Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Another Heaven (Weiss Kreuz Style) ❯ Scene 1-4 ( Chapter 1 )

Name: Androgene

Website: http://www.angelfire.com/space/noir13

Email: androgene@lycos.com

Title: Another Heaven (Weiß Kreuz Style)

Summary: Yohji is a police detective and Aya is a male strip dancer. When a serial killer is on a rampage, Yohji and his partner Crawford are called in to investigate. Soon they realize that the killer is not human and his next target may just be Aya. AU fusion - YxA

Category: Drama, angst, romance (the usual)

Rating: NC-17

Warning: Yaoi!

Started: 1 Nov 2002

Completed:

Disclaimer: Weiß Kreuz belongs to Koyasu Takehito and Project Weiss. Another Heaven is a production of Omega Project Inc/Another Heaven Inc/Shochiku, and directed by Joji Iida. These film and anime do not belong to me and I make no profits from them.

Author's Notes

I swear my muse has a fascination with crossover stories. I was planning to write a nice proper WK fic, set in the nice orthodox WK universe, but nnnoooo, I got a burst of inspiration to write another WK crossover-fusion fic. My muse must be laughing her head off.

Anyway since I'm on it, I might as well write it out. We all know Weiß Kreuz universe but I believe the Japanese film 'Another Heaven' is not as well known. So here goes.

'Another Heaven' is a Japanese film, released in 2000 by Omega Projects Inc with Another Heaven Inc. Joji 'George' Iida directed the movie and its soundtrack is composed by Taro Iwashiro, who did the soundtrack to the Ruroni Kenshin movie. Another notable point is that the theme song is 'Gravity' by Luna Sea.

The movie is a blend of cop-drama with a touch of the supernatural. Basically the protagonist Detective Hayase Manabu and his partner Inspector Tobitaka Ken'ichirou are investigating a series of brutal and shocking murders in Tokyo. When they caught the criminal and thought they had put an end to the crime, another fresh spate of similar killings breaks out. At first they thought it was a copycat on the prowl but soon, they realize that the maniac is not human but a supernatural power that can shifts its spirit from person to person. Manabu catches the spirit's interest and thus began a stalking game that will eventually involves Asako - Manabu's girlfriend - who has a special psychic ability.

'Another Heaven' has a short run in the cinemas in Singapore and it took me months to find a VCD copy of it. It is a very interesting and engaging movie. And Taro Iwashiro composed very good music for it as well. I recommend the movie to anyone who is interested in Japanese films.

My fiction, more or less, follows the movie's plot, with the Weiß characters acting out the story. So it's Weiß characters in the 'Another Heaven' universe. Just to let you know who is who:

Hayase Manabu - Kudoh Yohji

Ooba Asako - Fujimiya Aya/Ran

Tobitaka Ken'ichirou - Brad Crawford

Akagi Kouzou - Bishop

Chief Inspector Sakamoto - Manx

Makuta Yuuji - Ken Hidaka

Sasamoto Mina - Asuka aka Neu

The list is still growing.

You don't really have to watch the movie to understand my fiction. I'm in the mood to make it a readable stand-alone fic.

Scene 1 - What's Cooking?

How terrible for the earth and the sea!

The Devil has come down to you,

And he is filled with rage,

As he knows that he has such little time left.

- Chapter 12, Revelation to John

It should have been just another Tokyo night - the dark starless sky tinged with city lights and the quiet symphony of a city at rest. Should have been just a quiet uneventful night, in a city where the crime rate was much lower than other countries. Should have been a night of people sleeping soundly, secured in their belief that they control their lives.

But fate had a way of slapping someone in the face when he least expected it, dumping a pile of shit in his lap as if to say 'here, deal with it. Good luck. And by the way, I'm still in charge'.

As Chief Inspector Manx looked down at the stiff sprawled in the middle of the tiny cluttered apartment, she wondered in morbid humor if the young man had cursed the capricious bitch that was fate before he died.

Outside the window, several police cars and ambulances barricaded the cheap low-rise apartment block. Through the drawn curtains, she could see the bloody flashes of police cars lights and hear the droning sounds of curious onlookers, media and other cops crawling all over the grounds.

The apartment was like any other in the densely populated city - small. It was stamped all over with the mark of a young bachelor living in clutter - from the computer with the five-point-five surround speakers and RPG books strewn across the desk, to the shelves filled with toy figurines of mecha and soldiers and a fish tank of baby jellyfishes. Other than the jellyfishes, it was a typical apartment for a typical young man. Manx, in her trademark red skirt suit, stood out in stark glaring contrast, like the rest of her colleagues treading over the place.

A loud crash jolted Manx out of her thoughts. She frowned at her newest detective sheepishly avoiding the fallen pile of CDs. "Be careful."

"Sorry," Detective junior grade Hidaka Ken apologized. "There's just too much clutter in here."

Manx sighed inwardly. For all of Ken's athletic grace, he inexplicably turned into a klutz every time he stepped into a crime scene. It was a frustrating nervous habit, one she despaired of ever getting rid from him.

"Smells good," drawled a new voice.

Manx turned to the front entrance, gifting her favorite detective a smile.

Detective Kudoh Yohji stood at the doorway, looking over the crime scene while putting on forensic gloves.

Yohji was half-Gaijin, the Caucasian blood evident in the honey-blond hair and green eyes, and the subtle chiseled angles to his sensually handsome features. He was taller than most Japanese, lanky and compact. He wore the unspoken standard attire of a police detective - somber gray three-piece suit - with a certain disheveled elegance. His tie was loosely knotted and a glaring yellow sports watch rested on a sinewy wrist. His hair was defiantly much longer than recommended length and an unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

In all the years Manx had worked with Yohji, she could never quite figure him out. Most of the times, he was a laidback paperwork-procrastinator. He hardly ever took anything seriously, was extremely sociable and friendly. Yet his singularly individualistic nature set him apart from others, that even when he was being his gregarious self, he still struck Manx as a loner.

But appearances were deceiving, Manx quickly learned during the early days of their association. Behind that lazy non-conforming surface was a sharp and observant mind, able to make leaps of intuitions to see the most crucial evidence in the least likely place. His deceptive laziness certainly caused suspects to underestimate his capabilities, much to their regret.

"The victim seems to be a good cook," Yohji noted as he went to the small kitchenette.

His keen green eyes took in the remnants of a meal interrupted in mid-preparation: bits of vegetables and a bloodstained chopping board scattered on the countertop. The small dining table was set for two, with a basket of baguettes and a small bowl of salad ready. It was a fine-dining setting with a homely touch, distinctly out of place in a cluttered young man's home.

"The landlord was the one who called us?" Yohji asked.

"Yes," Manx answered.

"He was laughing, you know. Saw him on my way up."

"He's in shock. People tend to react in strange ways in order to cope. This block is still new. When news of this murder hits the TV, no one else is going to rent this place." Manx turned her attention back to the body and continued dryly, "Frankly, I think the prospect of losing his investment is hitting him harder than the murder."

Yohji chuckled.

"Konbanwa." Two forensic personnel entered the apartment. The older man took a long practiced look at the stiff. "My, he looks relatively clean." Absently, he added, "smells good. What's cooking?"

"Stew of some kind, I think." Ken replied helpfully.

"Very distracting," Yohji remarked wryly.

"You got that right. By the way, I heard over the radio that Inspector Crawford and Bishop-sensei are on their way."

Manx arched a brow. "Bishop? No kidding?"

"No." The forensic personnel began to set up his equipment.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Yohji lifted the cover of the pot. Almost at once, he heard deep inhalations behind him and several sighs of appreciation.

"Damn, that really smells good." Ken muttered.

"I think it's pork, no, chicken stew," the forensic personnel mused.

A rather loud rumbling sound echoed through the apartment, causing everyone to break out into laughter.

"Making you hungry, isn't it, Ken?"

"Hey, I can't help it."

"Be serious, gentlemen." That was Manx's sternly delivered reprimand. "We have a stiff here."

"Sorry."

A loud crash caused Yohji to turn away from his perusal of the kitchenette.

"What did I say about being careful, Hidaka Ken?" Manx chided angrily. "You just jostled the body!"

"...It's empty."

Ken's comment was so out-of-place and stunned that it caught Yohji's attention immediately. Curious, he stepped out of the kitchenette. The cops surrounding it blocked his view of the stiff and from behind, he could not see Ken's ashen expression.

"What's 'empty'?" Manx asked impatiently.

"His head."

"Be more respectful to the dead, young man."

"No, really." The forensic personnel spoke up in a hushed and equally appalled voice. "It's really empty."

Dead silence descended.

Yohji looked over Manx's shoulder.

The top of the stiff's head was hacked open, falling away like a pot cover. Yohji and everyone else could see right into the bloody empty space inside his skull. The only problem was there shouldn't be an empty space inside the skull, since most of it was usually occupied by a certain distinctive human organ called -

"The brain. Where's the brain?" Ken asked nervously.

Almost in unison, everyone slowly turned to stare at the pot simmering merrily away on the stove.

Slowly, warily, Yohji retraced his steps to the stove. Very tentatively, he lifted the cover again and stirred the stew with the ladle. He felt a certain solid mass being pushed around by his ladle and scooped it up...

The cooked mass of a distinctive human organ emerged from the murky depths of the stew.

Scene 2 - Ain't Just A Crime

The front door burst open.

There was a frantic exodus from the apartment as everyone tried to reach the corridor before they could puke all over the crime scene. Down below, on the ground level, everyone - from the onlookers to the media and other police officers - gaped in astonishment as the city's finest fled the apartment as fast as they could.

It was a surreal, almost comical sight; one that would dominate the headlines for days to come as the media latched gleefully on this rare moment of the police losing their composure so ungracefully.

It was certainly not a sight Inspector Bradley Crawford expected to see when he arrived at the crime scene in his white Honda. Next to him, Doctor Bishop, head of the forensic department - remained unfazed.

"My, my," Bishop remarked in his genteel voice, his constant smile never wavering. "It can't be that bad."

"We'll know soon enough."

Both men got out of the car.

In terms of age and stature, they were both in their early thirties and wore their suits with impeccable style of the respectable middle class. Both were bespectacled and their hair neatly combed back. But that was the end of the similarities.

Brad Crawford was a Gaijin born and raised in Japan. Raven-haired and possessing keen intelligent brown eyes, he looked much younger than his age. But his stern poker expression and calculating nature spoke of the years of experience under his belt. Crawford's favored color was white and his youthful profession as an amateur boxer left him with a broad powerfully built body.

Bishop, on the other hand, was slim and compact. His hair and eyes were a strange darkish-green color and his suit was a subdued brown. Unlike Crawford, Bishop possessed an easy smile, a genteel and cultured softness that belied a cool-headed detachment when it came to his work.

Crawford caught hold of Ken. "Well?"

Ken, green-faced and obviously quite traumatized, was too busy emptying his stomach's contents in the bushes to answer.

Both older men looked at each other, shrugged and proceeded to make their way to the crime scene. Crawford discreetly sniffed the air and wondered who was the exceptionally good cook. On their way up the stairs, they met Yohji who was the last to leave the crime scene. He, though ashen-looking, was at least calmly making his way down the stairs in a dignified manner.

"What happened?" Bishop asked.

"..."

"That smells good," Crawford commented.

Yohji stared at him and finally gave in to the urge. "Awful." Abandoning dignity, the blond stumbled down the last few steps to puke in the bushes next to Ken.

"What's up with them?" Crawford wondered.

"You know what was the most awful thing I came across in the years of my career?" Bishop said conversationally as both older men continued on to the crime scene.

"What?"

"A poor stiff with his penis stuffed in his mouth."

"That's gross, Bishop."

"Yes, well, it was his lover's idea of revenge. He was caught giving a blowjob, you see."

"Any woman will flip out if they discover their spouse's gay."

"His lover was a he, actually."

"So what's your point?"

"Point? I'm just reminiscing."

"..."

"I haven't really found anything to top that," Bishop sighed nostalgically.

"Morbid hentai."

* * *

Across the city, in a small tiny apartment, a pair of violet eyes suddenly opened.

He stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom; sleep chased away and wondered what had woken him so abruptly. Uneasy, he sat up and looked out of his window.

A premonition crept over him; he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something very bad was on the prowl.

* * *

With fingers only slightly shaky, Yohji lit up his cigarette and took a deep inhale. After that awful discovery in the apartment, he badly needed the smell of nicotine to chase away the stew's fragrance. Yohji rested against the side of Crawford's car and smoked his way through two cigarettes before he felt composed enough to even think about the investigation.

He had been with the homicide department for five years and he had, in the course of his career, seen a lot of brutal crimes. But what he saw tonight took the cake. It wasn't just premeditated murder; the fact that the murderer had taken the extra time and effort to painstakingly prepare the meal using the man's brain...

It was just plain diabolical. Malicious even.

Yohji wondered who the murderer could be.

The cold methodical nature of the murder, the delicate care and precision in the dining setting, the skill of the cook and let's not forget the strength required to hack open the man's skull... Something just didn't quite add up.

"The murderer is quite a skillful cook."

Yohji gave Crawford a dirty look as the two veteran cops joined him.

"Must be a male," Crawford continued nonplussed by what he saw. "Probably about 60 kg and possess lots of upper-body strength."

"I agree. The hacking job was remarkably clean," Bishop mused, equally blasé about the crime. "Only a big man, used to the physical job of chopping, could do that. My guess is he's probably a butcher."

"Inspector," Ken came up to them, still looking rather queasy. "We might have a suspect. Some of the cops are interviewing the deceased's next-door neighbor. He's a butcher by profession."

Bishop simply smiled, bingo!

"Good job." Crawford gave Ken a long look. "Still shaken, Hidaka?"

Ken gulped. "No, sir."

Crawford leaned forward and whispered sotto voce into Ken's ear, "it tastes like cheese."

Ken stared at him, horrified, turned green and bolted for the bushes again.

"It's not funny," Yohji responded flatly. Ken definitely had his sympathy vote.

Crawford just shrugged. Other than the amused glint in his eyes, his expression remained stern. "What about you, Kudoh? What do you think?"

Yohji straightened, tossing his cigarette onto the ground and rubbed it out beneath his shoe. "I don't know what to think. Too conflicting." He tucked his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the car, looking up at the night sky contemplatively. "Feels schizo to me, the crime that is."

The barest of a frown touched Crawford's brows. "What do you -?"

"He's escaping!"

The far-off shout caught everyone's attention.

"Stop him! Quick!"

Yohji wasted no time in joining the chase, his police-honed instincts kicking into play. He saw from the corner of his eye Crawford matching his speed and was aware that Bishop had chosen to stay behind instead. That was fine with him. Bishop's profession did not require him to be able to run twenty-block races after criminals.

Racing around the corner of the building, he saw a group of his fellow colleagues attempting to restrain a big man screaming and struggling to break free. At his first glance, Yohji had to admit the man fit the possible profile of the murderer.

"I'm not the murderer!" the big man was screaming. "Let me go!"

With a vigorous shake, the big man tossed off the policemen. A giveaway clue, Yohji noted immediately. Maybe he was the murderer after all.

Gamely, Yohji pounced on him and was quickly shaken off as well; his lanky and lighter frame no match for the big man's vigor. Crawford smoothly stepped in and landed a hard roundhouse across the big man's face, disorienting him enough for both of them to try to subdue him again.

"Let me go! Let me go!" the big man kept shouting. "I'm not the man you're looking for!"

Desperately he broke free and fled down the road behind the apartment block. The cops gave chase and finally, Yohji and Crawford managed to tackle him and pinned the struggling man to the ground.

"If you're innocent, why the hell did you run?" Yohji demanded to know.

"I heard what the cops were saying, that they were looking for a big strong man, a butcher, who can make good stew." The man babbled. "I'm a butcher and I also make stew! They say my stew is very good. How the hell do you expect me not to run?!"

With a mighty effort, the big man threw both men off him again and stumbled to his feet. In his haste and fear, he tripped and landed hard against the surface of a car - and inexplicably froze.

Yohji blinked. His puzzled gaze turned to what the man was staring at - his palm coated with a thick layer of blood.

Almost like an afterthought, a bloodied pulverized body slid down, in a pool of slippery blood and gore, the windscreen of the car in front of the big man.

Yohji stared, ignoring the hysterical big man retreating into the arms of the police, at the horribly mangled and shattered body sprawled before his eyes. Just when he thought it couldn't possibly get worse, it did.

Fate's way of saying, 'I'm still in charge, so deal with it'.

What a hell of a wake-up call.

Scene 3 - The Bodies Pile Up

Five murders.

In the space of five days, they had five such murders on their hands.

They were dealing with a fucking serial killer, one that specialized in cooking delicious dinners with the brains of his victims. One who killed savagely but prepared the damned meals with gourmet skills. One who was causing hysteria in the media, the public, just about everybody who lived in Tokyo.

Experts were invited on talk shows to give opinions. Such brutal crimes had never been experienced before in the collective memory of Tokyo and everyone wanted to know what went wrong and who was responsible. Fingers pointed at popular cultures, blame placed at the feet of violence-saturated entertainment etc.

The hysterical public wanted to know what the police were doing. The Prime Minister himself was breathing down Commissioner Takatori Shuuichi's neck, and the investigation squad spearheaded by Yohji and Crawford was under great pressure to find the murderer.

It was not a position Yohji wanted to be in. He was not, repeat, not the leader-type. But being such a good detective, he had little choice but to accept the position when the investigations started. Good thing Crawford was assigned as his temporary partner for the case; the man's cool objectiveness remained unfazed by the stress of handling such a high-profile crime.

"According to the psychologist's profile," Crawford was saying as he, Yohji, Bishop and Ken left the briefing room for their squad room, "The murderer probably has acute feelings of inadequacy, harbor great resentment and anger towards the society, and gets a kick out of being the one in charge, and making a fool of the authorities."

Yohji rolled his eyes behind his shades. "That described the last two murderers we caught. Don't we have anything more concrete than that?"

"Personally, I'll eliminate the inadequacy, anger and resentment part." Crawford adjusted his spectacles. "I think the murderer gets a malicious joy from carrying out his deeds."

"You sense that too, huh?" Yohji said.

"I don't get it," Ken confessed.

"The bodies are too clean and undamaged for a supposedly vicious hacking job," Yohji elaborated. "Despite the strength involved, the blows are too precise. Plus it takes time and patience to cook those meals."

"We also know one other thing," Bishop said. "This serial killer has a fetish for the human brain."

"Which doesn't really help us. It's not as though there's supermarkets selling human brains which we can stakeout," Yohji replied dryly. He shook his head. "The entire profile by the psychologist is way off the mark."

"So what do we really know about the murderer?" Ken asked.

"Nothing. In the first place, the evidence does not even agree on whether the murderer is male or female." Yohji began to tick off the points on his fingers. "Firstly, the fingerprints are too small to even belong to a medium-build man. We're talking about dainty female hands. Autopsies discovered three of the victims recently had sex before they died, which would suggest a woman killer.

"But a woman can't possess the kind of physical strength needed to break a resisting man's neck and hack open his skull. Think about it. The crimes require a cool-headed person subduing a struggling man. A woman in that position won't be able to pin down the victim. She would need some kind of emotional drive - anger or fear. If it were anger, the man would be hacked to death, not by the simple efficiency of breaking neck. So in that aspect, we're looking for a man. Big, strong and has an intimate knowledge of human anatomy in order to break the victims' necks."

"And a skillful cook as well," Crawford added.

"If only the fingerprints were not blurred," Yohji remarked. "It would make determining his identity a lot easier."

"Maybe we're going about this the wrong way," Bishop suggested. "Maybe we should be looking for two persons instead."

"Maybe," Crawford mused. "Three of them did had sex before they died. Maybe the woman was an accomplice, a tactic of making them let their guard down so the man could strike."

"But it doesn't explain why only three of them had sex," Yohji pointed out. "Why not all five of them?"

"Well, did they have sex willingly or unwillingly?" Bishop asked calmly.

"Come again?"

"The victim may not necessarily be a willing party," Bishop pointed out. "The woman might have forced herself on the unwilling and frightened victim instead."

Everyone stopped and looked at him.

"What?"

"How can a woman rape a man?" Ken asked with a faint blush. "Without a certain...you know what."

"Haven't you heard of non-consensual sex? Arousal is a purely biological response. Doesn't really obey one's conscious will."

Everyone went, "..."

"You know something, Bishop?" Yohji said at last. "You need a life."

"Yes, well...I am due for retirement in ten years' time," Bishop replied with wistful longing.

Yohji snorted, "I'm talking about a nice long vacation soon." Without thinking, he took out a cigarette and his lighter.

"No smoking in the building," Crawford reminded him.

Yohji ignored him. He was in the habit of breaking that rule constantly every day. He was about to light his cigarette when he caught sight of someone entering the police HQ. He stopped and couldn't help but stare.

The young woman was dressed fashionably in a pants suit with a vest instead of a jacket and a beret perched at a jaunty angle on her short-cropped hair. Her style bordered on androgyny and she carried it off with a gung-ho confidence that was simply arresting. She was pretty in a spunky manner with a beauty mark under her left eye. Her dark eyes sparkled with humor and she smiled brilliantly at Yohji as she walked past the group of men without saying a word.

"Who was that?" Ken asked, interested gaze trailing after the woman.

"Murase Asuka-sensei," Crawford replied. "Nicknamed 'Neu' by her staff. She works at the police hospital."

Bishop arched a brow in surprise. "She's a doctor?"

"She was looking at us," Ken stated somewhat dreamily.

"She was looking at Yohji," Crawford corrected. "And he was looking back at her."

"Some guys have all the luck," Ken remarked. "At least she's a much better candidate than - what's his name? That male strip dancer?"

"Fujimiya," Crawford volunteered the information.

"Oi," Yohji protested, "my bisexuality is my business, thank you very much."

"Yohji! Crawford!"

They all turned at the loud strident call to see Manx hastening towards them, a rather stressed out look on her face.

"Another one just came in," she began with no preamble.

"Shit," Yohji swore. "What kind of food this time?"

Manx grimaced in revulsion. "Spaghetti Neapolitan sauce."

"Kuso!" Ken uttered the expletive with dismayed horror. "That's my favorite dish!"

Scene 4 - Still Waters Run Deep

Yohji bolted straight up in bed, gasping for breath and his heart pounding so hard that it felt like it would burst. His body and hair was damp with sweat, making his shirt stick uncomfortably to his back. Green eyes blinked, the dazed panic fading away to be replaced by a bleary awareness. With a sigh of relief, he sat at the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

It was just a nightmare, a rather vivid one but a nightmare nonetheless. The details of it were fading fast but he could still vaguely recall a feeling of pure malice and cruel joy, as though he was the murderer carrying out the killings.

The case was finally getting to him, he admitted with a weary ruefulness. Without looking, he pushed the files he had fallen asleep on away from him. He could do without those photos for a night.

Yohji suddenly froze, the realization that he was not alone dawning belatedly on him. Warily, he turned around.

Seated beneath the window, with his legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles, and the rest of the investigation files scattered about him, was the last person Yohji had expected to find in his apartment.

Fujimiya Aya gazed calmly back at him, with that closed-up icy aloofness that never failed to snare Yohji's attention.

Aya was a natural redhead, odd as that might seem for a pure Japanese. The crimson silk of his hair contrasted sharply with the pale alabaster skin, and his eyes were a strange compelling violet. Aya's body was well toned but slender. The one time Aya was in drag, he fooled Yohji completely. He was also much younger than Yohji was but you couldn't see that from his eyes. Those cynical violet orbs spoke of a hard life on the streets and despite the vibrant color, were dark and brooding.

Altogether, Aya was a strangely, uniquely beautiful young man. The current body-hugging sleeveless high-collared black pullover and tight leather pants only accentuated his lithe sexy figure, while the black fingerless gloves that ran up to his biceps gave him a somewhat effeminate but dangerous allure. The single piece of jewelry he wore was a slim golden earring dangling from an ear.

"What are you doing here?" Yohji asked when he managed to find his voice.

"I was in the neighborhood," Aya replied in the icy monotone that was customary for him.

Yohji didn't believe that for a second. He glanced at his front door and back at the redhead. "How the hell did you get in?"

"Your front door was unlocked. Very careless, especially for a cop."

Yohji sighed and ran a hand through his hair again. "I thought I never see you again."

"Really?"

"Your case was closed a long time ago."

"I know." Aya idly leafed through the case document he was reading. "I helped you to put that man away and you helped me to break free from him. That should be enough."

And it should be enough.

Yohji remembered with absolute clarity the first time he met the sensual yet icy enigma named Aya. It was on a homicide case and Yohji needed an 'in' to get close to the suspect who owned the strip joint. The redhead was the most popular dancer in the joint and when Yohji saw him performed on the stage, he understood why.

He, who prided himself on his jaded worldliness, had been completely spellbound by the siren sensuality of the dancer. The odd but alluring juxtapose of cool aloofness and beguiling come-hither snared him as effectively as a lasso. In a fashion only he could possess, Aya was a contradictory, irresistible blend of fire and ice. And he set any man's blood, who watched him dance, to boil.

When Yohji approached him after his performance, in order to solicit his help in catching the murderer, Aya hadn't wanted to help, suspicious and wary of the handsome blond detective. Yohji couldn't recall spending so much time and effort on his dates than trying to persuade Aya to change his mind. It had been tough because he was suppressing his desire for the redhead siren at the same time.

Aya knew though - how could he not? He had been a strip dancer and 'selling his favor' since fifteen. He recognized lust when he saw it and life had taught him that people could not be trusted, especially a cop trying to get close to someone like him. But Aya's efforts to prove Yohji wrong in his sincerity backfired when the blond detective turned down his advances - firmly but politely - several times despite his obvious desire.

That finally convinced Aya of Yohji's sincerity and he helped the detective to put away his boss who had murdered a female strip dancer. It was a mutually beneficial agreement anyway, since his boss did not treat his dancers well.

Even after the case had been solved, Yohji's desire was still there, simmering and held in check. He knew they should have distanced themselves from each other after the case had closed, but for some reasons, their paths kept crossing in the later months. Infrequent, unexpected and completely unplanned, but once they met, they ended up spending time together. Not having sex, oddly enough, but doing innocent activities like strolling, eating and talking. Yohji found Aya's cynical direct nature very refreshing.

Yohji could have sworn that Aya felt something for him on those occasions. It was hard to tell with that closed-off expression; he couldn't be sure. However Yohji was content to let it rest, well aware that he was already treading dangerous and uncertain grounds for a detective of his status.

He rued the day it ended so awkwardly between them. Yohji never knew who initiated the first move. Probably it was mutual; they had been so drunk when they slept together. But when they woke the next morning, neither of them was prepared to face the consequences and they parted in embarrassment.

Yohji thought he would never see Aya again. Obviously not.

"The murderer is a woman."

Yohji blinked, the odd statement baffling him for a moment. Then he saw the case file in Aya's hands. "What makes you think it's a woman?"

"The food."

"Most chefs are men," Yohji pointed out. He got up and went over to Aya's side, taking the case files from him. "These are not for civilians' eyes."

Aya easily relinquished the files. "No men cook this type of meal. Women do."

"And you would know because...?"

"My sister," Aya replied simply.

Yohji winced. He had forgotten how touchy Aya could be at times on the subject of his deceased imouto. "Sorry."

"Daijoubu."

Silence descended.

Yohji tossed the case files onto the dining table and went to the fridge to search for a bottle of mineral water. He took a deep drink, thinking about what Aya said. "Okay, let's say you're right. But there's no way a woman can break a man's neck and hack open his skull. She's not strong enough."

"She can if she's superhuman," Aya answered as he stepped into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest.

Yohji glanced incredulously at him. "This is not a joke, Aya."

"I'm not joking."

"There's no such thing as superhuman."

Aya shrugged. "I only know what I know."

Yohji sighed in exasperation.

"Let me help you find her."

"How are you going to help me? That is, if I do accept your help."

To Yohji's surprise, the brooding violet gaze slid away and suddenly seemed to find his floor extremely interesting. It was a gesture of nervousness Yohji never thought he would see coming from the icy redhead.

"I have a special ability. I can tell what people are feeling."

"Nani?"

"I'm not lying, Yohji."

And he was not, Yohji quickly realized. Aya was dead serious and absolutely believed in what he said. The redhead also knew how outlandish his claim was and was inviting derision from Yohji. It was a brave thing to do, for someone as closely guarded as Aya, and an odd belief for the cynical man to hold.

Yohji went over to Aya's side and placed a hand on the smooth curve of a bared pale shoulder. His other hand gently tipped the delicate chin up to meet the violet gaze. "I don't think you're a liar."

"But you don't believe me either," Aya stated.

"Well, it is a bit farfetched," Yohji admitted.

Aya glared at him.

"Try looking at it from my point-of-view."

"Hn," Aya grudgingly ceded his reason.

Yohji smiled at the disgruntled redhead. "You know, it never cease to puzzle me how someone so thorny could be so popular with his customers."

If looks could kill, Yohji would be dead right now.

"Sorry," Yohji chuckled. He just couldn't help teasing the redhead. "But seriously, this is a police case. Thank you for your offer but I can't involve civilians, you understand that."

"Yes," Aya replied reluctantly.

Yohji suddenly realized he was touching Aya and his thumb was rubbing the smooth contour of Aya's chin. Self-consciously, he let go of the redhead and stepped back. "You better go home," he said awkwardly. "I'm really tired."

Mentally, he kicked himself for that lame excuse. Sure, he was tired but couldn't his fatigued mind come up with something better?

Without a change in his closed-off expression, Aya stepped out of the kitchen. "Let me get my jacket."

With a soundless fluid grace, Aya crossed over to the window where he had sat, waiting patiently for Yohji to wake from his sleep. He bent to pick up his black duster, pausing when his gaze fell on the crime photo that had fallen from its file. A slight frown creased between his brows as he picked up the photo. "Ne, I really think a woman did this."

His frown grew deeper when he heard no reply. Turning, he blinked in surprise when he saw the slumped figure of Yohji on the floor leaning against his bed. From the angle his head was tipped over, it was clear that Yohji was asleep. Dropping the photo, Aya padded around the bed to get a better look at the detective.

"He must be really tired," he muttered under his breath.

Aya stared at Yohji thoughtfully, eyes hooded and brooding as he took in the unlikely blond who had entered his life so unexpectedly. With a sudden decisive move, Aya tossed his duster over the armchair and went over to Yohji. He carefully lowered himself over Yohji's stretched out legs; hands braced against the side of the bed, and stealthily straddled the sleeping blond.

Yohji did not stir. Smirking, Aya leaned forward and kissed him.

Aya felt Yohji's start of surprise as he woke abruptly and increased the pressure of his kiss, shifting along Yohji's thighs until their groins were pressed intimately together. The redhead wrapped his arms around Yohji's shoulders, his tongue darting out to coax Yohji's mouth to open.

A muffled sound of protest escaped Yohji. Both his hands rose involuntarily to grasp Aya's head. With a gasp, he tugged the redhead away, breaking the kiss. "What the hell was that about?" he gasped out.

"Do you have to ask?" Aya attempted to reach for him again.

Yohji firmly restrained him back. "What brought this on?"

"Nothing," Aya shrugged.

The blond did not believe him. He gave Aya a searching look, trying to figure out what was going through the redhead's mind. Aya leaned in to kiss him again but Yohji pushed him back.

"Yohji," Aya huffed irritably. "Most people would kill to have me for free."

"Well, I'm not like most people." Yohji pointed out. "I don't want a repeat of the last time."

Something flashed within the depths of Aya's violet eyes, gone too quickly for Yohji to discern. A pale hand in fingerless glove reached up and caressed a tanned chiseled cheek. "It won't happen again."

"We shouldn't be doing this. I'm a cop and you're a strip dancer."

Aya smirked, a challenging look in his eyes. "Since when did societal differences ever stop you?"

He let go of Yohji, sitting back to run his fingers across the narrow break between his black top and pants, tracing his pale navel that peeked out tantalizingly. His smirk grew wider as he felt Yohji's cock hardening against his inner thigh.

"I know you want me," he purred. "And I want you too. You have no idea how rare it is for me to want somebody."

"Oh I think I'm beginning to have an inkling," Yohji growled heatedly.

He wrapped his arms around Aya's narrow waist and back and roughly pulled him close for a devouring kiss. Aya went along willingly, hands clinging to Yohji's shoulders, as he opened his mouth to the domineering tongue demanding entrance. The redhead melted against Yohji, all soft and pliant, as the detective thoroughly plundered the warm depths of his mouth. A muffled moan escaped Aya, hips hitching upwards in response to Yohji's hands cupping and fondling the twin melons of his bum.

Those hands never stopped caressing his trim lithe body, pushing his black top up, baring his pale, slender but well-defined torso. Aya threw his head back, a startled gasp leaving his kiss-bruised mouth as fingers grazed across his pink nipples. He tightened his hold on Yohji's head, fingers threading through the soft silky hair, moaning ceaselessly now to the exquisite pleasure of Yohji's nibbling kisses on his sensitive neck. He arched up, pushing his chest against those skillful hands playing and tweaking his nipples. It was so good; it was not enough. He needed to feel bare skin on skin. Aya pulled off his top and tossed it aside, and reached for Yohji's shirt, struggling to unbutton it with trembling fingers.

To his consternation, Yohji pulled his hands away. "Not yet, sweetie."

Aya glared at him, passion not blunting the sharpness of his expression. "Don't call me that."

Yohji simply smirked and lowered his head to take a peaked nipple into his mouth, drawing a loud sharp cry from Aya. His glare dissolved into slack-faced pleasure, head flung back as the detective suckled the hard nub of flesh, working at it with teeth and tongue, even as his other hand tweaked and pinched its twin.

Green eyes glittered with lust and pleasure as Yohji watched the redhead writhing on his lap. God, Aya was so hot, so beguiling when he lost himself in his pleasure. It made his desire surged even higher. All thoughts of consequences disappeared; all he wanted to do now is take the redhead, claim Aya as his.

Even if it was for just one night.

Yohji turned his attention to Aya's other nipple, playing with it while his fingers worked open the black leather pants. Hand delving in, he fondled the erection trapped within, pleased when Aya involuntarily ground his cock against his hand. Pushing down the pants, Yohji freed Aya's rather impressive erection and fisted it. While his other hand cupped the pale round bottom, lifting Aya to his knees, and explored the redhead's sweet crack.

Aya moaned, face flushed and violet eyes dark and glazed with passion. His hips thrust against the wonderful pressure surrounding his cock. He couldn't help but spread his legs wider; one hand reaching down behind to unerringly guide Yohji's caressing fingers to his pucker. He cupped Yohji's face, turning it up to face him, and kissed him hungrily again. A choked cry escaped him and was swallowed by the blond as he felt a finger pushed past the tight ring of muscles to the first knuckle. Suddenly he felt a sensation of being lowered. Then he was lying on the floor, Yohji tugging off his pants, leaving him naked save for the black fingerless gloves he still wore.

Aya sprawled wantonly on the floor, legs apart at either side of the kneeling Yohji watching him with green eyes sharp with lust and excitement. He shivered, feeling himself grew harder as the detective's heated gaze raked him over. His pink tongue darted out to lick his upper lip, violet eyes heavily lidded with desire. Slowly, he drew up one leg, exposing all to the detective's view.

Yohji watched avidly as Aya's gloved hand reached for his pale weeping cock and caught the clear drop of precum with his fingers. Then, tantalizingly slow, Aya languidly brought his fingers to his pouting lips and delicately licked them clean. Thickly lashed eyelids fluttered but Aya never removed his smoky gaze from Yohji's face. Very slowly he pulled his finger from his mouth, and he arched a fine red brow provocatively.

"Well?" he drawled huskily. "Are you going to stare all night?"

Yohji grinned, a feral grin of lust. "Hell, no."

* * *

It was a long while before they were finally sated, having moved their lovemaking from the floor to the bed. The scents of sex and sweat hung heavily in the air while their heavy breathing was loud in the silence, as they sought to regain their strength in the aftermath.

When Yohji felt he could finally move, he lifted himself off the smaller man, feeling a twinge of regret and loss as his spent cock slipped out from Aya's tight welcoming warmth. Grimacing slightly, he took off the used condom and negligently tossed it over the edge of his bed. He would clean that up in the morning.

Lying next to the redhead, with his leg still nestled between Aya's thighs, Yohji propped his head up on a hand to look down at his bed partner. He couldn't help but smile, feeling a rush of proprietary satisfaction, when he spied the vivid red mark against the pale curve of Aya's neck.

"You look like the cat who got the cream," Aya observed languidly.

"Do I?" Lazily, Yohji reached up and gently stroked the love bite.

Aya arched ever so slightly to his touch, a faint but sated smile on his kiss-bruised lips. He sighed heavily as Yohji's fingers traced along his collarbone and down his pectorals, finally resting on his flat cum-stained tummy, Yohji's wrist grazing his limp cock. His eyes closed momentarily when Yohji pressed a gentle kiss to the hollow in his collarbone.

"Is this just a one-night stand?" Yohji asked quietly.

"Do you want it to be just that?"

Green eyes, soft but somber, gazed intently at him. "I don't understand you, Aya. You don't say what's on your mind most of the time and you're damned hard to read."

Aya kept quiet.

Yohji sighed and lowered his head to the pillow, giving up on trying to figure out the enigmatic redhead. His arm moved to curl around Aya's narrow waist, cuddling the redhead close. Aya rested his head against Yohji's shoulder, relaxing now that the tense moment had passed.

"Aya?"

"Mmm?"

"You know I don't love you, right?"

Pressed against his shoulder, Yohji could not see Aya's oddly unsurprised and calm expression. "Yes, I know."