Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Come As You Are ❯ Why not take all of me ( Chapter 13 )

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Weiss Kreuz, Koyasu Takehito, and anyone else that actually has a lawyer they could sue me with.

“Omi?”
Ken was warm against his side, instead of a heavy weight flung on top of him like usual. He snuggled into the body, not quite ready to wake up when everything felt so nice for once. But, the damage had already been done, eyes opening of their own accord. He began moving nearly unconsciously, just stretching up to relieve a few aches that had come with what they had done last night. He looked around the room lazily, not really taking in anything until he finally noticed Ken in the doorway.
Not in the bed next to him.
Everything he had done last night suddenly came crashing down upon him as he recalled taking someone else into their bed. Ken was just staring at him in blank confusion, eyebrows furrowing together, dangerously still. Omi didn’t know how to explain the fact that there was someone else in their house, in their bedroom, whom Omi had cuddled up next to like a child and mother.
The hand brushing against his side wasn’t really as cold as it felt. Omi could feel his body freezing over, literally unable to move. He couldn’t even imagine how Ken was going to react to this, more than accustomed to the man’s sudden bouts of temper. He could be loud and frightening at times, but Omi had never felt this scared of Ken before.
“Omi, what’s going on?” Nagi asked in a soft, sleepy voice years younger than he really was. That simple sentence made Ken’s eyes narrow and fix down upon the boy next to him. Omi felt the stiffening of his body as well, the hand on his back clenching down on his skin.
“Ken, I can explain- . . .” Omi started, shrugging Nagi off quickly. There was still hope he could talk his way out of this, somehow convince Ken that they were sleeping naked together because it had been a little too hot last night . . . He didn’t need Ken’s derisive snort interrupting his thoughts to tell him how impossible it was.
“Put some clothes on,” he let out in a cool voice. Ken’s face had hardened into something that expressed no emotions at all. The lack of reaction was almost more terrifying than the violence he knew Ken to be capable of. Omi couldn’t think of any clever story to tell, not this time. He had fucked up royally, literally and figuratively. All he could do now was plead for forgiveness and hope that Ken didn’t beat them up too badly.
“Ken, I’m so sor- . . .”
“I’m not going to beat someone while they’re nude!” Ken roared it out, making both Omi and Nagi flinch back. “Put some damn clothes on!”
Omi was already out of the covers and moving over to the dresser, not caring about his own nakedness or the stains around his groin. There wasn’t anything to hide anymore, no telling what might happen if he didn’t obey Ken right now. It seemed like the right choice, mainly because nothing had been thrown at his exposed back. Omi dug out two pairs of boxers, throwing one at Nagi before pulling on his own. He could only hope Nagi had already sense how dangerous Ken was at the moment, and that speaking probably wasn’t allowed at this point. If he was clever enough, he might even be able to get Nagi out the door and focus Ken’s entire wrath on himself.
He was really expecting Ken to attack the moment he stepped into the underwear, but he just continued standing in the doorway. His breathing was getting a little bit harder, fists trembling at his sides. Omi could see a little bit of blood beading from in between Ken’s knuckles- he had already broken skin trying to control himself.
“Ken- . . .” Omi tried again, the guilt starting to grow even stronger.
“You fucking . . . slut,” Ken visibly struggled with finding the right word. It worked, stabbing through him and ripping down through the guts, just like Ken’s bugnuks used to plow into dark beasts. Omi was even worse than those damned criminals they had murdered in the name of justice. He had slept with Nagi out of desperate need, had joined Kritiker for Aya’s sake, had committed so many horrendous mistakes and errors during his life. Nothing really compared to this one. He had betrayed Ken, betrayed himself.
“I thought you were better than this,” Ken hissed out, stalking over toward Omi slowly. He had no doubt Ken was trying very hard just to keep things verbal right now. His eyebrow was beginning to twitch in an unconscious habit that signaled Ken was about to completely lose his temper.
“This is my fault, I- . . .” Nagi started, attempting to diffuse the situation. Omi didn’t even dare glance over at Nagi, knowing Ken would take it the wrong way.
“SHUT UP!” Ken yelled, spinning around to face the boy and launching in his direction. His fists were in front of his face, ready to wreak severe damage. Nagi was only halfway out of bed, one foot through the boxers as Ken threw the first punch. Nagi’s eyes widened in shock at the attack, getting an arm of his own up to shield his face.
Then, just as suddenly, Ken was flying back right the way him came. He looked like he’d run into a glass door, bouncing back and slamming heavily against the closet door. It was smashed off its running track with a loud clatter of hangers and boxes falling, a terrible crack from wood breaking, and Ken’s hard breathing underneath it all.
He sat up with shirt and hair disheveled, shaken but relative fine for having landing so poorly. Ken glared up at the perpetrator, who had finally pulled on a piece of clothing and was standing next to Omi’s side. He really wished Nagi would distance himself, shamed by their mere proximity. He had cheated on Ken last night. Done it willingly.
A little bit of blood dribbled out from Ken’s nose, catching Omi’s eyes.
“Ken!” He reacted instinctively without a thought for the current situation. All he saw was his lover bleeding. Omi was immediately making his way to Ken’s side, ready to ask if he was all right. Despite the strained state of their relationship, Omi still couldn’t stand to see Ken get hurt.
“Don’t you dare touch me!” Ken snarled out before Omi could even get across the room. He got off the floor so fast that Omi had to be impressed, even though he knew it would only mean bad things.
He was proven right as Ken shoved him hard. Omi backpedaled, trying to find his balance with flailing hands and feet. He failed, colliding into the bare warmth of Nagi’s body. Nagi grabbed him underneath the arms, hauling Omi upright with his own physical strength. It was awkward and slow, giving Ken enough time to approach.
His fist connected with the side of Omi’s jaw, making his head crack back into Nagi’s face. They both stumbled, Omi staggering off to the side with some of residual force. Nagi fell against the bed and sprawled against the mattress in a momentary daze. Omi put a hand to the spot where his skin was beginning to sting and ache, incredulous. Not once had Ken ever struck him with the intention to inflict harm. There were the occasional arguments and rough sex, but having this kind of violence unleashed on him made Omi’s mind go blank. He couldn’t move, forgot that he was supposed to breathe, just stared at Ken in the same kind of disbelief he must have felt walking in on Nagi and Omi earlier.
He could only watch as Ken started punching Nagi. He didn’t even seem to care if his fists were landing in vital spots or not, only striking the boy repetitively. The mattress gave Nagi’s body some bounce, seeming to jerk around in his struggles more than he really was. Nagi didn’t even have the chance to use his powers, could barely get his arms up to protect his face. There was the soft ‘thwack’ of Ken’s fist impacting somewhere on Nagi’s body and the little grunts produced from his victim.
Omi took one step toward them and nearly fell, his leg muscles turned to liquid jelly. He knew he had to stop Ken before he literally beat Nagi to death but he could only tremble in fear. Ken was furious- and once his temper snapped, he was capable of such awesome violence that he was an entirely different person.
“S . . . Stop,” Omi managed to get out between chattering teeth, barely audible over the struggle on the bed. The weak, pathetic sound of his own voice broke Omi out of his trance. This situation had already gone to far to be solved with words.
Omi lunged forward, catching Ken’s shoulder and hauling him back. Or, at least he had intended too. It didn’t even make Ken hesitate for a moment. Muscles surged underneath Omi’s hand, intent on pounding Nagi out of shape. He yelled out Ken’s name, trying harder to dislodge him, grabbing with both hands in a vain attempt to overpower him.
Ken’s elbow caught Omi in the side of the head, successfully stunning him. For a moment, Omi was in danger of blacking out as he fell downward. Hitting the floor provided enough of a shock to keep him aware. Ken was looking down over his shoulder at Omi, still in the same position, blood splattered along his knuckles, eyes wide and breathing ragged.
“Omi,” Ken’s voice seemed so out of place, warm and full of concern. “Are you hurt?”
Omi realized that Ken still didn’t really want to hit him, no matter how terribly Omi acted. Ken had struck once out of pure rage, unable to control himself upon first seeing him in their bed with another person. Now that he had worked out the initial violence on Nagi, Ken wouldn’t do anything to hurt him . . . at least, not physically, not willingly. The word ‘slut’ was still echoing around in his head, hitting more targets than it should have.
The guilt came back again tenfold. Despite finding him cheating with a former enemy assassin, despite him retuning to the underworld to assure Aya’s safety, despite him growing distant from so many months ago without even being aware of it . . . Ken still cared about him. Tears welled up that had nothing to with physical pain, Omi unsure if he was even allowed to cry after doing something so horrible.
Ken pushed himself off of the bed, standing back to slowly turn around and face Omi. His mouth opened like he was about to say something before he was knocked off of his feet. Ken’s head hit the floor hard, barely even having the chance to bounce back up before his body moved unnaturally fast. He hit both sides of the doorway before crashing into the hallway. Omi didn’t even get a chance to call out Ken’s name.
Nagi staggered up from the mattress with a hand outstretched, concentrating with his mental powers to push Ken away. His eyes were already red and puffy, along with a fat lip. Ken had even managed to split Nagi’s right cheek open; no doubt even worse swelling was to come. If Nagi even survived long enough for the bruising to come in.
There was another crash behind him, and Omi swirled around to see one of the framed posters of his favorite band crash down on top of Ken’s body. It wasn’t a particularly hard impact, but glass shattered and cut out small pink wakes in its path. The frame splintered and began wrapping itself around Ken’s side. Even the wood floor began to start peeling under the pressure Nagi was exerting. Ken made a choking sound as the small cuts from the glass began to open wider, finally drawing enough blood to flow freely. He was trying to struggle, obviously straining to get back up, but his hair and clothes were flat against his skin, muscles jerking in vain attempts to get free. He might as well have been stuck in an air vacuum, slowly suffocated by invisible forces that be.
“Stop it! Oh my God, Nagi, just stop!” Omi screamed, not even sure if the Lord would pay attention to their particular lot of sinners. It came out of him without thinking, anything that would keep Nagi from killing Ken. No matter how strong or pissed off Ken was, he couldn’t fight against telekinesis. All Nagi needed was a moment of hesitation to nearly murder Ken in front of Omi’s eyes. Yet another death that would be his fault.
The silence that took over the house was unnatural, almost more frightening than the loud fury of Nagi and Ken fighting. Ken wasn’t moving, just the creaking of wood settling back into place after being so badly abused. Nagi’s bangs were almost completely hiding his eyes from view as he turned on Omi, his lower face unreadable.
“But, I . . . I thought you loved me- . . .” Nagi stuttered out in confusion, his body losing all of its tension.
“I do, Nagi, I really do!” Omi tried to explain his hypocritical, contradicting, selfish feelings. He did love Nagi, wanted to take care of the boy since nobody ever done it before. Nagi needed him in a way that Ken never had.
“I thought we were special, that it didn’t matter we were enemies.”
Omi had forgotten that Nagi was an assassin first; that he was still Prodigy and killed people on a daily basis. He had gotten so swept up into the fantasy they had made last night, a small moment where nobody had to lie, pretend to be someone else, or feel a certain way. It had just been relief, pure and simple, when everyone else was betraying him.
“You gave me aspirin,” Nagi’s voice had taken on a lost and pathetic tone that would have broken even the previous Persia’s heart. Was a bottle of aspirin really all it had taken to win Nagi’s love?
“You fucked him,” Ken’s hiss cut through it all. Omi spun back around to Ken hunched on the floor, wiping at his face and only spreading more blood around. Omi could tell that it was nothing fatal, not yet- but, God, head wounds bled so easily. Especially after being forced open by telepathic powers.
“I didn’t mean to!” Omi denied reflexively, knowing full well he had. Deliberately laid hands on Nagi, coaxed him with soft promises, making the choice to use the same lubrication that he and Ken used, lying down in their bed with a different man, and making love. Fucking.
Ken pushed himself off of the floor, a little shower of glass and splintered wood falling off of his clothes and hair. He sniffed at his bloody nose, hair hiding his eyes as Ken silently rose. Omi’s gut hardened, very certain that there was going to be violence again. This time, it might actually be directed at him. He heard Nagi’s sharp inhale- anticipating the very same thing. But, Ken didn’t move toward them. He didn’t even look at them any more, just crossed over to the closet without a word.
“Ken. . .” Omi tried, frightened by this lack of response more so than the blind savagery from moments ago.
He kicked aside the broken door, making Nagi and Omi flinch together. Ken reached in, pushing aside sweaters and storage boxes with such aggression Omi was worried the other door would break as well. He kept waiting for the cursing to start, for Ken to launch into a rant that would put Aya to shame. . . for anything other than this silence.
Ken finally found what he was looking for, straightening up with an empty duffel bag in his hands.
“Ken, what are you doing?” Omi cried out, instantly filled with terror that Ken was leaving. Not that he would have any excuse to stop him. Their little family was cracking off into smaller and smaller pieces. Omi had never even considered the possibility that Ken and him could break up. Being in a relationship with Ken had become second nature, for so long that Omi had taken it for granted. He just always thought Ken would forgive him.
“Yohji wants some things,” Ken answered slowly, his voice very low. Omi knew it was a miracle he’d answered at all and not launched into another violent fit. He didn’t say anything else, pausing for a moment in the doorway.
Omi realized Ken was waiting for him to say something.
Nothing came to mind.
The shadows covering Ken’s face seemed to grow darker, and he turned away. Omi stood there in shock, unable to comprehend what was happening. The utter disgust in Ken’s eyes and cold air of betrayal kept replaying in his head. He couldn’t get it to go away even when he clenched his eyes shut.
There was the hard slam of Ken starting to go through Yohji’s things. The violent noise sent Omi down to his knees, hands slumped in between his hands. His mouth was open, lips trying to force out some kind of answer. His body was twitching, trying to react somehow when it felt like the whole world was crushing down on him. It had nothing to do with Nagi’s powers, or that he’d cheated on Ken. He just couldn’t do anything at all but start to cry.
Ken kept slamming around furniture. Omi tried to keep the tears from falling out of his eyes. He had to do something to fix things. He had to say something, do something. There was the crash of something breaking in Yohji and Aya’s room, making Omi flinch hard. He would only increase Ken’s rage by saying the wrong thing. His tears would only incite Ken to new heights of violence. He tried to choke them back, tried to stand up and go to Ken, tried to do anything besides listen to Ken throwing things around in the other bedroom.
Omi was sobbing with abandon on the floor by the time Ken walked past the door again. He didn’t even pause, but continued right down the stairs and outside. The revving of a motorcycle engine couldn’t even rouse Omi to do anything but scream aloud. Wordless, inarticulate, but full of agony. The screams coming out from him, over and over until he couldn’t hear anything else.

***

Crawford woke up face-first in a pile of sheets and pillows, merely blinking at the soft light of morning. His hand was curled up on the pillow and Crawford flexed it experimentally, studying the fingers as they responded. He shouldn’t have been so pleased with the physical motion, but after having all control ripped away from him last night he was allowed this flutter of relief. His will, his body.
Tentatively, almost slow enough to be frightened if he wasn’t an accomplished assassin and leader, he closed his eyes and felt out the battleground that was his brain. Farfarello was nothing but a satisfied, warm hum in that place where he usually stayed when he wasn’t hijacking Crawford’s body. Bradley half-wanted to wake Farfarello up and start raging at the man for having the audacity to take over last night . . . but, that would mean having to deal with the crazy Irishman. One insane foreigner pounding into him without restraint was enough.
And suddenly all that sleepy stupidity melted away as Crawford recalled the most important part of the night.
He was a flurry of motion, striking out at anything close. There was a grunt as he connected with a body, making his target apparent. He hadn’t even wiped away the sand from the corners of his eyes, but he was already tossing a human body out his bed in a violent motion that promised broken bones.
A pillow slammed into his face, stopping his blind rage in an explosion of white feathers. He wasn’t expecting such a . . . soft attack; used to bullets, knives, and the occasional telepath. He wasn’t used to being out of control.
The body he was trying so hard to push away landed on top of him, effectively pinning Crawford down in between the sheets and pillows. Bradley twisted away, desperately trying to avoid contact as the other man fitted himself against his side. Crawford realized the lack of clothing when a somewhat hard organ poked into his upper thigh.
“Guten morgen to you to,” Schuldig laughed out huskily, obviously enjoying this too much. Without his glasses, Crawford couldn’t make out the smaller, blurry details of Schuldig’s face but he was sure the man was smirking. Crawford could picture the same expression he had seen so many times before, usually splattered with fresh blood. The arrogant twist to his lips and the smug superiority in his eyes when Schuldig finished squashing out another life. Crawford couldn’t stand the fact that it was all being directed at him now.
“Get . . . off . . . ME!” Crawford ground out painfully, rather close to exploding. He saw Schuldig lean in closer, sliding a hand along flesh until it met with his neck and bringing Crawford’s face up for a kiss. They had been sexually involved, using each other for some kind of relief they couldn’t find with others, but it had always been violent and unforgiving. It had never been intimate before. There had never been this soft glow about it all, though Crawford was certain that was the morning sun coming through the window.
Schuldig leaned in closer, finally doing what Crawford had already foreseen. He was ready this time, waiting for the hand to loosen around his upper arm and Schuldig’s weight shifted entirely. A quick punch to the side of Schuldig’s skull was enough to throw the German off of him, tumbling onto the other side of the bed in a momentary stun. Schuldig had always been weak to head blows, taking a few precious seconds to right out his own mental being as well as his physical self. Farfarello had been there to cover up for Mastermind in the rare occasions someone managed to actually land a hit on him. It was easier for Crawford when he knew what was coming next.
Schuldig moaned and made a few curses in German, grabbing at the side of his head in a vain attempt to rub away the pain. Crawford used his chance to roll off the bed entirely, on his feet and heading out the door without a care for his own nudity.
Or, at least he had intended to until his legs gave out the moment he tried walking. An explosive shock started at the base of his spine and spread out along his hips, muscles and intestines hard with trauma. The intense ache contracted and stole all ability to function, making Crawford hit the rug and curl up around the hurt.
There was nothing but the duet of their pained grunting and moaning as both raced to recover first. Crawford had never been laid out before, even if was through aftereffects. He had always stood up straight, chin out and shoulders back, because he was in charge. He was a leader, and Schuldig was a subordinate. An infuriating, rebellious, unpredictable foreign shit that couldn’t be trusted as far as an inch. The power positions had always been fixed in stone, unshakable as Oracle’s command over his team. He could have never imagined that one night could turn that all around. His very world was beginning to get shaky, trembling on the verge of collapse . . .
Crawford realized that was his own body, a jerky and distant thing like Farfarello had taken over again. He used to be in control of every aspect of his life, as well as the three killers assigned to him. Farfarello had been a bad enough disturbance to his own mental balance, but the fact he could now hijack the body was utterly . . . terrifying. The lack of control was beginning to make itself obvious, stealing away his ability to recover. All he could do was lay there and try not to remember why his bowels were aching so.
“You’re so cold to me after w- . . . Hah! You’re bleeding!” Schuldig snorted from his high ground above the bed. His hand was still stuck in his hair around the blow Crawford had dealt, both the other one was pointing at him. At his ass. Crawford tentatively reached around behind himself, testing with his fingers around swollen and sore parts. He drew his hand back, recognizing the feel of sticky old blood before confirming it with his eyes. Crawford was stunned into silence, mouth gaping and eyes wide at the liquid covering his fingers. There was a yellowish tinge, remainders of the dirty cock that had been in there last night.
Schuldig started howling with laughter, not even bothering to hold it in. Usually the German would twist his lips, obviously biting his tongue in order to keep from laughing during an important meeting. He knew better than to dare find humor in anything Crawford did. At least, had learned not to say anything aloud in his presence.
“My pretty little virgin, I wasn’t that gentle, was I?” Schuldig thought himself very witty right now. Crawford regretted ever picking Mastermind up from his correctional punishment. It hadn’t been nearly enough. He growled out a choice curse, a real sentence beyond him at the moment. He couldn’t properly express the depth of his anger, not without a weapon of some sort. Something blunt and heavy so he could bash in the German’s skull and dig out that miserable brain that gave him so much trouble.
The laughter changed, hitching on a high note before suddenly breaking down into something sadder- more human. Schuldig let his hand slide down from the back of his head, cover his eyes as he hiccupped on emotion. Crawford wasn’t about to be fooled, huffing around his own shame and physical agony.
“You know, Farfarello always really liked you,” Schuldig choked out slowly, too serious for Bradley to make any comment. He doubted that statement, certain that Farfarello had only chosen to get into his head out of pure spite. He had never been anything but brutal with the Irishman, having no patience or mercy to spare. He needed people that listened and did as he said, not just giggle and murmur something about God. Bastard couldn’t even get religion right, deciding to stick around instead of going to Hell like any decent assassin would.
“When he said he was going to rip your eyeballs out and fuck the sockets, when he promised to cut your corpse up, put the pieces on shish kebabs and eat it, all of that sick shit . . . it was the only way he could say he loved you,” Schuldig whispered out, something in his voice resembling nostalgia. Mastermind and Berserk had always gotten along so well, closer than Crawford like his teammates to be. The closeness was dangerous, intimate. Something that bordered on that soft, untainted and white side of humanity- something that got people killed. Still, who else was crazy enough to stay around Schuldig, other than the officially insane member of their group? Farfarello had provided some kind of balance, a foil for the more self-destructive habits Schuldig had developed over the years At least with Farfarello, he had turned his violent behaviors on new victims instead of himself.
“Now, he gets to be stuck inside your head. Der Schwanzlutcher.”
Crawford didn’t ask for a translation. He managed to sit up, trying to lean forward and take weight off of his rear. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to make it to his feet, much less walk. He didn’t even know where he should go. Even though it was his room, Schuldig wouldn’t leave just because Crawford ordered him too. Especially not this morning.
He still had no intention of staying in the same room with his would-be rapist. As if he would give Schuldig the pleasure of even thinking of him as such. It gave him too much power. And power was something Crawford held onto quite dearly. It was how he had managed to get up to his current status in Schwarz and keep it. If anyone found out that he had been screwed by one of his peons instead of the other way around, all of that cultivated respect would crumble into dust.
“He’s in your head and you don’t even give a damn!” Schuldig snapped, emotions as even as a roller coaster. “He’s still alive! He was here last night!”
If Crawford didn’t feel the crowding of his mind where Farfarello currently occupied, he would have thought Schuldig was going crazy. Getting crazier. Whichever was more correct. As it was for now, Crawford started inching away, slight shifts taking him away from Schuldig . . . and small enough movement not to cause any further agony.
“Let him out! Let me talk to him again!” Schuldig demanded, launching up off of the bed as if he sensed Crawford’s retreat. Schuldig had never really much cared for modesty, but this was the first time he’d ever been standing over Crawford naked. The angle put Schuldig’s genitals right at eye level, forcing Crawford to stare at the cock that had been inside of him last night. It didn’t disgust him, it didn’t fill him with regret, just outrage that he had allowed it to happen.
“I can’t! He does whatever he pleases inside my head!” Crawford roared back, more raw fury coming out than he had intended. Another indication of how much his control was slipping.
“Then how come he’s not here?” Schuldig demanded with a cold voice he would use during an interrogation. The serious, rational attitude was more treacherous than the wild emotion- he was getting calculating. Assessing the situation and preparing to make a move, which would no doubt cause Bradley further angst.
“He’s quiet now because you two had fun using my body as a sex toy,” Crawford snapped back, becoming catty in his frustration.
There was a long pause that Crawford hadn’t been prepared for. Schuldig merely stood there staring down at him, one eyebrow arched up in confusion. Crawford glared right back, wishing he could walk away. If he thought his legs would hold him, he would have already left the room and this whole mess behind.
“So, you mean that he’s tired after I fucked you?” Schuldig asked slowly, without any usual hint of tawdry arrogance. He was just trying to clarify the situation inside Crawford’s head. The very one that Crawford didn’t even understand himself.
“Shut up, you miscreant! That’s not what I said at all!” Crawford shouted so loudly his voice actually broke, screeching in rage halfway through. It was enough to make him want to start banging his head against the floor, since the wall was too far away. The outburst was making Schuldig smirk down at him, the final nail in the coffin of his pride.
“Calm down, Braddy-boy. We’ll figure out something- . . .” Schuldig drawled as he lowered himself down to the floor. Crawford only eyed the man suspiciously, waiting for the serpent to stop slithering closer and finally strike. He knew better than to trust a gentle tone of voice from Schuldig.
“ . . . So, until then, let’s stick with what we know,” he finished with their faces dangerously close together. They were both silent, judging and assessing the other for threats. Crawford was desperately looking for some kind of weakness, a moment to grab the upper hand and get things back to normal. Schuldig managed to beat him to the point, kissing him deeply, locking a hand behind Crawford’s neck to keep him from pulling away. Choice was being taken away from him again, and Crawford was just too tired to care. After a cup of coffee things might be different, but for now he allowed Schuldig to think he was in charge.

***

Yohji didn’t dare sleep while he was alone in the Kritiker hospital. He wouldn’t leave Aya defenseless in this place, surrounded by employees that were looking for any chance to blackmail them back into service. He would merely lean back in the chair and close his eyes, listening to the various beeps and clicks coming from Aya’s machinery.
He got into a fight with a nurse over changing Aya’s catheter, accusing her of touching inappropriate places, being too rough, not caring about her patients. He was really just jealous that she got to be so close to Aya when Yohji was stuck on the other side of the plastic curtain. He had made a comment about it not really doing anything to keep germs out and got a fifteen-minute speech on microbes, SALs, and log reduction. The fight was a welcome distraction when all he could do was worry about Aya living or dying. Besides, it wasn’t like she could discharge him when he was sporting several stitches and bruises bones. Internal bleeding was mostly under control, except for the fact he couldn’t lie in bed and get rest like he was supposed to.
Aya didn’t need Yohji fretting over him like some sobbing high-school drama queen. Aya was a fighter, would recover just so he could give Yohji the cold shoulder. And, he’d be happy with that, anything to have Aya breathing and walking around again. Any tantrum would be worth weathering, even the flying books and broken tchotchkeys nostalgic now.
Yohji had to smirk at that, his hand resting above the bandaged new cut on his chest. The scar would cover up a small gouge he’d gotten on the left pectoral from the sharp corner of Aya’s first edition. That little splotch of white against otherwise tan skin had always been cute, because it reminded him of how bad Aya had felt after drawing blood . . . and the make-up sex that had followed. Aya had been rather eager to prove how sorry he was, putting his mouth to work on places he usually avoided.
It had only been a few hours since Ken had left, and Yohji was already starting to drown in his memories again. He shook himself awake and disengaged from the chair with a pained grunt and some audible creaking in his joints. He was getting old, hunched over and shuffling across the room slowly. All he needed was a fucking walker to push in front of him.
Yohji made it over to the edge of Aya’s protective barrier, rippling plastic distorting the view. He had to bend down to see Aya’s face in spite of wounds and aches. Very close to the floor, he could peer up at Aya’s face sticking out from the hole in the bed. The bruising and swelling was no worse than before, but it hadn’t improved yet. Yohji had seen corpses that looked better off.
Sometimes, ever so slightly, Aya’s eyes would twitch behind the lids; looking around at scenery only he could see. Yohji wondered what Aya dreamed about in this situation, when the doctor had declared him less than an eight on the Glasgow Coma Scale. Yohji wasn’t certain what it all meant, but it wasn’t like Aya to do poorly on a test. All he could do was believe it was just too soon to assess all the damage. Aya was already able to dream when he was supposed to be comatose.
Able to reassure himself that everything was going to be all right, given enough time, Yohji felt a strange rush of relief. He drew his knees up, propping his head on them at an angle so he could continue staring at Aya’s face. His hands simply rested inside the warm tunnel his body was curling into. The hospital floor should have been more disgusting, but Yohji couldn’t really find the energy to care. His eyelid tried to close on him and Yohji snapped them back open, his vision becoming blurry. He concentrated on the little oval of white, purple and green in front of him, refusing to fall asleep before Aya woke up.
He should had just admitted what a losing battle it was from the start, slumping forward into a comfortable darkness . . .

***

The blackness was tinged green, but that didn’t help the fear that surged up with the loss of his sight. The last time he’d been blindfolded hadn’t been exactly happy . . . or consensual. Not that he had any restraints on him, and he was completely dressed down to the fuzzy pair of house slippers on his feet. It still didn’t stop the dread churning in his stomach and threatening to come up his throat.
“Yohji, I’ve got to be honest, I’m not really comfortable with this,” Aya admitted slowly, putting more strength into his grip than necessary. Yohji let out a short curse at the sudden pressure on his hands but didn’t stop leading Aya forward. He was forced to take a few more shuffling steps down the hallway, his sense of space completely thrown off by the handkerchief covering his eyes.
“Well, if I could trust you to keep your eyes closed we wouldn’t need this. Do you want to ruin your surprise?” Yohji asked cheerfully, completely ignoring the way Aya tried to keep digging his heels in.
“I hate surprises,” Aya growled back, not appreciating this unexpected attack. He had finished up the morning shift at the flower shop and barely gotten his apron off before Yohji came up from behind him. If he hadn’t smelled the cigarette smoke and cologne, Yohji might have easily ended up with broken bones for pulling something so stupid. He already had enough bruises as it was from Aya’s occasional night terrors, so Yohji was allowed a few pranks during the day.
Still, the blindfold was getting to him. It didn’t matter that he was in his own home, that he trusted Yohji completely and he was fairly sure this wouldn’t result in sex. There were memories that made his skin crawl, a sense of vulnerability heightened with every uncertain step he took.
“Just a few more seconds, love. It’s in the den,” Yohji assured him with a squeeze on his hands. He picked up on Aya’s mood without even needing to ask a question, already trying to make him feel better. Aya could only sigh heavily, resigned to whatever Yohji’s surprise might be. He could deal with this discomfort for a few more seconds.
There was the sound of a door opening and Aya found himself led down the stairs. His heel caught on a step and almost tripped him, but Yohji caught his shoulder and held him until Aya found his balance. The rest of the stairs were taken much slower until Aya hit level ground, testing the surface with his toes as he expected more stairs. Yohji let go of his hand, taking a few steps away and leaving Aya stranded in the middle of the room alone.
“Yohji?” Aya questioned, the unease coming back stronger than ever. He wanted to look around and see what was going on. Were Ken and Omi in the room as well, silent and watching him stand there like an idiot?
“Only a little . . . bit more . . .” Yohji answered with a rustle of something being moved around. Aya frowned behind his blindfold, wondering what kind of surprise it could be if it still needed preparation.
“Yohji,” he said again, this time with a little irritation in his voice.
“Shit, you’re so impatient! You can look now, okay?” Yohji finally gave him permission. Aya tried not to be rushed, but he almost ripped the handkerchief instead of undoing the knot gently. He finally pulled the blindfold off his face, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. He found Yohji standing in front of him, arms spread out like a model presenting a sports car.
Or a piano.
Aya stared at the huge instrument that had appeared in the den, taking a glance back at the stairwell and wondering how the hell Yohji had managed to do this in one morning. The couch had been moved over to the other wall to make room, and a shelf had been tucked away behind the stairs in a now hard-to reach location. It made the den seem crowded and smaller, but the area around the piano was open and clear as if Yohji had the sense to make space for the music itself.
Moving and setup aside, how much had it cost?! He hated it when Yohji wasted money like this, splurging on gifts and dinners for Aya when he really wasn’t worth it. He wanted to start yelling at Yohji for being so careless about finances . . . but found himself drawn to the piano anyway.
It was a full-sized grand with a polished ebony finish, a matching seat pulled away to welcome its new owner. The lid was open, displaying the inner frame and strings like fine art. The lid even had brass cups to catch the arm instead of cheap rubber or a hole in the wood itself. The pedals were a matching polished brass, the warm gold glowing against the shiny black surface. The music rack had elegant S-curves cut out on the top, a small decoration that wasn’t excessive or looked gaudy. The keys themselves were immaculate white, as if no one had ever touched them yet. Aya’s hand was already reaching for them before he realized the body part was moving on its own.
“Yohji, this is . . . How could you . . . I mean, I haven’t even played in years,” Aya managed to work out, beginning to feel guilty. How could Yohji waste so much money on such an unnecessary gift? Aya wasn’t even sure if he could play, certain he was too out of practice. He hadn’t even felt the slightest desire to play music ever since he had joined Kritiker. He didn’t have it in him to make music any more.
“Well, you can start playing now,” Yohji suggested gently. He was still smiling, but Aya could see that there was a little bit of hurt in his eyes. Yohji had expected a different reaction; one that normal people would give when they received such an extravagant gift.
“Yohji, I can’t- . . .” Aya started, wanting Yohji to return the piano, get his money back, and spend it on someone more deserving. Yohji’s smile broke, his whole face reflecting his emotions. Disappointment.
“Can’t . . .” Aya tried again, coughing at the wounded face his lover was putting on. “Can’t say thank you enough,” he mumbled out miserably, feeling a blush beginning to heat up his cheeks. He always felt so awkward when Yohji gave him gifts, uncomfortable with the material tokens of their relationship. It made him want to give Yohji something back- but it was only out of guilt, as Yohji had pointed out several times before. Aya wasn't in the habit of presents and celebration, his birthday a dismal affair now that Yohji had told Ken and Omi. Their anniversary was even worse, not to mention Valentine’s Day, Golden Week, Festivus, No Pants Day, and all the other holidays Yohji chose to honor when it would end up with them having sex.
“Why did you get this?” Aya asked in a small voice, worried he might anger Yohji by pressing the subject. Two arms snaked around his sides and pulled him back against Yohji’s chest, clearing up any doubts Aya had without even saying anything.
“I don’t know, I’d figure I’d put on my red dress, sit on the top and sing some sultry bar tunes while you play,” Yohji suggested against the back of his head. He rubbed his groin against Aya’s buttocks, the motion so familiar he already felt a surge of excitement that usually preceded lewd actions.
“Yohji, I’m serious!” Aya snapped back. He grabbed at Yohji’s arms and started to peel them off before Yohji locked his fingers together and tightened his grip, capturing Aya against him securely. He growled at the audacity of Yohji, almost baring fangs as Yohji leaned forward to kiss him on the side of the face.
“Aya, do I really need a reason? I want to see you happy, I want to give you things, I want you to be happy when you get them," Yohji explained against his ear. He rested his chin on Aya’s shoulder, nuzzling his hair like some big dumb dog. Aya bit off a comment about Yohji being happier to give things away than Aya could ever be receiving them. It wouldn’t do to get in another petty fight when the first one about the blindfold had barely been diverted. Yohji could be so damned persuasive with his tongue when the mood took him.
“I just wish you would warn me before you decide to spend thousands of dollars on something I might not even use,” Aya tried his own logic against Yohji’s, trying to get the man to realize how superfluous his gifts could get. There was a soft snort behind him like Aya was talking about someone else entirely. Yohji’s carefree attitude could be such a pain in the ass at times, from money and clothes to alcohol and cigarettes. Even their own relationship, when Aya was forced to lie in bed past nine because his hips and lower back were sore. Not that Yohji wasn’t all too eager to give him a massage when he complained, but Aya absolutely hated it when Yohji spoiled him.
He didn’t have anything he could give back in return, though not for lack of trying. His body was tainted and scarred, but Yohji constantly told him he was beautiful. His past was wretched and dark, but Yohji would talk about a few shattered moments of his own childhood and then Aya didn’t feel so bad. All he could do was try and curb his temper, be a little more patient, and resist the urge to inflict serious violence at inappropriate times.
Even Ken had noticed him getting better, commenting that they didn’t need to replace the telephone as often as they used to because Aya had stopped slamming the headset down when the conversation frustrated him. He might still have problems dealing with the credit card companies when there was a problem with the store’s bills . . . and he had been known to slam the door on a political canvasser and a Community for Christ member or two. He didn’t do it hard enough to make pictures fall off the wall and break any more. Another little shred of evidence that he was doing his best for Yohji too.
“You don’t even want to try playing?” Yohji urged, using his whole body to make Aya face the piano again.
“Fine,” Aya sighed out heavily. Yohji finally released him, standing for a moment to make sure that Aya would start walking toward the extravagant new piece of furniture in their house. As if he even had a choice about it now. Aya took a seat at the piano while Yohji took the couch, propping his elbows up on the arm and putting his chin in his hands, gazing forward expectantly like a schoolgirl. The goofy, pleased expression he had on did nothing to soothe Aya’s suddenly tingling nerves as he adjusted the chair underneath him.
Aya tentatively put his fingers to the ivories, simply resting above the C-chord. He had to stare down without breaking concentration as Yohji almost audibly smiled wider. Yohji was more excited about the gift than Aya was. He wasn’t sure if he could even pound out a halfway decent piece when he was so out of practice. He didn’t want to disappoint Yohji, more nervous than his first recital when his father had threatened to stop the lessons if he didn’t perform spectacularly. Pleasing Yohji caused him more anxiety than his father ever could; nobody else would love him with such idiotic abandon.
Yohji made a small cough, motioning toward the piano with his head. Sighing in resignation, Aya pressed the keys with little more pressure than if a mouse ran across the board. There was an instant answer of perfect harmony, rich and pure without any twangs or hisses like his teacher’s old upright piano he kept for beginners to punish. It was better than any of the fine, expensive pianos he had dreamed of owning, back when he used to have ridiculous fantasies of his future self- a concerto, a chef, a teacher, or even a novelist. Aya couldn’t even start to get depressed like he usually did when his thoughts turned to his childhood. Not when such a beautiful instrument was in front of him. Feeling a bit more confident, Aya tried another chord and several singular notes for no other reason than to hear the sound.
It was lovely. Someone had made sure to re-tune it after the move, which made sense if the piano was as expensive as Aya suspected. What store would allow a fine product like this to fall into disrepair on its first day in a new home? Though, Aya also had to wonder what kind of store trusted that Yohji was a serious customer in ripped jeans and a tight-fitting shirt. Still, he had managed to purchase the piano and have it delivered, so Yohji’s credit was still good and nobody was going to come in demanding it returned.
Taking a deep breath, Aya started playing his first song on the piano in years. He remembered a few pieces from brutal practice sessions, not needing any sheet music to follow along with. He chose an Allegro in C because it was short and simple, perfect to warm up on. It was slowed down significantly, Aya making sure to hit every note with curled fingers and straight wrists. It became easier within the first minute as his body and muscles recalled what they used to be used for. Strange for him to be concentrating on something so hard when it didn’t involve a weapon.
By the time he reached the end, he was at a satisfactory speed again. Yohji gave a light clap from the couch which Aya didn’t even respond to. He was becoming hypnotized by the instrument, actually wanting to play it. He was now familiarized with the length of the board and even feeling a touch confident about using the pedals as well. He just had to ignore the fact he could feel Yohji’s eyes burning into his back as he began a new song.
Chopin’s Nocturne in F Minor Opus 55. He had always thought it a beautiful melody, enchanting but tinged with sadness. He had been drawn to it as a child, a precursor to his darker and more depressing adult years. He had once caused his mother to cry while playing it, moved by the music itself along with pride in her child. He wondered what Yohji’s reaction would be, since the blonde wasn’t as easily moved to tears as his mother.
Once he moved past the opening melody Aya had to close his eyes in concentration. The pressure he applied to the keys mattered as much as getting the right note. There was emotion to be expressed, flowing out through his fingertips and into the piano. It was answering back as well; responding with the same kind of sound Horowitz or Bolet would produce. His teacher had always said he had the talent . . .
Aya had to rein in his own wandering thoughts, focusing on the rapid change of chords coming up. His shoulders even started to sway with his hands, feeling the music more profoundly with every measure. He was even starting to sweat lightly, a few beads beginning to roll down the side of his cheek. Aya ignored it, along with some rebellious bangs that had fallen out of his braid, ignored everything that didn’t directly relate to what he was currently playing.
When the last notes faded out into the room, Aya had to sit there and merely enjoy himself. It was something he didn't do very often, but he was extraordinary pleased with how well he had played. He would have to get some new sheet music and start practicing more, but he hadn’t become as terrible player as he expected. Aya caught himself smiling and didn’t even bother to repress it, turning around to face Yohji-
- and got three different rounds of applause he wasn’t prepared for. Ken and Omi had sneaked in while Aya had been playing and Yohji had just stayed in the same spot. The older blonde even began wolf whistling in between excessive cheering. The three of them were enough to put a coliseum of hometown fans to shame. Aya felt a blush coming on, intensely embarrassed now that it wasn’t just one other person in the room. He quickly swiveled back around on the bench to face the piano again . . . and to hide his own reaction from his roommates.
“Aya-kun, that was wonderful!” Omi squealed over his own enthusiastic clapping. If it had come from anyone else, Aya would have suspected they were being condescending. But, Omi was just honestly that impressed.
“So, when did we become a concert hall?” Ken asked, immediately followed by a soft ‘oomph’ from Omi elbowing Ken in the ribs. Aya had to look back at that, Yohji doing nothing more than grinning from the couch while Omi smiled innocently like a Stepford wife. Ken was the only one that looked displeased, glaring around at the new setup. He was obviously depressed about having to share the space that had once been his sanctuary for soccer. During playoff season, Ken would be glued to the TV and yelling loud enough at the scores for it to reach the storefront and frighten customers.
“Come on, it’s supposed to be an entertainment room, not just a home theatre. Its about time we got something Aya-kun can enjoy too,” Omi argued, trying to coax Ken out of his little sulk. He knew just how much Aya abhorred television and regular programming. He barely tolerated the news, each station having a clear objective and biases in their reporting. The reality shows that Omi obsessed over would have Aya retreating toward the bookshelf in an effort to preserve his sanity.
“So, what, I don’t count?” Yohji demanded with a bit of miffed feelings.
“Whatever! Aya doesn’t even want you half the time,” Ken laughed, hitting a spot that was surprisingly sore. Aya did want Yohji nearly all of the time, but he didn’t know how to express it. He couldn’t do any better than feign irritation and force Yohji to do some inane chore. At least it kept them in the same room together, and with Yohji’s predictable, never-give-up-attitude, things would eventually descend into something more carnal in nature. He would give anything to have the social skills needed to demonstrate his love for Yohji, just as the older blonde regularly expressed every day. Some days more so then others.
“That’s a dirty lie and you know it,” Yohji snapped right back without any of the jovial atmosphere from seconds before. “It’s a fact that he can’t even wait for me to st- . . .”
“Will you two stop arguing about my personal preferences?” Aya cut him off coldly with help from a loud B flat. Yohji winced like Aya had actually struck him, tossing back a look with large, hurt puppy-dog eyes.
“Isn’t that thing supposed to be expensive? You sure you want to give it to Aya? He just used it to stop an argument, imagine what will happen when he starts one,” Ken shook a hand at the entire body of the piano like it was the last time anyone would see it in one piece. Aya just glared at him, refusing to rise to the bait. His self-control wasn’t so bad that he would actually damage this wonderful gift- more worried about Ken using the lid as a buffet table or bar during one of Omi and his notorious movie marathons. He would have to make some amendments to the house rules, becoming aware of future problems if he wanted to keep the piano free of stains and tarnishes.
“Aya’s a little more mature than that, Mr. I-Still-Give-Noogies,” Yohji jabbed, Ken always an easy target when it came to acting one’s age. “And, just so we’re clear, it was tens of thousands of dollars, so you better not mess around with it,” Yohji added with a wink in Aya’s direction. He no doubt meant it to be reassuring, able to guess at Aya’s thought process when it came to Ken playing around a large and delicate instrument.
“YOHJI!” The screech that came out of Aya’s mouth was barely even human. Ken and Omi only laughed as Yohji bolted for the stairs in a vain attempt to escape his wrath. Aya carefully stood up from the bench and lowered the lid on top of the keys, cast a warning glance back at Ken and Omi, and immediately gave chase.
He wasn’t about to let Yohji get away with such a present without being properly thanked- even if it might involve a small amount of physical activity and sore muscles. He smiled ferally as he caught the tail end of Yohji slamming the bathroom door but ducking into their bedroom. A silly feint that didn’t trick Aya in the least as he followed, having the sense to shut the door behind him before he pounced on Yohji and lost all sense of mind.

***

“Yohji?” Came a deep voice that wasn’t Aya’s. A hand on his shoulder that wasn’t Aya’s strong grip or long fingers. The not-Aya seemed determined of keeping Yohji from his dreams, shaking his him out of sleep. He woke up with Ken at his bedside and Aya out of sight; the beeping machinery telling Yohji that his lover was still there with him . . . was still alive.
“You wanna know why you’re not restrained right now? Because I promised the nurse if you tried to get out of bed again in the next three days, I’m gonna break your fucking legs and force your ass to stay there,” Ken promised, nothing humorous in his voice.
Yohji realized Ken was dead serious and very close to fulfilling his threat with his bare hands. Ken didn’t need tools in order to break bones. He gave a jerky nod, trying to push himself as far back into the pillows as possible. He had always been a good judge of when Ken had been pushed too far. Something had happened to Ken since leaving the hospital, something Yohji didn’t dare ask him about.
There was an awkward silence as Yohji remained quiet, not wanting to do anything that might set off Ken’s hair-trigger temper. His arms and jaw were spasming like he was getting ready for a fight, and there were a few light scratches scattered about his skin that hadn’t been there before. Even his eyes were a bit bloodshot. If it had been anyone else, Yohji would have thought they had been crying. Ken didn’t do that. He either laughed it off or utterly destroyed whatever had pissed him off, but he never just cried in helplessness.
“Why’d you wake me up? I was about to get to the good part,” Yohji tried to joke with Ken, tried to distract him from whatever was eating away at the man. His strained laugh made Ken realize just how intimidating he was being. Ken backed up a bit hesitantly, settling down in his chair and glancing sheepishly about the room . . . avoiding Aya’s bed, of course.
“You were moaning like someone was gutting you. What was the ‘good part’?” Ken questioned sullenly, obviously not interested in the answer. Something else was much more pressing on his thoughts at the minute. It wasn’t simply being pissed off about being Yohji’s gopher or the uncertain state of Aya’s health, which only left Omi. But, Omi would do anything to keep their little family together, even sell himself back out to Kritiker. Maybe it was just a bad news, and all he needed was a scrap of positive energy. Yohji wished Omi was there instead of himself, but he had to try. Ken deserved the attempt.
“Remember when I got Aya the piano? Remember how he slept past noon the next morning?” Yohji leered. The memory was something that always warmed him up no matter what the situation. Aya had been damned aggressive, determined to show Yohji how grateful he was with some good, old-fashioned sex. Aya had ridden him like some kind of animal all night long, leaving behind a bruised pelvis along with nail and bite marks between the hickies. Yohji barely had enough liquid left in his balls to go piss in the morning, taking his coffee underneath Ken and Omi’s shell-shocked stares. They had no clue how wildly affectionate Aya could be in private, but sometimes they got to hear a little bit of it.
“Well, fucking excuse me. I didn’t know I was interrupting you in your goddamn dream world of past screwing. I was trying to deal with the real problems, like your ass unconscious on the floor,” Ken snapped back, enough venom dripping from his words to make Aya jealous. Something was really wrong. Ken never tried to start arguments, he finished them. Now, he was just spewing out anything that might be remotely hurtful, lashing out at everyone and everything. Unfortunately Yohji was the only conscious person in the room, which meant he was the only target as well.
“Ken, what the hell is wrong with you? You’re copping a shitty attitude right now,” Yohji demanded, not about to take it lying down . . . metaphorically speaking, since he was confined to the bed at the moment.
“What, I’m not allowed? You and Aya and Omi can do whatever the fuck you please, but when I want to show a little emotion it’s not okay?” Ken snarled, his voice getting louder and louder. He wasn’t yelling yet; Yohji had experienced those ear-deafening roars before. Ken was truly pissed, but not at him or Aya. He had already named the culprit, but Yohji couldn’t for the life of him imagine what Omi could have possibly done to actually make Ken angry with him.
“Nobody’s done as they pleased! You can go cry in the hallway if you want to show some goddamn emotion, but don’t have a meltdown in Aya’s hospital room!” Yohji could dish it out just as good as the next guy, and he certainly wasn’t going to back down from Ken. Good old idiotic, dependable Ken, who usually needed a damn good reason to fly off into one of his tempers. He would have never guessed they’d be having it out here, now.
“There’s already been plenty of meltdowns, you shit head!” Ken screamed it, too much hurt and anger in him to make much sense. It didn’t mean he missed his target as Yohji felt a small sting of indignation. He had kept his meltdown to a hotel room he couldn’t remember entering. It shouldn’t count.
“What are you talking about?! You need to calm down, man!” Yohji cried out in frustration, unable to follow Ken’s train of thought any longer. Ken’s eyes flashed, he drew back his arm, and for one second Yohji thought Ken might actually try and hit him. He winced away instinctively, ducking his head and preparing for the worst. When Ken was like this he had no problem with beating a bedridden man senseless.
The blow Yohji was waiting for didn’t land, and he glanced up at his would-be attacker with tense muscles and a scream ready to call for help. Ken was staring at him quietly, gone completely still in the chair with an arm raised in forgotten motion.
“Yohji . . . shit,” Ken cursed and sat back down heavily with a loud exhale. His anger deflated as suddenly as it began, leaving nothing but silence in its wake. Well, as silent as it got with Aya’s monitors beeping and humming to keep him alive.
“Shit. I have to go somewhere. I need to leave for a while,” Ken declared without any inflection. Just cold resignation that life was miserable and there he was nothing he could do to change it.
“Where?” Yohji asked reflexively. He doubted that this was a quick trip for coffee or the such so Ken could have some time to cool down. This was going to be more of a permanent thing.
“I don’t know, just not here. I’ll be back soon,” Ken added on the last part a little belatedly, said only for Yohji’s benefit.
Liar.
Yohji nodded, faking understanding. He had never taken Ken for a runner. Ken stayed and fought the battle, even when he knew there was no chance of winning. Now, something had upset him so bad the only answer Ken had was retreat. Yohji didn’t even know what was going on, so he couldn’t really argue with Ken. He didn’t want to stop Ken, couldn’t muster up any more sympathy or caring, couldn’t even make a cheap joke to break the tension. Everything had already gone to the other man in the room.
Ken cursed again, much softer this time, hiding his eyes behind one big hand. Yohji noticed the red swelling on his knuckles then, two actually bloody and ripped open to raw meat. He had probably been out punching walls . . . concrete ones, because the drywall in the house had never stood up too well to Ken’s violent nature. The chair itself seemed about ready to break underneath the weight of Ken’s emotion, creaking dangerously as he shifted about. Yohji’s eyes dropped to the floor, finally noticing the duffel bag at Ken’s feet.
“Thanks for bringing me some stuff,” Yohji said softly. Ken started and looked down at the bag like he’d never seen it before. He reached for it and set it down on top of Yohji’s legs instead of his injured and bruised middle. Ken used the motion to stand up, smiling back at Yohji with nothing but remorse and misery in his eyes. Now that the bag had been delivered, Ken had completed the last favor he would ever do for a while. Until he got back from not here.
Ken awkwardly waved goodbye from the doorway before leaving, his footsteps echoing heavily in the hallway. Yohji supposed that’s what happened when it wasn’t rush hour in the hospital. Everything got so much more dramatic, enhanced by the abandoned rooms and unoccupied beds. Though nobody should even wish that the hospital be bustling with suffering victims and people waiting to die.
Yohji liked to believe Aya was the former. He just had to wait this one out like usual. Whether it was an argument or injury, Aya would recover on his own time . . . except Yohji wasn’t waiting in the hallway for the bedroom door to open and Aya grudgingly apologize for his temper. He was in this cold room that stank of medicine and disinfectant, hollow and empty now that Ken was gone. Aya wasn’t pacing on the other side of the door, but lying still and quiet without any sign of waking up. All Yohji could do was the same thing he’d done many times before- go to sleep with wetness on his cheeks and hope that it looked better in the morning.

***

When Omi finally came back to himself, he was still on the floor and staring down at his useless hands. Hands that hadn’t been able to stop Ken, hands that had cheated all along Nagi’s skin last night. Worthless, useless hands.
The logic was there for why Ken had left. Omi had betrayed him, hurt him; why would a man willingly stay in that kind of situation? That didn’t mean he could accept what had happened. Ken had walked out on him, literally. Door slamming, motor starting, leaving without a second thought. Omi deserved worse, left with nothing but a hollow end to the most significant relationship in his entire life.
“Are . . . you okay?” Nagi asked hesitantly, as if he was afraid of further violence. Omi looked up at the other boy hovering close to him, full of concern. Nagi was bleeding from the corner of his mouth, other bruises on his face beginning to swell and turn red. He would have some spectacular coloring tomorrow, but little to no scarring if he was treated properly. Nagi didn’t even seem to register the wounds, more focused on staring into Omi's eyes- looking for something that wasn’t there.
The need of someone else was more apparent; after all, Omi had only gotten one solid blow to the face. He wished Ken had been beaten him like Nagi. That way he’d have injuries to justify his pain. It was only emotion, nothing more than swollen eyes and a sore throat to prove his case. No bruises or open cuts to define their fight, just . . . nothing. What was there even left to say?
Nagi fidgeted, nervous and awkward in silence. Omi didn’t offer him any words, glancing in between his limp hands and Nagi’s slightly trembling ones. Nagi wanted to do something for him despite his own injuries. Nagi wanted to make things better. Omi had done the same thing at one point; though now it seemed very distant.
Nagi’s watery eyes and pursed lips were distraction enough. Omi could take care of someone else- it was easier to push his own feelings down and fake a smile for Nagi.
“I’m fine. We should get you bandaged up. Or maybe you’d like an ice pack?” Omi stood up and staggered immediately, his legs refusing to properly support him. Nagi jumped forward; ready to catch him with open arms- the same arms he’d fallen into last night. He could see Ken’s eyes widening, his face breaking from betrayal all over again.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Omi screamed out, frantically hitting Nagi’s wrists away. He needed to escape, to distance himself from the . . . the taint left over. It had nothing to do with Nagi and everything to do with his own weakness, his pathetic neediness. He didn’t deserve the sympathy.
Nagi’s expression smoothed over, going as cool as Aya’s hardest mask. He was hardening himself on the outside, right before the process seeped inward. And, Omi was the cause of it; only able to spread pain wherever he went.
“I’ll- I’ll go get the first-aid kit,” Omi lamely tried to cover up his outburst, desperately hoping they could forget how he had just yelled and struck Nagi. Nagi, who had done more than try to comfort him in a moment of need. Nagi was mute, his eyes drifting down to the floor and staying there.
Omi escaped awkwardly, heading into the bathroom for some band-aids and Neosporin. The long mirror reflected him mercilessly, red eyes, a swollen cheek and no one to rely on. He had cheated on Ken. Nagi probably didn’t trust him any more, not with how much he had tried denying their relationship to Ken. There was little wonder to why he was so utterly alone right now.
Omi closed his eyes, refusing to look at the mirror one more time. He grabbed the first-aid kit from underneath the sink and returned to his bedroom- the one he used to share with Ken. Now, the only occupant was sitting where Omi had left him, quiet and small in the middle of the room. Omi settled back down on the floor next to Nagi, wondering how he could go about treating the other boy when he had yelled at Nagi for touching him. He was a hypocrite, a liar, a cheat . . . Maybe he was more suited to being Persia then he’d first thought.
“Let me see how bad it is,” Omi gently asked, taking out some rubbing alcohol and cotton balls. Nagi seemed to notice the bottle first, sullenly looking at printed words on the surface. His gaze slowly drifted to Omi’s face, his expression a mixture of resignation and sadness underneath the pink swelling.
“Crawford’s going to ask how I got so messed up,” Nagi said with jaded fear in his voice. From the small bits he had heard from Nagi, Oracle was just as terrible to live with as he was to fight. A ruthlessly smooth talker, skilled enough warrior to make Aya look like a child swinging a bat instead of a sword, and apparently sadistic lord of the manor where Nagi was kept prisoner.
“Can’t you tell him Schuldig did it?” Omi asked. It seemed like a perfectly good excuse. Why couldn’t his mind have worked like this when Ken had been walking out? Maybe because Ken could read his face like a book, observant of nervous twitches that Omi had no knowledge of. He had always thought his little-kid grins tricked everyone, but Ken had been around too long to stay an idiot forever. It had worked so well in the beginning.
“That’s . . . actually a good one. But, he’s been in correctional facilities for the past few nights, so it wouldn’t work,” Nagi explained with a whisper of a smile. “He usually does it often enough. I’ve just never been in a fight with anyone else- outside of a mission, I mean,” Nagi corrected himself nervously. At least one person was still scared of being caught in a lie. Nagi was surprisingly na•ve like that, a complete child about some of the most basic facts of life. It was a different story when Nagi was being ordered around, so cool and intimidating as Prodigy.
“You got in a fight with a bunch of street punks on the way home?” Omi offered another story. He started wiping at the blood on Nagi’s face, getting the slightest of winces from the sting of medicine.
“And I didn’t make them into small pancakes before they hit me?” Nagi counted without any real heat in his voice. Omi couldn’t imagine Nagi using his powers on regular civilians, even if they had been beating him up.
“Right, the ESP thing,” Omi said with a magical wave of his hands. That got a laugh out of Nagi, if only because it was so absurd. Even though he had been the victim of telekinesis on more occasions then he cared to count, it still seemed like science fiction when spoken aloud. Writing up mission reports dealing with Schwarz were a nightmare in of itself.
Nagi’s face was finally clean of the majority of the blood, so Omi tossed the cotton ball in a corner. There was really no point in trying to be tidy when the room looked like a bull had run through it after being hit in the balls. Omi picked out a band-aid from the kit and examined Nagi’s face, trying to figure out where the worst damage was. Eventually he settled on Nagi’s split cheek, pressing the adhesive strips down on Nagi’s skin as gently as possible.
“You fell?” Omi suggested the most utterly clichŽ excuse, because nothing else came to mind. How many times had Yohji used that one, accompanied by a wink that said it was quite the opposite? They all knew how violent Aya could be when the mood struck. The real miracle was the fact that Yohji stuck around to keep on taking the abuse, like he enjoyed it. Why couldn’t Ken have that same outlook?
“Down some stairs?” Nagi continued the lie with a touch of hesitation, like he didn’t believe the answer was so simple.
“Exactly! A full flight and then hit the wall!” Omi offered. Even a hit-and-run collision was believable at this point. Between a semi-truck and Ken, there wasn’t a whole lot of difference in the damage they could do.
They laughed together at that, finding humor in such an utterly miserable situation. Omi put another band-aid across Nagi’s nose, since it seemed like it was starting to swell up as well. The rest of the scratches got a healthy glob of Neosporin. Omi wasn’t under any illusion that he could kiss it better, preferring to use up the supplies left in the first-aid kit.
“I have to go home,” Nagi announced sadly, looking away from Omi yet again. His body language was always such pitiful resignation to his life.
“You know, Nagi-ku . . . Nagi,” Omi finally called him by his name alone. After what they had done together, he deserved that much. They couldn’t really be considered friends any more, nor lovers, but Omi still felt close to Nagi all the same.
“Nagi. Whatever happens from now on . . . I can’t be responsible. Just know that what’s between us is real,” Omi tried. He had to take in account that he was now Persia. Ironic that he had to consider the possibility of ordering Nagi’s death in the near future. They were enemies, at least in front of everyone else. Only Ken knew the truth, and he’d turned away in utter disgust. Omi wished he’d done worse.
“I don’t care if we’re friends, enemies, lovers, classmates . . . I-if I’m just a way to spy on Kritiker, please, I don’t care,” Nagi rushed out, one trembling hand reaching for Omi and then freezing in mid-air. He was afraid to touch him now, and it was painful to realize he was now one of the people that hit Nagi, even though it was nothing more than an overreaction. Wasn’t he allowed that?
“Don’t . . . don’t stop talking to me. I won’t ask you to do anything, you don’t need to give me anything,” Nagi begged with watering eyes. He looked every bit of a beaten puppy, big brown liquid pools starving for affection.
“Just let me stay around. You’re the first person that was ever nice to me. I don’t care what you want for it.” Nagi’s hand finally moved again to wrap around his shoulder, squeezing tightly like Omi was a life preserver in the middle of a hurricane. He was staring straight into Omi’s eyes now, looking for some kind of answer- and preparing for the worst.
“I . . . I won't. We’re friends now, I promise,” Omi swore, moving closer to wrap his own arms around Nagi. A shudder went through Nagi’s body, the boy practically going into shock because Omi hadn’t spurned him. Ken was gone, and likely never to return. Yohji would never forgive him for returning to life they had all vowed to leave behind- that was, if Aya ever woke up. Yohji could barely be counted as a man when Aya was so grievously injured, nothing but worry, stress, and guilt with a continuous stream of cigarette smoke coming out his mouth.
Nagi was probably the only person left in the world that still saw Omi as human.
How was he supposed to refuse, when they both needed each other so desperately? There weren’t any other choices. All Omi could do was keep hugging Nagi, because as soon as he let go it would have to be all business. Persia wasn’t allowed friends.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: Autumn: I have to leave, and I'm taking my piano with me._
Peter Griffin: Noooo! Why?! Why?! She chose the piano over her insulin! You could have had both!
For some reason, that little Family Guy clip was the only thing I could think of the whole time while I was writing the piano scene. ClichŽ, tasteless, and cheesy. But, you’ve all come to expect that from me. Okay, let's run down the list: I graduated from AiPD with a BFA in graphic design, got my wisdom teeth removed, my last grandma died, and my apartment building was sold so rent suddenly increased. Other than that, I still have yet to find a full-time job, so guess what you get? A new chapter of Weiss, only a year plus late!