wings in anticipation. 'You didn't hear or see anything out of the ordinary, did you, Rurio?'

'Our party lasted until just a little while ago,' Rurio says, shrugging. 'I'm pretty sure we wouldn't have heard anything over all the howling and barking and squawking inside. Though come to think of it -- ' He pauses, and turns to preen a feather back into place. 'I did step outside for a few minutes, shortly before midnight, to get some fresh air. And I do remember seeing someone, who was wearing white, standing outside the lady Okou's place.'

'Which could have been anyone,' Hakutaku points out indignantly. 'It could have been this fluff-head here' -- with a wave at Nasubi, who blinks in confusion -- 'and nothing to do with me at all.'

'It was a tall someone wearing white,' Rurio declares, the feathers of his head and neck ruffling with matching indignation. 'And I remember it specifically because I first thought that one of the damned had escaped somehow and wandered over here -- because it had a white cloth on its head, like a tenkan.'

Everyone present turns to look at Hakutaku, whose clothing (however stained, at this point) does indeed include a white kerchief similar to the one that Rurio had described.

'Did you notice anything else?' Yoshitsune asks. The three animals exchange glances, and shake their heads, so Yoshitsune finally looks over at Karauri and Nasubi. 'Karauri, is it?' he says, and the dark-haired young demon startles to stand at attention. 'Did you happen to see anything last night?'

Karauri shakes his head. 'Like I said, we had to work late. I was helping Lord Hoozuki shred and burn some older documents on spirits who'd been reincarnated, and Nasubi here was taking some records over to the cold storage in Deep Freezing Hell.' He sighs gustily. 'I was super-tired by the end of it, so I just went home afterwards. But Lord Hoozuki said that he'd treat both of us to a special New Year's Day meal for working so hard on New Year's Eve, so that's why we came here this morning. And saw all this this.'

Yoshitsune rubs his forehead, an apparently futile attempt at staving off a headache. 'None of this actually explains why there is writing all over the walls of Mortal Hell,' he says.

'It must be written a thousand times,' Momotarou murmurs. 'At least.'

Suddenly, Shiro lets put a bark of surprise. 'Oh, a thousand times! It's that New Year's thing!'

Everyone turns to look at him. 'Huh?' the question comes out, almost as one voice.

'You know -- that curse thing!' Shiro says, tail waving delightedly. When all he gets in response is a wall of blank stares, his tails wags even harder, sending the tassels of his red cord bow whipping back and forth. 'If you write someone's name on a piece of paper a thousand times on New Year's Eve, you can put a super-extra-powerful curse on them that'll last all year!'

Hakutaku can't recall ever having heard that particular urban legend before, but the thought brings a tiny grin to his face. If he had committed this epic act of vandalism -- and he is not for a minute about to confess to it, of course -- then it seems that his intoxicated self had made a fine decision. A super-extra-powerful curse on that pompous brute would be an excellent way to start the new year off right.

His pleased musings do not last very long, however, because Okou has pressed an elegant finger to the side of her lips. 'Write their name a thousand times?' she says, with a thoughtful frown. 'But I thought that's what you did if you wanted to make someone fall in love with you.'

This time, the wall of stares ranges from aghast (Momotarou) to fascinated (Karauri) to vaguely unwell (Yoshitsune).

'Fall in love?' Karauri squeaks.

Okou's mouth curves into a smile -- and there is a hint of something in it that is far darker than her usual sweet cheer, a taste of the desires that ensnare and bind and doom countless mortals to the eternal fires. 'If you write someone's name on a piece of paper a thousand times on New Year's Eve,' she says smoothly, 'they'll be destined to fall madly in love with you. In fact, if you finish the last character stroke just as midnight strikes, you'll be married before the end of the year!'

Hakutaku nearly chokes on the thought. 'M....married?!'

Okou turns playful eyes on Hakutaku, seemingly determined to twist the knife further. 'You did ask me if Lord Hoozuki was going to be at my party last night. And you seemed a little...upset when you found out that he wouldn't be there.'

'I do remember you talking with me about it,' Momotarou adds, with a faint tremor in his voice. 'You were saying...I think you were saying that it was just like him' -- he sketches a vague sense of a quotation in the air -- 'to think that he was so important that he couldn't take a single night off from work -- '

'Because of the year-end paperwork,' Nasubi interjects helpfully.

' -- and that there wasn't a hell hot enough for someone like that.' Momotarou bites down on his lip. 'Or...something along those lines, I think? And then we had more of that Drunken Ghost wine, and...I don't remember much after that point.'

'Did he mention anything about curses, or marriages?' Yoshitsune presses. 'In the context of this conversation?'

With Momotarou on the verge of saying something that might be incriminating, or at the very least horrifically embarrassing, Hakutaku scrambles painfully to his feet. 'Wait, wait, wait!' he exclaims, waving his arms as much to stay upright as to hold everyone's attention. 'You all don't seriously think.... I mean, of course, a curse is one thing, but marriage?' Realising that he has come dangerously close to admitting his guilt, he backtracks a step -- and then a flash of inspiration suggests a possible way out. 'For that matter, where would I ever have acquired all of this paint to write that cretinous demon's name a thousand times, anyway?' He flaps a hand at the still-dripping bucket. 'The shops around here all close early for New Year's Eve, and I'd hardly have been able to bring it here with me, would I? So what's the answer to that, hm?'

'Oh, I know that one,' Nasubi says abruptly, smiling, before anyone else can reply. 'You asked me for it.'

Once again, a wall of silent stares -- and one or two dropped jaws -- greets this new and unexpected revelation.

'...I did what?' Hakutaku finally manages to say.

Nasubi clasps his hands behind his back, rocking gently back and forth on his sandals. 'After I dropped off the files like Lord Hoozuki asked, I came over here to see if I could make it to Lady Okou's party before midnight,' he says. 'But before I could go inside, you came out and stopped me, and asked me if I knew where to get red paint.' He pauses, thinking. 'Lots of red paint, that was what you wanted. And I knew the stores and stuff would've closed already, and I had some paint at home, so I told you I'd run back to my place and get it for you!'

'But...but....' Every other word seems to have gotten stuck in Hakutaku's head, because only the one manages to make it out.

'It didn't take long.' Nasubi, blithely ignorant as ever, completely ignores Hakutaku's spluttering and looks over at Yoshitsune. 'I had some left over from a canvas I'd finished, so I told him he could have all the rest of it. And he was so happy to have it that he gave me a big hug.' Another pause for thought, as he scratches the back of his neck. 'Or I think it was a hug. He sort of toppled over onto me, so I hugged him. And then he took the paint, and by that point I was feeling really sleepy, so I went home again.'

'Why didn't you say any of this earlier?' Yoshitsune demands, exasperated.

Nasubi blinks, tilting his head in confusion at the question. 'You didn't ask me?'

'Hey, hey, does this mean we can have katsudon now?' Shiro whines, trotting back and forth between Momotarou and Yoshitsune.

Hakutaku draws a huge breath, preparing to let all of them have a piece of whatever remains of his overloaded mind, but just as the scene teeters on the edge of collapsing a deep voice cuts through the incipient outburst:

'I suppose I must admit that I'm flattered.'

Everyone turns round -- even Hakutaku, though in his case it is less of a turn and more of a staggering in a circle -- to see Hoozuki, who is dressed in a slightly more ornate version of his usual workday kimono and carrying a large cloth-wrapped bundle in both arms.

'Lord Hoozuki!' Shiro is the first to greet him, tail a white blur of excitement. 'Happy New Year!'

Hoozuki nods to him, and then bows to the assembled group, as deeply as he can bend from the waist with his arms full. 'My compliments for the new year, everyone. Please continue to look upon me with favour this year.'

The traditional greeting is meet with automatic bows and murmured replies -- with the sole exception of Hakutaku, who is not feeling particularly inclined to look upon anyone with favour at the moment, least of all Hoozuki himself.

'Flattered, Lord Hoozuki?' Yoshitsune says, once the moment passes. 'How do you mean?'

Hoozuki lifts his head, looking around at the hundreds and hundreds of repetitions of his name on the walls around them. 'I would not have thought it possible that anyone would go to such lengths to either curse or seduce me,' he replies calmly. 'But I have been told that I underestimate my strengths.'

It's the last straw, as far as Hakutaku is concerned. 'As if I would ever want to marry you!' he snarls, and stalks over to Hoozuki, getting right up under the demon's nose (or as close as he can get with the bundle in the way). 'I'd rather see you roasting in your own juices first! I'd skewer you on the spit and turn it myself!'

Hoozuki's usual cold-fish expression remains unchanged, though a flicker of fire in the depths of his eyes hints that Hakutaku's sentiment might well be mutual. 'Such a marriage would be a curse unto itself,' he says, 'so perhaps your efforts to secure it would have had an unintended doubling of outcome.' With Hakutaku seething at him mere inches from his face, his gaze shifts over to Yoshistune, who appears to be on the point of sending his crow-tengu guards over to separate them both. 'Lord Yoshitsune, may I make a humble suggestion?'

Yoshitsune relaxes a fraction, as do his guards. 'Please do, Lord Hoozuki.'

Hoozuki's gaze sweeps the assembled group of demons, minions, and minor deities. 'Regardless of the reasons or the circumstances, the situation in question naturally cannot remain as it is. So I would like to invite everyone present to partake of the contents of this New Year's feast' -- he shifts the wrapped bundle in his arms, carefully lowering it to the ground and untying the cloth to reveal a beautiful four-tiered set of lacquer boxes -- 'while this outstanding tribute, or tirade, in my name is being cleaned up. If expunging the writing will expunge the potential for further punishment, then I trust that the matter can be closed to everyone's satisfaction?' This last is said to Hakutaku, with a slight quirk of the lips that stops just short of being a smirk.

'You...you....' Hakutaku fumes, but before he can launch himself at Hoozuki, Yoshitsune claps his hands for everyone's attention.

'We accept the merits of Lord Hoozuki's suggestion,' he states. A nod to one of the guards, and the uniformed crow-tengu slips away, off on some silent order. 'As the damage to property is minimal and not permanent, a thorough cleaning will be sufficient reprimand and an acceptable compensation for the vandalism.'

Crow-tengu can be remarkably quick when they want to be, because in almost the next breath Hakutaku finds himself with a bucket full of water in front of him, a stiff-bristled brush broom thrust into his hands, and a stern-faced guard looming over him with a very pointy spear uncomfortably close to several of Hakutaku's softest and most vulnerable places.

Hoozuki bends to gather up the lacquered boxes, and re-ties the cloth wrapping to secure them in place. 'Consider this your fresh start for the new year,' he says to Hakutaku, as he hefts the boxes into his arms once more. 'And if you wish to flatter me with future curses, you know where I may be found.'

'We'll save some for you, Lord Hakutaku!' Shiro calls out, as he and the others turn to follow Hoozuki in the direction of Okou's preferred establishment. Even Momotarou, the traitor, gives Hakutaku an apologetic shrug (and eyes the crow-tengu officer warily) before trotting unsteadily after them, still not completely recovered from his own over-indulgence the night before.

'You...you'd better!' is all that Hakutaku can shout in retort. Right now, his stomach is attempting to stage a private rebellion over the aftereffects of the Drunk Ghost brand's nastiest concoction. Food is the furthest thing from his mind. But with a thousand names to scrub away, and a humourless plod of a police officer breathing down his neck while he does it, there isn't much he can do except sigh, jam the brush into the water, and swing it up to scrub at a pair of characters dripping down the nearest wall like the aftermath of a murder.

However appealing it had sounded to his drink-addled brain, a thousand-name curse (yes, it HAD been a curse, what else could he have been thinking?) obviously hadn't been the right idea. But as Hoozuki had said, a new year meant a fresh start. And if Hoozuki wanted to be flattered some more, then to make that fresh start count Hakutaku would willingly dedicate every single second of his onerous task to plotting the sweetest, most lavishly outrageous revenge he could inflict on one infuriating demon.

Hell wouldn't know what hit it.


Notes

This story came out of one of those mental images that simply would not go away, mostly inspired by the Romans Go Home scene from Monty Python's Life of Brian -- the thought of Hakutaku, drunk off his head, painting Hoozuki's name all over the walls of Mortal Hell out of either spite or frustrated desire and then not remembering a thing about it the next morning, except for the fact that he would be covered in incriminating red paint. Presumably magic paint, to ensure that a single pot of it would be enough for a thousand repetitions of the characters. So it is spite, or frustrated desire? A bit of both, I'm inclined to believe. One note: there's no actual urban legend I know of that involves writing someone's name a thousand times for either good or ill, but it may well exist out there somewhere in some form.

The reference to katsudon is not, in fact, a Yuri!!! on Ice joke, but rather a well-worn gag in Japanese police procedural films, in which a criminal is served a hot bowl of katsudon during a lengthy interrogation session but is moved to tears when the interrogating officer tries to use the comfort food to play on his sympathies (doesn't this remind you of your mother's katsudon? wouldn't she be sad to see you here in prison?). Historically, the Chinese (and Japanese) criminal justice systems have relied heavily on suspects' confessions as key pieces of evidence, and Hakutaku's stubbornness in refusing to admit his guilt reflects this awareness that his main hope for avoiding punishment is to avoid making a confession. Which doesn't exactly help him in the end, but such is the way of things in Hoozuku no Reitetsu.

At any rate, I'm happy to have written this for Yuletide, and I hope others find this series as enjoyable as I do!


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