
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1019646.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      幽☆遊☆白書_|_YuYu_Hakusho:_Ghost_Files
  Relationship:
      Karasu/Toguro-otouto_|_Younger_Toguro, Karasu/Kurama_|_Minamino_Shuuichi,
      Kurama_|_Minamino_Shuuichi/Toguro-otouto_|_Younger_Toguro, Bui/Kurama_|
      Minamino_Shuuichi, Bui/Karasu, Kurama_|_Minamino_Shuuichi/Toguro-ani_|
      Elder_Toguro, Sakyou/Kurama_|_Minamino_Shuuichi
  Character:
      Kurama_|_Minamino_Shuuichi, Toguro-otouto_|_Younger_Toguro, Toguro-ani_|
      Elder_Toguro, Sakyou_(YuYu_Hakusho), Karasu_(YuYu_Hakusho), Bui_(YuYu
      Hakusho), Miyuki_(YuYu_Hakusho)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Canon_Compliant, Ankoku_Bujutsukai
      |_Dark_Tournament, Wordcount:_1.000-5.000, Alternate_Universe_-_Dark,
      Elder_Toguro_being_Elder_Toguro
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-27 Updated: 2014-01-31 Chapters: 3/? Words: 3465
****** Faust ******
by Sekah
Summary
     What if Toguro discovered Kurama's identity before Hiei did? And what
     if for his desperate bid to save his mother, Kurama needed something
     Sakyo could give, and learned of it before Hiei begged his expertise
     and he remembered the powers of the Forlorn Hope? Suffice to say,
     Kurama's life might have been very different. Canon-compliant AU.
     Pairings: Toguro/Karasu, Karasu/Kurama.
Notes
     Faust is the protagonist of a classic German legend; a highly
     successful scholar but one dissatisfied with his life who therefore
     makes a pact with the Devil, exchanging his soul for unlimited
     knowledge and worldly pleasures.
***** Heap of Dying Ash *****
"I asked a question," Kurama husked, straightening a wrinkle from his festival
yukata. The only difficulty in this fight had been making sure his clothes and
hair stayed pristine. "Will you answer it?"
"There are others who know you're the Youko Kurama, but let me go and I'll,
I'll lead you straight to them! Please, won't you let me go?"
Kurama gave him a schoolboy's smile. "I can smell when you're lying, demon.
You're lucky I can't be away from mother long."
He watched the death plant rip through blue skin with disinterest. Cupping his
hand before him, he blew hard until the spores of flesh-eating mushrooms he'd
collected spread over the tangled heap of limbs he'd hidden behind a dumpster
in this blind alley. The mushrooms would rot the bodies to nothing, leaving no
trace in a matter of hours. He timed them to die after one night.
Phosphorescence glowed from the swelling bells of mushrooms. He theorized a
less obtrusive light, and fed the new make-up to the fungi, pleased when they
dimmed. Then he withered the death plant's bright, luminous flowers. Finally,
he walked over and dragged cardboard over the whole mess.
Scraping his short-cropped hair from his face, he sighed. His shoulders
unknotted, tension loosening. The fact of being found had terrified him more
than the reality of these cretins deserved. He'd had to move some distance to
find a place he could finish this gang off that was isolated from the streets
full of drunken college couples and children dragging their parents on to the
next shaved ice cart, done up in kimono and pikachu masks. The cherry blossom
festival only needed to be suffered once a year.
"Neat work."
Kurama spun on the ball of his foot and leapt back, skidding over a shattered
bottle that screeched against the concrete, his hands automatically forming a
handful of defensive petals, a grass blade scything from his arm.
A nasally voice cackled. "Look at this pretty thing. He knows how to play,
brother! Would you like to play with us, boy?"
Their forms detached from shadows that shouldn't have hidden them, and Kurama's
heart began to beat in his chest. The small lump on his brother's broad
shoulder let out another high-pitched giggle. Kurama had no doubt he'd heard
his heart thump faster, could smell the adrenaline in his sweat.
He recognized them. "The Toguro Brothers." He'd heard the stories, and standing
before their colossal strength at a fraction of his own, he had one gamble.
Green eyes narrowed. "I have no quarrel with you. I want no fight."
"I don't fight children," the mountain Kurama assumed to be the younger brother
said. He stood solid and immovable as a boulder before wind.
Kurama began to edge to the wall on the side opposite from where he'd excused
himself from Shiori, leaving her picnicking in the park with coworkers and
family, hoping to lead them away from her.
"I do," snickered the elder brother.
"I want no quarrel," Kurama repeated. Then gasped.
It was faint, but from the way the younger's broad face cocked, and the renewed
laughter from the elder brother, they heard it too.
"Shuuichi," Shiori called, far out on the road that led onto the street and
branched into this alley. "Shuuichi!"
Kurama shifted. He couldn't fight them—he wouldn't win. He couldn't stay
here—she couldn't see this. He couldn't run—they might hurt her.
The younger Toguro, watching him closely behind a pair of designer sunglasses,
said, "Come back here tonight at four, Youko Kurama. We have things to
discuss."
Kurama squared his chin, nodded sharply, and fled the alley, brushing past them
to do it, his grass sword disappearing into his sleeve.
He caught up to her in the crowd on the main road. "Shuuichi," Shiori chided,
"where did you run off to? The cherry blossoms don't look the same without you.
We have cake!"
"Of course, Mother. Let's not linger!"
As he pulled his mother away by the wrist, he heard the laugh chasing him down
the street, and moved all the faster for it.
===============================================================================
Kurama found the alley again from above. He'd travelled over rooftops soundless
as any bandit.
They were stationary among the littered leaves and the shards of broken glass,
barely defined in dawn's grey light.
The Younger Toguro was watching him.
Kurama leapt five stories, and landed in a smooth crouch. He stood, brushing
his bangs from his eyes. Younger smiled.
"How old are you, boy?"
"The body or the soul," Kurama asked.
"Body," Elder chimed in.
Kurama drew up straight. "I am eleven years old."
"And soul?" Younger inquired.
"Youko is more than 2,000 years old."
The Younger Toguro seemed intrigued. "Are you different?"
Kurama said nothing.
The Elder swung from his brother's back like a monkey and hunched forward,
footsteps crunching in the glass. He leaned in close to Kurama's stony face,
trying to get him to flinch. Giggling to himself, he hawked for a moment and
spat on Kurama's cheek, still invasively close.
"Brother," Younger rumbled warningly. Kurama didn't move beyond using one hand
to wipe spittle from his cheek. His cautious face stayed blank.
"You said you had something to discuss," Kurama reminded. His throat hurt from
the tenseness of his muscles.
Toguro bared his teeth in a grin. "Indeed I do. What do you know of the
Apparition Gang?"
Kurama closed his eyes, adrenaline soaking his heart. "A for-hire gang of
mercenaries who operate in the ningenkai's underworld." His eyes flicked open
and he looked up, far up, into sunglasses. "Run by you, if the rumors speak
true."
"We want you to join," Elder Toguro said, craning his neck to speak directly in
his ear. He cackled at Kurama's flinch. Dawn condensation that was making the
cardboard behind the dumpster sag into mush made Kurama's skin clammy—or
perhaps that was sweat.
Elder dipped his nose into Kurama's hair and inhaled. Kurama leapt back, arms
up in a competent block, but the panic shaking him like vertigo was for
nothing: Elder was ripped back abruptly, squawking.
"If I have a choice," Kurama said, eyes flickering from one brother to the
other, arms still up in a block, "I refuse."
"You're young yet," Toguro remarked, his brother forcefully re-perched on his
shoulder. "I won't force you to come with us."
"But brother!"
"Quiet." The sun began to rise, piercing the alleyway's gloom. For a moment
Kurama was blinded. "For now, you're too young and weak to be of use, but I can
see that that'll change. If I see you again, I warn you: you won't have the
option of no."
Kurama nodded. Younger stepped back from blocking the sole entrance or exit to
the alleyway, and gestured Kurama through.
Kurama walked, every muscle hard against attack. The moment he was far enough
for pride to be assuaged, he ran.
***** The Sale of a Soul *****
Before his mother collapsed at work, years later, Kurama still believed that
nothing would induce him to seek out the brothers willingly.
Kurama still believed he was safe.
===============================================================================
The automatic door hissed as he walked through into the gilded lobby of this
Tokyo skyscraper.
The receptionist team, all attractive girls in professional attire, watched him
curiously. He'd had to steal the suit, a necessary precaution. Presentation was
important after all. He assumed that teenagers were rare in these halls, at
least in the lobby: and he himself was struck by how young he looked when he
first put the foreign clothing on, like a child playing pretend.
The fact of his human body's youth he couldn't hide, but he knew he could mask
its effects, and so he'd set about doing that.
Walking up to the receptionists' desk, feeling exposed in the glass and steel
facing of the atrium, he bowed with a charming smile and said quietly, "My name
is Shuuichi Minamino. I'd like an audience with Mr. Sakyo."
"Do you have an appointment, sir?" a girl asked with a bright lipsticked smile.
"I don't," Kurama replied honestly.
"I'm afraid to say Mr. Sakyo doesn't receive unsolicited visitors—if you'll
excuse me for a second," she finished in a rush. A tasteful phone situated in
the center of the desk had begun to ring, and all the receptionists quieted.
She picked up the phone, "Hello," she said breathlessly. "Yes, of course sir."
She listened and Kurama realized he couldn't hear the other end. Demonic energy
was layered over that particular phone, a charm to blunt noise. "I'll send him
up right away. Oh, of course. I'll let him know immediately. Thank you, sir."
She put down the phone with a click, white-faced, staring at Kurama with new-
found respect.
"Mr. Sakyo has agreed to meet with you. If you'll wait on one of those lounge
chairs by the door, someone from security will be here momentarily to take you
up to him."
Kurama bowed, the receptionist bowed, and Kurama, aware he was being watched
and likely had been all the way up the street, walked to the chairs and chose
one that had a marginally more defensible view than the others. He kept his
back to the glass fronting. The danger was inside, not out.
The waxy tan leaves of the potted peperomia plant next to his chair glittered
as he put some power into them, chasing the rot from their roots.
"Mr. Minamino," a woman's voice said. Demon, his mind immediately supplied. He
turned his gaze up casually, seeing she'd placed a human form over her own. Her
true form had blue hair and red eyes, a single horn jutting from between long
bangs. "If you'll come this way."
===============================================================================
They were riding a private elevator up to the top of the building. The demon
beside him had said nothing the entire trip, taking him silently through layers
of security you'd never guess the existence of out in the open glass lobby.
Sakyo's office was a penthouse suite, top floor.
Kurama betrayed no fear when the elevator dinged. The velvet lined door opened.
The demoness bowed him in.
"Very good, Miyuki," a voice said as he stepped out, painfully familiar though
he'd only heard it twice, three years ago in an alley.
"Do you require anything more, Lord Toguro?"
Kurama turned and looked straight into those damned sunglasses, ignoring the
grimly amused expression on the demon's face.
"That will be all."
Her clothes rustled as she bowed, and then he heard her step back into the
elevator. It closed with another ding. Kurama tore his gaze away from Toguro's
silent examination and looked over the neatly appointed room.
It was dark in a svelte, stylish way. It was curious to see such human luxury.
Kurama was used to the more antiquated demonic forms of excess.
A telephone rang from another room. There was a click, and then a man's voice
with a smooth smoker's rasp sounded.
"Yes. Yes. Do you think I care? I said the meeting was cancelled and I meant
it." A pause. "It damn well better. I don't want you to call this line again
until you have something important to say, you understand?"
The rude stranger hung up the phone, and then footsteps echoed before he walked
into the room. Good balance, Kurama noted.
Long black hair fell around his shoulders in a careful way. He was handsome,
undeniably so, with a scar tracing his cheek, from a knife or a demon's claw
Kurama couldn't be sure. He was looking down as he walked in, dipping the end
of a new cigarette into the orange flame protruding from a lighter.
The gold lighter was swung shut and the man groped to place it in an inside
pocket. He turned his eyes up, showing them to be startlingly blue, and walked
up to Kurama.
"Who is this?" he asked, looking Kurama over.
"Youko Kurama, alias Shuuichi Minamino," Toguro replied. "Demonically
possessed. He has the highest test scores in Japan. The Russian Military has
plagiarized a number of his research papers. You should be about fourteen now,
eh, boy?"
"I am," Kurama said, adding coolly, "and this is a merger, not a possession."
Sakyo, for surely this must be him, looked down at him, then smiled. He took a
drag on his cigarette. "Toguro, if you'd order us some drinks," he said, the
smoke deformed by the movements of his mouth. "Come with me," he told Kurama,
and turned and walked back towards the other rooms.
Kurama followed, eyes blank.
===============================================================================
"So, why have you come here today?"
Situated comfortably in an armchair, a finger of brandy sitting within easy
reach, Kurama cleared his throat in a vain attempt to rid it of the acrid taste
of tobacco. He kept his head turned slightly to see Younger Toguro, who leaned
against a bookshelf behind him.
"I require something you have," he said.
"Oh?"
"I have been told that you have in your possession an origin mirror."
Sakyo sipped his own brandy. "I do."
"I require its use."
Toguro spoke up, obviously confused. "That mirror is only good for divination,
boy."
"It's most commonly used for divination, but if it is truly an origin mirror,
it is imbued with the power of a God. There are many more uses for such a thing
than simple fortune-telling."
"Like healing?" Toguro guessed bluntly.
Kurama turned sharply to look at him.
Toguro smiled menacingly. "I've kept my tabs on you, Youko Kurama. Your mother
is in the hospital as we speak, is she not?"
Kurama closed his eyes, and then opened them again, examining Toguro narrowly.
"She is." He saw no recourse for it but to plead, distasteful as that was.
"Allow me to use the mirror to save the woman's life."
"And you'll, what?" Sakyo added, sounding intrigued. "What are your terms?"
"That's in your hands," Kurama said. "You know what I want; tell me what you
consider fair recompense. I don't know what it is men like you are looking
for," he added, though he knew perfectly well.
"Does he have anything I could use?" Sakyo asked Toguro. Then his lips
twitched. "Besides the obvious, that is."
"He's a skilled and cunning fighter and a master thief, according to the rumors
of his previous life." He smiled nastily at the boy. "I'll have to fight him to
make sure, but I think we can find good use for him." Kurama bowed to him,
feeling cold.
"Very good," Sakyo said, cigarette dangled from between two fingers, taking
another sip of his brandy. "I'll have to draw a contract up."
"Boy," Toguro said. "You realize you can't live dualistically in my employ."
Kurama watched him. "I won't allow you to have contact with the woman after you
come to work for me. Your ties will have to be severed."
Kurama bowed again. "I know. I knew from the start."
Sakyo called someone on intercom and Kurama was led away, glad that selling his
soul had been so quick, and nearly painless.
***** A Consortium of Crooks *****
To the greater world, Shuuichi Minamino died today. A bus accident, the body
pulled from the wreckage matched his profile and DNA, though it was horribly
burned and disfigured. It was a tragedy that rocked Japan, newscasters mourning
the death of the child prodigy.
Shiori Minamino wept for hours at his grave. She questioned the universe that
had given her her son, taken her health—and then given her her health, and
taken her son. She never knew he was watching her, weeping too, one hand
pressed to his mouth to stifle the noise.
If his eyes were red when he returned to Sakyo's compound, Toguro didn't
comment.
He'd taken nothing from his room but the things he didn't want his mother to
find, seeds and seedlings and weapons and tunics. His life as Shuuichi was
over, but his life as Kurama had just begun.
Toguro situated him in a massive chamber that was still, he was informed, a
fifth the size of Sakyo's. His new accommodations boasted pressed hotel-type
sheets and clean hotel-type furniture, the height of luxury and impersonality,
all in one.
He left his things in his new room and wandered over the manse, noting
security, placement, logistics. He climbed from the laundry rooms to the attic,
exploring. He counted the number of false chambers and secret passageways. He
mapped out escape routes.
In the basement, there was a floor he avoided entirely, a massive underground
ring of torture chambers and cells, some with chained-up demon slaves. On
another floor, the fourth, he was propositioned several times by beautiful
women with dead eyes, high class prostitutes who lived here full-time.
It was a disgusting place, Kurama decided finally, a temple to lust, perversion
and greed, and he preferred the booby-trapped woods beyond the wide, manicured
lawns. The grounds were the last place he mapped.
As he circled beyond the hedges, a well-traveled path took his interest.
Demonic energy was lashing from that direction, and he smelled blood, burning
forest, and gunpowder. A training ring, he was sure.
He followed the dirt road out of curiosity.
At first, all he could hear were the sounds of thunderous explosions. Soon,
though, as the trees thinned into burnt-out husks and the undergrowth became
ashy wrecks, he heard voices, alternatively bantering and roaring. Finally, he
came to the lip of a wide, bare bowl of dirt, all rocks and vegetation blasted
away.
Two men, one in a mask, the other in full armor, were in the midst of an
amiable, but still deadly struggle. Kurama crossed his arms and leaned his
weight on one hip, watching the laughing man in the mask gesture at the armored
demon. In moments, the armor was consumed in bombs reeking of gunpowder, the
same stench he'd smelled all the way down through here. The masked man, violet
eyes sparkling crimson with bloodlust, and the joy of a fight, circled for a
better position. He looked up at Kurama, and Kurama was surprised to see his
eyes narrow into an incredulous, invasive stare.
Just then, an armored fist blasted into his face, both Kurama and his admirer
surprised by the return of the second fighter.
"Karasu," the man in armor chided as his opponent somersaulted in mid-air and
skidded back on his splayed feet. "You're going to get yourself killed; you're
lucky I pulled that blow."
The masked man, now revealed to be Karasu, held his hand up imperiously to the
other and then prowled over the lip of the wide depression to Kurama.
Kurama realized, seeing the undisguised way Karasu's eyes started at his toes
and undressed him, dragging all the way up, that it may have been foolish to
come here.
Still, he held his ground, refusing to balk at the scrutiny.
"My, my, my," Karasu purred. "And who are you? A new whore come to watch us
fight?"
Kurama's eyes narrowed. "A whore I am not. My name is Kurama, I'm a new
contracted man of Toguro's."
In a blink, Karasu went from meters away to behind Kurama. A curious hand began
to run through his hair, petting it like a favored animal. "A fighter? Even
better. I'm Karasu, child. Say my name with respect and this will all go easier
on you. That one's Bui," he said, crouching to whisper in his ear. "He's not as
fond of pretty things as I am, so you'll forgive him if he's a little shy."
Kurama twisted, a grass blade scything from his arm in an instant and resting
next to Karasu's jugular, adrenaline beginning to pump enough that he'd begun
to sweat. "I prefer shyness to rudeness, Karasu. Get your hands out of my
hair."
"You're miles too young and weak to be any match for me, boy," Karasu cackled,
seeming not to notice the threat to his neck.
A large hand scraped over Karasu's scalp and dragged him back. "Leave him be,"
Bui growled. Karasu snarled at him, murderous intent on his face, eyes flashing
red. "You know no one may fight those newly-brought until Toguro's tested
them," Bui continued.
"I wasn't going to fight him," Karasu bleated, eyes narrowed in rage.
"Whether you fight him or he fights you, the effect is the same," Bui
responded, censorious. "I'm not earning another punishment on your behalf."
"Bastard," Karasu snorted, though it sounded almost playful.
Kurama, listening with disdain, simply turned and walked away, radiating his
lack of regard for the two fighters as he left the practice ring behind. He
would prefer to be nourished and hydrated before Toguro administered whatever
test he intended to.
Kurama was well aware that Karasu's gruesome eyes stayed on him throughout his
retreat, even after Bui dropped him and bent to pick up an axe.
This could prove to be a problem, Kurama acknowledged.
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