Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Fallen ❯ One-Shot

Author's Notes: A dark, twisted thing that has been sitting on my hard drive for months. Don't lynch me, please? Warnings for supreme angst and depression.

I
Damaged

"It's said that life is nothing more than all the important moments of your life strung together, pieced together bit by bit to form a tapestry of minutes, meaningless minutes... that in the end mean everything."

"You think so?"

"I know it."

My life... is nothing more than those few moments.

I remember those moments. Everything else fades away and blurs into obscurity, but those moments I remember.

That time with him...

"Those moments of my life revolve around one person. One person..."

... were the best moments of my life.

He stripped the bugnuks from his hands, expression twisting into disgust as the blood dripping from them stained his palms and fingers. His hands went immediately to his sides, making a movement as though to wipe his bloodied palms on his jeans. He stopped and held his arms out uselessly at his sides. People who claimed that blood stains were impossible to remove from clothing never had the inclination to try. But it was still a pain in the ass to do.

"Here."

A wetted cloth came hurtling toward his head. He caught it one-handed and looked up. Youji stood at the kitchen sink of the four bedroom apartment they shared with Aya and Omi above the flower shop. He had not been wounded badly. His arm had caught on a piece of wire fence as they were leaving the warehouse and sliced open the flesh. It was not a very heroic wound, he had claimed with a laugh as they came back to the flower shop. He said he would have to make up some flamboyant story to tell the girls to endear him to their sensitivity.

"It doesn't look so bad," Ken murmured, eyeing the injury.

He wiped his hands clean of the blood, ran the cloth over the blades of his bugnuks, and tossed the dirty rag into the trash. The cabinet above the stove was filled with medical supplies to fill their every day needs, from band-aids for pricks from the thorns of roses, to gauze and antibiotics for the more dangerous wounds acquired on missions. They never went to the hospital if they could avoid it. It would bring up too many unwanted questions.

He pushed through boxes of band-aids and bottles of peroxide to find the gauze. Youji held out his arm without question as Ken came over to him, a roll of gauze in one hand, a cloth and peroxide in the other. He dabbed the peroxide onto the cloth and applied it gently to the outstretched arm. Youji flinched as the liquid stung his open wound, but he grit his teeth and did not utter even a small mutter of pain.

The air that hung around them after a mission was always heavy and solemn. Sometimes Youji would crack jokes, but they went to deaf ears or awkward, nervous laughter. Finally, he had stopped trying. It was pointless. They each had something on their minds when they returned, something they had to deal with alone in their own way. But when morning came, the moment would be over, and the usual cheer that filled the flower shop would be back again.

He wrapped the gauze around the wound, layering it several times so that Youji would be able to come up with one of his elaborate stories and then show the girls his poor butchered arm. They always fell all over themselves with worry when Youji had a new battle scar to show them. He soaked up the attention like a sponge.

"Did you track blood in?" Youji asked suddenly. His eyes were averted, focused on the carpet through the kitchen door. Drops of still fresh blood had fallen on the carpet. Ken frowned.

"It's not mine. I came in through the back."

"Omi didn't get hurt."

Ken turned away and rummaged through the cupboard, trying to make room for everything that had been shoved in there at one point in time. It had become a black hole of existence.

"Aya might've." Youji put a hand on his and stopped him from putting away the gauze and peroxide. "Go upstairs and see if he's okay. You know if he is hurt he's just going to let it go and make it worse."

Ken narrowed his eyes. "Why don't you go see if he's okay?"

Youji made an expression of absolute shock. "Surely you wouldn't ask a poor wounded soldier such as myself to endanger his wounds to tend to another's!" He grinned and gave Ken a small shove. "Go on. It'll probably get disgusting and infected if Aya leaves it."

Ken sighed in heavy exasperation, making no effort to hide his irritation. Aya did not want their help. That was why he would retreat to his own room and tend to the wounds alone. In few occasions that happened so rarely they hardly mattered at all, he would allow Omi to take care of his injuries. But that was all. Ken didn't think it was worth his time to waste precious hours that could be better spent sleeping on someone that did not want or appreciate his help.

The drops of blood continued down the hall and up the stairs. Ken watched them pass beneath his feet as he walked, resisting the urge to sigh. Aya could have at least done the rest of them a favor and come in through the back rather than the front and not left such a neat trail of blood. It was not as though he would be the one to clean it up. One of them was going to be stuck scrubbing until dawn. Ken wanted to leave it, but fresh blood was easier to get out of carpet than dried blood. He would have to come back after he was done with Aya.

The trail of blood disappeared when he reached the closed door of Aya's bedroom. Juggling the gauze and peroxide in the curve of his arm, he lifted a hand to rap lightly.

"Aya? I'm coming in."

There was no sound of protest from within the room. Taking it as the only sign of invitation he would be getting, Ken turned the knob and nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe. He nearly dropped the gauze and peroxide in his hands when he saw Aya.

"Holy shit."

His arm was torn open where a bullet had passed through. He sat on the bed, shirtless, his entire body splattered with blood. Ken wondered somewhere in the back of his mind if all of the blood was his own. A small voice answered no.

He slammed the door shut behind him and crossed the room to Aya. "Stop messing with it," he snapped, irritated. "Let me see."

Aya looked up at him through eyes narrowed to near slits. Ken did not back away.

"Let me see," he repeated. "Don't be such a jackass. You need help."

Reluctantly, Aya drew his hand away from the wound so that Ken could see it in its full intensity. It was worse up close than it was from a distance. The bullet had passed through, but considering the state of the injury, even that did not come as some small relief to him. It would be better treated in a hospital, but Ken knew that if he even suggested that they go, Aya would be adamantly against it. He was the one that had decided that they could not go to hospitals, after all. Not after an incident involving Omi, a harsh beating he had taken, and one too many nosy police officers.

One small favor he could be thankful for was that it had only been a pistol bullet that had passed through. Anything else, and they might have been forced to go for professional aid.

"It'll heal on its own," Aya said through clenched teeth, watching Ken as he scrutinized the wound.

"In months," Ken said, barely able to keep the words from coming out as a snap. "I'm more worried about infection."

Aya said nothing. Ken bit his lip to keep from sighing in exasperation. He soaked a cloth with a reasonable amount of peroxide to clean the wound. Aya hissed as it burned the skin. Ken could have grinned. So the great untouchable Aya did have weaknesses.

"We can't do much here," Ken said, cleaning the area around the wound.

"It's fine," Aya answered. His tone let it be known there was no room for debate.

Ken wrapped his arm tightly in the gauze, running the roll empty with the amount of times he circled it. He doubted that there was a chance for it to become infected, but it would still discomfort him for weeks, and not even heal properly for months after that. Still. It wasn't his arm. Aya could damage himself as much as he wanted to for all he cared. It was obvious Aya didn't care at all, so why should he?

He remembered hearing the sound of a gun being fired as they fled the warehouse. He had thought it was only the night security and disregarded it. Aya had said nothing, not even made a sound of pain as the bullet had torn through his arm. He wouldn't have thought for a moment that one of them had been hit.

"You're covered in blood," Ken announced, standing back to observe.

"I'll take a shower," Aya murmured. There was a hint of irritation in his voice.

Ken folded his arms. "Can't, not with you being all bandaged up like that."

"Then what do you suggest?"

Ken was almost tempted to punch him. He closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. Youji had told him when Aya had joined their rag-tag team of assassins to be patient with the new guy and to slowly count to ten when Aya did something to annoy him. But no amount of patience had been enough back then. He had fought regularly with Aya as though it were second nature to him. Even now, he still had his relapses. It was hard to be patient with the guy that had tried to kill him the first time they met.

"Just... don't move." He sighed and went out of the room. When he came back, armed with a dry cloth and another drenched in warm water, he found Aya sitting where he had left him, barely even moved an inch. He could not help but let the smile tugging at his lips appear.

"You take orders well."

Aya only stared at him. With a little sigh, Ken knelt down on one knee before him. He took the warm cloth in his hands and began to wipe away the blood.

"What are you doing?" Aya demanded.

Ken rolled his eyes. "What's it look like?"

"I can take care of it myself."

Ken sat back on his legs. He would be patient, if only because it was bad karma to hit an already wounded man.

"No, you can't. The bullet went through your right arm. You're right-handed. If you try to do it yourself, you'll just hurt your arm more." He said it matter-of-factly. He was amused by the bemused expression on the other man's face. Aya looked like a fish out of water.

"I can still--"

"Nope." Ken continued to wipe away the blood, using the dry cloth to clear away the water from the wetted cloth as he did. He almost wanted to laugh. Aya never accepted help when it was given to him; he had no idea how to accept it when it was forced upon him. He didn't seem so much the untouchable wall he pretended to be anymore. He seemed almost human.

"You should just let people help you sometimes." Ken stood up and dumped the cloths into the garbage. They could have been washed and reused again, but it wasn't worth the effort of getting the blood stains out when they would only be stained again.

"I don't need help."

Ken glanced at him. "That's a sad way to live."

"It's safe."

"It's lonely."

Aya said nothing.

Ken could understand. He had forced himself to understand. Aya had never learned what it meant to be able to lean on someone else. He had never known what it was to be able to turn to someone else in a time of need. The people he had cared for had been taken from him, all at once. Ken could understand that it had made him jaded, unwelcome to accept new people in his life, to allow himself to trust others. He could understand, but it did not make it any less infuriating.

"Are you really that damaged?" he murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just... yeah, nothing."

He knew that Aya was aware that it was more than nothing. But he was relieved when Aya did not press him to say more.

"Don't do anything to strain your arm. I'll look at it tomorrow morning to see if it's going to heal all right."

"Aa."

Ken did not look back as he left the room. He closed the door slowly behind him. His head fell back to lean against the door, eyes drifting closed, his hands supporting him. It was as though he could feel all of his hostility drain from him. A breath he did not know he had been holding escaped him in one long rush.

Are you really that damaged?

"Do you hurt that much, Aya..."

You're not the only one.

You're not alone.

II
Dream

"Do you believe that in life there is only one person you were ever meant to be with?"

"It'd be depressing to think of life like that."

"I don't think so."

"You could spend your whole life searching for that one person. It's a waste."

"But if you find that person, it's everything."

Everything.

Sometimes it was hard to sleep.

Sometimes the dreams would not let him be. The images would run through his mind like a broken record. Things he could only wish would erase themselves from his memory flooded back to him in harsh, quick flashes of images and voices circulating through his head. Times he had filled with regret reminded him that he had no hope of redemption. There was no forgiveness for his mistakes. It was hard to be forgiven by the dead.

Sometimes the sleep would come, but it would be nights of fitful tossing and turning. He had realized that he would be exhausted no matter whether or not he slept or did not sleep, but at least not sleeping meant no dreams. So he had stopped sleeping those nights when the memories would not let him be. He would remain awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and dreaming awake. He would take his mind away and think of anything else but the memories.

It was the voices that were the most painful. He could watch the scenes play out over and over in his like some kind of twisted silent movie without the subtitles, but when he heard their distant voices screaming out to him, that was painful. He could not reach them. He could only listen to them and watch it happen again, unable to do anything to stop the inevitable.

The same dream had played through his head so many times he knew what to expect. He knew that he would watch as they walked home, he being practically dragged along at the wrist. How many times had he wanted to yell to turn around and go back? How many times had he wished the dream would be different?

He knew that no matter how times he wished for it to be different, they would still go into the house. He would still call out and receive no answer, but think nothing of it -- it seemed natural. He knew that he would hear her scream. That was when it would all come tumbling down. And he would watch, helpless to do anything. It never changed.

He knew that he was not the only one with fitful nights of sleep. It would have sounded odd to anyone else, but when he heard the sound of the rustle of movement against sheets, quick and troubled, through the thin bedroom walls, it felt almost as if he was not alone. Strange, to take comfort in such a strange thing. In such a person. He could have laughed. He wanted to.

That idiot. No one seemed to irritate him more than that guy did. Ken was loud and obnoxious, put his nose in places where it did not belong, was headstrong and reckless, and stubborn to a point. He never listened to anyone unless it were the last option open to him. He never wanted to admit to his faults or that there was a chance that he could ever be wrong. But under all of that, he was kind. He was genuinely kind. And Aya knew that was what bothered him most of all.

There was more than that. Omi was kind. He was never annoyed with Omi the way he was with Ken. He did not know what it was that affected him about Ken. It was the kindness beneath that harsh attitude he tried to present, yet at the same time, it had nothing to do with his kindness.

Maybe because he could not understand him. He could not read him. He had always been good at looking at people and judging them for exactly what they were with that mere glance. With Ken, he could not do that. Even now, he found himself still being surprised by the younger man. The spontaneity was what bothered him, maybe. The spontaneity and the kindness and the stubborn attitude.

He rolled over on his side. He almost laughed, but it came out as more of a mocking chuckle than a laugh of mirth. Stupid reason to find so much irritation in one person. Maybe more than anything, what infuriated him the most about Ken was that none of those things did. Not really. Maybe what infuriated him the most was not Ken, but himself, and his wanting to blame it on anything but that.

Most infuriating of all was the fact that he cared about the younger man. He cared, and he did not know what to do with those feelings.

He sat up, restless. He could not sleep. His mind was as far from the memories and dreams that kept him awake and yet he could not sleep, because he kept thinking of that idiot.

He stood up and grabbed his jacket from where it was flung across the sofa beside his nightstand. If he could not sleep and his mind insisted to keep him awake thinking of Ken, he would just do something more productive with that time. He was not just going to remain lying there like some invalid. Or worse yet -- a love-starved school girl. What a thing to sound like.

The door closed behind him louder than he meant it to. He winced, one eye cracked open as he glanced warily around the hall. No sound from behind the closed doors. Relieved, he started forward. A floorboard protested his weight with a low creak. He stopped, scarcely breathing. It would figure that assassins would live in apartment that was a death trap in its own right. If it had been a mission, he would have been twice dead by now.

At least no one in the apartment wanted to kill him. Not that he knew of, anyway.

He continued down the hall. That was when the door opened.

He was leaning outside of his room, dressed in a t-shirt and boxers. He did not look as though he had slept even two minutes. His hair was standing on end and his clothing rumpled. He had been tossing and turning, too. His eyes, glazed from lack of sleep, blinked at him blearily.

"Aya? What're you doing?"

"Going for a walk," he answered. He hadn't known that was what he was doing before the words came out of his mouth. It seemed like a good idea now.

"Oh." He blinked again, as though his sleep-starved mind could not quite wrap around that concept. "... this late?" he asked after a moment.

Aya nodded. What better time than the present?

He watched him as he brought up his hands to rub his eyes. Sleep wanted him and he wanted sleep. He was not starved of it because something kept him awake. He was starved because he was forcing himself to be awake. Why?

"Come with me, if you want." The words were said before he realized what they meant. What he wanted was to avoid Ken by leaving, even if it were only the Ken in his mind. Asking him to come along could have been one of his more stupid requests. It could have been one of his brighter ones, too. Something told him that Ken should not be alone now.

Ken seemed to be thinking about it, whether or not he should, or whether or not he could even keep his eyes open long enough to walk. "Sure," he said after a pause. "I just gotta get changed."

Aya waited. Ken disappeared into his room and a moment later returned, dressed now in jeans and wearing a jacket, but with the same t-shirt on. Aya wordlessly started down the stairs, Ken following at his heels.

They left through the back door of the flower shop, unnoticed by both Youji and Omi. Those two were able to sleep like the dead. Neither were plagued by constant nightmares. Sometimes Omi would dream of things, mostly of Ouka and his connection to the now dead Takatori family. But they were rare and few in between. Aya thought that was better for him. He was too young to begin dwelling so much on the things beyond his control.

The night air was cold and crisp and bit into his cheeks as they stepped around flower shop into the wind. He tightened his jacket around himself, turning it up at the collar to do what he could to ward away the cold. Ken did the same. He picked up speed a bit to be able to walk alongside Aya, not behind him and not just slightly beside him. Equal to him.

Aya had not looked at the clock before he had gone, but knew it had to be somewhere beyond one in the morning. There were no cars to be seen, no people walking the streets, and only the scarce few lights in apartment windows and businesses. The street lights seemed to be not enough to light up the dark night. The moon and stars were of no help. City pollution had banned them almost completely from sight. Even the moon was dim.

He waited for Ken to speak, but no sound came. He walked, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched and head bowed. The silence did not discomfort Aya. Silence was something he had become accustomed with and welcomed. Better silence than voices screaming in his dreams.

He glanced at the sky and the hidden stars. It was depressing, he realized, as he thought more of them and their dimness. He had not lived within the city. He had lived on its outskirts where the stars and moon could still be seen clearly, as bright as daylight. It was hard to realize the things taken for granted until they were not there anymore.

Walks were not frequent for him. Sometimes he would leave during the day to wander the city to just be alone with his thoughts, but it was rare. And he had never allowed anyone to go with him before. It was strange to walk alongside another person as though they were long-time, casual companions. Not long-time assassin partners.

There was a park not far from the flower shop. Unspoken, they gravitated towards it. It was peaceful, to not be walking through buildings and street lights and cars, but through trees and lampposts on a guided cobblestone path. Aya did not know why they stopped. Some mutual agreement that did not need words made them stop. They sat on a bench overlooking a well-lit fountain, side by side, leg to leg, a careless touch that neither seemed to notice or find significant.

Aya leaned his head back and closed his eyes. It was more tranquil here. Here, he did not think of his dreams or the voices screaming in his memories. He did not see the images playing out in his mind. The scenes did not cartwheel before him in a pantomime of black and white pictures. It was peaceful. That was all he wanted.

He felt Ken stir beside him and glanced sidelong at him. He was exhausted. His whole body seemed to be asleep but his eyes. Why did he starve himself of rest?

"Could you not sleep?" he interjected into the silence.

Ken shrugged his shoulders. "Didn't want to," he answered.

"Why?"

Another shrug of his shoulders, dismissive. Whatever the reason, he did not want to indulge. Aya could let it go.

"What about you?" Ken asked.

"I couldn't sleep," Aya said. He would not lie to him.

"Not tired?"

"Dreams." It was vulnerable of him to admit it was his dreams, but it would have been a lie to say anything else. He did not believe in lying. Lying could only last for so long, but the truth would always be there.

Ken said nothing. Not even a glimmer of an expression crossed him. He stared down at his shoes, his hands clasped before him. Aya watched him from the corner of his eye. He could not read him. He could stare at him for hours, and he would not know what was going on inside that head. Ken was impossible to read because Ken would not let himself be read. He was good at hiding when he wanted to.

"What do you dream?" He asked the question innocently. What do you dream? He did not realize what it meant. What do you dream? What do you have nightmares of? What voices do you hear screaming in the night? What memories do you see relived before your eyes?

"Dreams," Aya answered slowly. "Just dreams."

"Nightmares."

"Yes. Nightmares."

Ken almost smiled. "The great untouchable Aya has nightmares."

He said it in a vain attempt to be light-hearted. Aya knew he did. It was not an effort he appreciated, but all the same, it did not bother him. Only confused him. What did Ken dream? Did he have nightmares? Did he hear voices of the people he loved? Did he see memories playing out before his eyes he had no power to stop?

"No one is invincible," Aya intoned softly.

"Nope. Nobody. But it doesn't stop us from trying."

"It's just easier to believe we can be."

Ken cracked a smile. It was not forced, but tired and stressed around the edges. He needed to sleep.

"You're like a fortune cookie," he said. "A well of advice that doesn't mean a thing."

Aya was not sure whether or not it was an insult, but Ken did not seem to think it necessary to clarify. He let it go.

It was quiet, he realized. The silence was only broken occasionally by their own voices and then their breathing, but then it was silent. Even the fountain with its sprouts of water shooting up into the air in some eccentric pattern did not seem to make a sound. He would have thought it peaceful if it was not suddenly so strange. Disturbing, almost. It bothered him.

He stood up. "It's late. We should go back."

He was startled when suddenly and abruptly, Ken reached out and seized his wrist.

"No, wait," he said. "Just a bit longer."

Aya stared down at him. "You need sleep."

"I don't need sleep." A spark of his usual irritation appeared in his voice. Aya did not know why he was comforted by that.

"Come on," he said, "just a bit longer."

Aya slowly sat down beside him. Ken only released his wrist when he had sat completely down and did nothing to make the younger man believe he was going to shy away. He drew his hand away, unconsciously allowing his fingers to run down the sleeve of Aya's jacket as he lowered the hand to clasp with his other.

"Why do you want to stay?" Aya murmured.

"Because. It... I like it here." He shrugged, and then with a sudden, brief flare, turned to look at Aya. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Aya said. "Nothing."

Ken watched him through narrowed brown eyes for a moment before a smile appeared. It was genuine. He smiled at him a moment, then looked away, eyes falling to the fountain. Aya wanted to sigh.

He did not understand him. He would never understand him. Not even could he dream of ever knowing who Ken was beneath those complicated layers. Beneath the abrasive surface, under the stubborn attitude, past the kind smile, and into who he was. He would never know.

But he didn't think he wanted to. He didn't want to know. He always wanted that spontaneity. There were too many solids in his life. Flower shop employee by day, assassin by night. Abandoned young man without a family. Loner struggling to come to terms with regrets of his past. Those solids were always there. But Ken was different. Ken was something new. Ken could keep him from sinking into those things.

He felt a light weight on his shoulder. Frowning a little, unable to mask his confusion, he glanced over. Ken was leaning against him. His entire body slumped against his.

He had fallen asleep.

Aya laughed softly. He tilted his head back and gazed skyward.

The stars seemed to be just a bit brighter tonight.

III
Scars

" I thought he could save me."

"From what?"

"Myself. I thought he could save me from that with all of the life in him. But..."

"But?"

"I wasn't the one that needed to be saved."

"Aya! Come out here!"

He was playing in the rain. That idiot was playing in the rain.

Aya watched him from beneath the protection of the overhanging canopy outside of the flower shop. An otherwise simple task of delivering an arrangement of flowers to a young woman in the hospital from her husband had become a more difficult task of avoiding the rain as it came suddenly, in quick, random spurts, and long, hard sheets. Ken had given up on avoiding the rain. He walked amongst it, allowing it to fall down on him, mat down his clothes and hair to his body. And he was enjoying it.

"Aya!" He called out to him again. Aya sighed.

"You're an idiot."

Ken splashed into a puddle of murky water, scattering droplets across the sidewalk. He smiled and laughed. "It's only water," he said.

"You'll get sick," Aya said matter-of-factly. He wondered why he even stood out beneath the canopy at all, watching Ken as he stood out in the rain, arms outspread, head tossed back, mouth open as he let the rain drops fall onto his tongue. It would have been easy to turn around, go inside the shop, change clothes and fall into bed. It should have been easy. But it wasn't easy at all.

"Mother hen," Ken accused. "You're too young to be acting like a parent."

"Remind me again how old you are to be playing in the rain."

But Ken only laughed.

Aya watched as his arms fell uselessly to his sides. He tipped his head back and allowed the water to rush over him, eyes closed and an expression of a certain tranquility on his face. Aya rarely saw him with such a subdued, relaxed, calm expression. It was not so much that he was anything but those things -- rather, Ken always seemed to have something at the back of his mind. It was something that did not nag him constantly or linger there always, but something that was there. Something Aya could not place.

"Come on."

Ken suddenly appeared beside him, seized his hand, and pulled him out into the gushing downfall. Aya stared out at his smiling face from beneath matted down strands of crimson against his eyes. Just like a kid. The way he smiled, the way he laughed, the delight he took in standing in the rain, the joy it brought him to watch Aya be drenched so easily. He was just like a kid.

Maybe it was better for him to cling to that. It was better for him to be able to hold on to his adolescence. Then he could not sink into and fade away in his guilt.

"It feels nice, huh?"

"It's cold," Aya intoned blandly.

Ken sighed, shoulders falling forward dejectedly. Aya could have almost smiled.

He lifted his face to the rain. It did feel nice, the cold water falling against his cheeks in thick drops. His clothing was soon soaked as well, the casual t-shirt he wore now hanging limply from his body, and jeans beginning to feel tighter and more constricting as they did when soaked through. Ken was equally drenched, but did not seem to care. Glancing at his smiling face, Aya found he didn't either.

Moments passed of silence. Not uncomfortable or awkward silence, but a simple, comforting and companionable silence.

Aya broke it with a soft murmur of, "Let's go inside."

Ken did not argue. He followed him in through the back door of the flower shop; it was already late and Youji and Omi would have closed up without them. Both had likely retired to their rooms for the night, and careful to not disturb them, Aya and Ken moved down the halls with a natural stealth acquired from their experience as assassins. They slipped into Aya's room without notice, followed by the distant sounds of Omi typing away at his computer -- homework assignment -- and Youji playing his radio low and soothingly.

His room was simple. The bed was pushed back against the far wall, beneath the window curtained by 'hospital green' drapes he had not the design sense to change. The sheets and comforter of the bed where pale blue, the pillow case white, nothing at all eye-catching. A nightstand stood beside the table, a small sofa beside that. Across the room there was a desk and computer beside the door to the closet. Simple. Homely. But comfortable. His sanctuary.

He leaned over the nightstand, reaching beneath the shade to turn the switch. A few droplets of water still clinging to his hair fell to wet the pages of the open book lying there. He shook his head, scattering water, and gaining a laugh from Ken as the drops hit him across his cheeks.

Aya drew up his plastered down shirt over his head without a thought of it. The sudden fire that burned beneath Ken's cheeks said otherwise for what he thought. He and Aya were more comfortable with one another than they had been before, less quick to shy away from even slightly intimate touches, and close enough to even share affection openly. Previous nights, he had spent sleeping alongside the other man in the full size bed, not daring to touch, but comforted by his presence and the sound of his breathing.

But this was different. Able to remove his clothing with such a calm air about him meant not that Aya lacked modesty, but that he was comfortable around him. He was trusting of him.

"Here." Ken looked up barely quick enough to see the shirt hurtling toward his head and a glimpse of Aya standing in nothing but his slightly wet boxers.

"Don't just stand there soaking on my carpet."

Ken reached up and gripped the fabric of the shirt between his fingers. Suddenly self-conscious, he turned his back to Aya, twisting the shirt in his hands. With no small amount of inexplicable nervousness and modesty, he set the shirt aside and reached for the hem of his own soaked one. His hands stopped there.

It was more nerves than being self-conscious. He tried to convince himself in his mind that it was all it was.

He did not realize that Aya was watching him as he tugged up the shirt in one fluid, quick movement, and reached for the dry one Aya had given him. But it was too late. Aya had seen.

His body, lean and tanned, well-toned in the build of an athlete, was marred by discolored, twisted burn scars. The scars began at the small of his back, one harsh lick running down his spine and disappearing beyond his waistline, others criss-crossing his sides. Age had faded them some, but they were still there, more obvious even now in the faint light of the lamp.

He slipped his hands through the sleeves of the red t-shirt, lifted his arms to pull it over his head, and was suddenly stopped. A hand, cool to the touch from the rain, pressed against the small of his back. A finger brushed hesitantly over a disfigured scar. Ken felt his body freeze up, a shudder run up his spine, and his eyes close involuntarily. A small sound escaped his lips, not of pain, but of obvious discomfort -- and the hand drew away quickly, as though shocked.

"Kase knew I wouldn't die." He was only vaguely surprised to hear his voice come out as a whisper. "But he was still as thorough as possible when he tried."

Aya reached out his hand again, moving with deliberate slowness. Ken drew in a breath as his palm traced along a scar, but did not shudder or shy away this time.

"It's not that bad," he murmured. "Not as bad as when it happened." He forced a smile and glanced over his shoulder at Aya. Aya said nothing, eyes focused on the scars, a faint outline of a frown shaping his mouth.

"It must have hurt."

"I didn't... really realize. It hurt, but it started to numb after awhile. And I was thinking of Kase."

He would have, Aya thought distantly. Ken had no sense of self-preservation when it came to his friends and the people he cared for. He would sooner die than see someone die before him. It was often considered honorable to have such selfless traits, but Aya only saw it as a burden.

He drew his hand away from the scars, lifting both hands to the hem of the shirt still bunched around Ken's shoulders. He took the fabric into his hands and pulled it over the rest of the way. With light, simple touches, he had turned Ken around to face him. The younger man, face flushed, looked away from his eyes to his feet. Aya wanted to smile, but bit his tongue.

The bed creaked beneath their combined weight, but held them both with ease. Aya stretched out on his side against the wall, facing the door, and Ken beside him, facing the wall. They did not touch. Touching would have stepped beyond some unspoken line they had drawn. They could sleep in the same bed together, share a few moments of brief affection, but they did not touch in bed. That would mean something far more intimate. They had yet to reach such a stage in their turbulent relationship, if it could even be called as such.

"I should have known from the beginning that Kase was the one behind everything. It was so obvious..." The latter part he said with a sudden spark of fire and frustration. He placed himself at fault for what had happened. He did not realize that nothing could have been done to prevent it.

Aya closed his eyes. "Whenever something is too painful to think or we don't want to believe something, we reject it. We make ourselves believe it can't be true." He slowly opened his eyes. "Because we're naive."

"I didn't want to believe it was Kase."

"You can't believe anything you don't want to."

Ken lowered his eyes, gaze tracing over the folds of the t-shirt wore, at the wall his back faced, anything but into his eyes. He had never been able to look Aya in the eyes unless he was angry. He could reflect that fire that burned in his with his own and he was not afraid to look away. But that fire was always in Aya's eyes and he could not meet them. He would always looked away, pretend to be nonchalant about it, and inwardly cursing for being so pathetic, so weak.

He wanted to be able to look the other man in the eyes and not flinch away. He wanted to look Aya in the eyes and not see a challenge, something to strive to compare to, but an equal. Someday. Someday, he wanted to be able to. He wanted to be able to look death in the face and not shudder. He wanted to be able to feel blood on his fingers and not be overwhelmed with remorse. Someday. He wanted to be an equal to Aya.

The other man felt nothing, and if he did, he kept those emotions veiled. Aya could have hundreds of people killed before his eyes and he would not so much as bat an eye. He could kill as though it were second nature to him, and he could take any order that was given without question of its motive or reason. Didn't he ever second guess? Didn't he ever wonder if it was the right or wrong thing to do?

No. Not Aya.

"You scare me sometimes."

Aya opened his eyes, his expression unguarded. Ken saw for a moment the pure, raw emotion he always hid -- startled and confused, and something else lingering at the corners, something like hurt. He bit his lip, regretting his words.

"I mean that... you, well..."

"Scare you," Aya finished.

"Sometimes," Ken murmured, as though the word would heal over the wound he had opened. He watched Aya as he tried to make sense of those words in his mind, piece them together to find their deeper meaning. Piece them together to mean anything but what it really was -- you frighten me. I'm afraid of you.

"Sometimes I think that you couldn't hurt a thing. But then I see you covered in blood with that -- that look in your eyes, and I remember that not a one of us knows you. I don't know you. I don't know what you are."

"I would not hurt you."

"I know that. Not me."

"I wouldn't."

"Then who?"

Targets were meaningless numbers to Aya. Where did he draw the moral line? What would he do if Persia asked them to kill a child? A mother? The people they killed were meaningless numbers, but those meaningless numbers meant something to someone else. A number could have been a mother. A number was someone's son. A number was someone's brother or sister, someone's friend, someone's lover. But only numbers to them.

"I want to be able to kill the way you do. It scares me, but I want that."

"No."

"It would be easier."

"Don't say such stupid things." His words were hissed between his teeth. He bit back on his anger but it would only be contained for so long. "You're an idiot to say something like that."

"Aya--" Ken bit his tongue.

"Do you think it is that easy? Do you think that just because I don't wear my emotions where everyone can see it means I don't care, that I don't feel a damn thing?"

"I didn't mean..."

"Shut up."

Aya sat up in one quick movement. His legs were drawn up but loose, an arm resting against his knee, the other hanging uselessly at the side of his stretched out leg. He pressed his hand to his forehead, as though he could feel a headache beginning to chew at the edges of his mind. Ken wanted to sit up, wrap his arms around him and apologize for being so stupid. He wanted to apologize for being so stupid as to think it, that Aya was invincible against the world. But he did nothing. He remained there, frozen, not knowing if he could or should.

"I always feel something." Aya spoke in hushed tones, so that Ken was scarcely able to hear him. "I always do. Just because I can hide it better than you doesn't mean I don't."

It was his protection. Pretending as though the world could not touch him was his defense. It was how he was able to cope. It was how he lived.

He did not flinch away when Ken encircled his arms around him from behind. A warm cheek pressed against the fabric of his shirt against his shoulder. Ken closed his eyes. He felt no warmth in the embrace. There was none. He felt only an underlying desperation and wanted to plead, don't be angry with me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

"I'm tired of hurting so much. I thought if I could be like you, I wouldn't hurt anymore."

"Don't change."

Ken tightened his arms around him, an unspoken plea. Aya turned in the circle of his arms and returned the embrace. He pressed his cheek against the still soaked hair, his lips barely brushing along Ken's ear.

"Never change," he murmured. "Don't."

Ken sighed, not of relief, but a long, low shuddering sigh. Aya wrapped him into his arms and held him.

I don't scare you. He wanted to say it aloud.

I don't scare you at all.

But he couldn't.

You scare me.

IV
Apart

He was broken.

"He believed me when I told him that I would save him."

"But you couldn't."

"He was too damaged. Already too far gone... there was nothing I could do."

Nothing.

I was... always completely powerless.

Powerless to save the one person that mattered the most.

"Why do you let me call you Ran?"

The question was spoken softly from the darkness of the room. The curtains, drawn open, allowed both the light from the moon and those of the city to filter into the small bedroom in the upstairs apartment of a popular flower shop. Two figures were stretched out on the full size bed, its rumpled blankets shoved to the end of the mattress, useless to them. One was taller, more well-toned, pale and with hair the color of spilled blood. His arm was thrown carelessly over the other man, fingers brushing along the bare stomach, his face pressed against the hollow of a warm neck.

The other man was younger, just barely approaching the last stretch of his teens. He was smaller in stature, built like an athlete. He wore his brown hair well kept, but hanging low over his identically brown eyes. His eyes were open now, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. One arm was stretched over his own body to rest on the shoulder of the crimson-haired man. The other, hidden from view, was pressed between them, but not uncomfortably.

"Why can I call you Ran?" Ken repeated his question firmly this time, sounding vaguely irritated to have not yet been answered.

Aya breathed out slowly, causing the hairs along Ken's neck to rise as his body involuntarily shuddered. His eyes were closed as his fingers brushed up and down the bare stomach, movements slow and careless, as though it were second nature to him.

"Why, why, why," he murmured sleepily. "Everything is why with you."

Ken balled his hand into a fist and delivered a weak punch to Aya's shoulder, somewhat gratified to see he had disturbed the other man's rest. But Aya only barely opened his eyes, and ignoring the momentary jostle of movement, press his lips to Ken's neck in an almost apologetic gesture. He lifted his head to look Ken in the eyes.

"I trust you," he answered.

Appeased, for at least the moment, Ken looked away. Aya pressed his hands into the mattress on either side of his chest and lifted himself up, only to lower his head back down to capture Ken's lips with his own. Ken shifted beneath him, inclined his head to a more comfortable position, and opened himself up to the welcome intrusion.

Aya drew away, and Ken asked, "You don't trust Youji and Omi?"

He shrugged. Lowering himself from his hands slowly, Aya gently eased his body down to lay across Ken. His face burrowed against the hollow of the younger man's neck again, causing the same shudder to run down Ken's spine. The skin of his neck and ears were far more sensitive than anywhere else on his body. Aya had discovered this and took great delight in constantly teasing the areas, just to see Ken bite his lip, trying not laugh as lips tickle his skin, and to feel his body tremor beneath his.

"With my life," Aya replied. "But I trust you with more than that."

"Not with your life?" Ken asked, smiling, putting on a farce of being offended.

"Not that." He closed his eyes, and though Ken could not see him, he could feel Aya's lips curving into a smile against his neck. "I wouldn't trust anyone that fights with kitty claws."

Ken mock punched him again. "Jerk."

He felt Aya brush his lips against his shoulder, a nonchalant gesture of affection. Turning his head, he pressed his nose and lips against the tangle of crimson hair. His fingers slid up Aya's back to touch the back of his neck, feeling the short, prickly hairs there biting into his fingertips.

Running his fingers through and through those small hairs, he asked softly, "More?"

He squirmed abruptly. Aya, moving away from his neck and shoulder, had moved up to his ears. Ken felt and heard him chuckle, quietly, when he nearly jumped out of his skin when those lips pressed just beneath his ear.

"It's hard to talk when you're doing that," he announced, but he knew as well as Aya did that he was not as bothered by it was he pretended to be.

"I know," Aya said. "And yes. More."

"What?"

"Little things."

He let out a breath of air against Ken's neck, where the skin was moist from the attention of his mouth. Ken made a small, indiscernible sound.

"Like my name," Aya said. "I trust you with that."

Ken turned his head to the side, welcoming Aya to give the same attention to the unattended portion of his neck.

"I trust you with my sister. I trust you with my past. I trust you with all that I am."

Ken closed his eyes. "That much..."

Aya glanced up at him and smiled, faintly. Ken opened on eye to gaze back, but the smile was gone and left him thinking it only a trick of the lighting from the moon and city lights. Aya had turned away before he could know, lowering his lips to his shoulder, lining his a pathway from shoulder to collarbone with brief, chaste kisses. Not needing to do anything, knowing that Aya did not expect him to, Ken ran his fingers through his hair, listening to his words, and feeling his affection.

"That much," Aya said quietly.

He said nothing else. Ken leaned his back against the pillow, eyes watching the ceiling, but seeing nothing.

"I watch you." It came out as a soft murmur. "I see how you try to pretend like nothing affects you. Like you're some kind of rock that can take on anything and not be damaged. But I watch you. You really care and... you break easy too.

"I watch you and how you take care of the flowers. You're always so careful. Precise, I guess. You always make sure they're all watered. You always clip the dead leaves. You always give them just enough light.

"I watch you when you help Omi with his homework. You're always patient with him. You explain it to him in a way he can understand. And I always see you smile when he gets it right, like you're proud of him.

"And then... then you're with me."

He sighed, then laughed, as though mocking his own words.

"I can't explain that."

Aya curled his arms around him, drawing closer to him, and pressing their bodies together. Ken let himself be pulled into the embrace and wrapped his arms around Aya.

"You'll ruin my reputation," Aya muttered.

Ken laughed against his shoulder. "Yup."

He could feel Aya sigh, taking in a long, deep breath and then slowly exhaling. The warm breath rushed over his bare back. The absence of heat as it faded caused a chill to run down his spine, and mistaking his shudder for a shiver of cold, Aya wrapped his arms more tightly around him.

Or maybe it was something else that caused Aya to hold him like that.

"Do you mind?" he asked, softly.

Aya loosened his arms and drew back enough to look him in the eyes, briefly. The corner of his mouth quirked slightly, and eyes closing, he leaned his head forward to rest forehead to forehead, nose to nose, against Ken.

"No. I don't care."

"Really..." He did not say it as a question, but it seemed to be one anyway, with the short, wondering tone to his words.

"Really," Aya confirmed. "If I cared, do you think I would be here?"

"No, but--"

"Then that's all."

Aya inclined his head just enough to catch lips with Ken. Ken sighed against his mouth, allowing Aya to draw him into the kiss and distract him from his thoughts. In the beginning their touches had been rare and awkward. Neither had known how to act around the other. Ken, who was ordinarily so open with his feelings, found himself often wondering whether or not he should make that move, ask that question, touch Aya in such a casual way. And Aya, who had never known affection of this kind, stumbled through like a blind man.

But it was different now. The touches had become more frequent, less awkward. Now a kiss was no more than careless, passing affection. A touch on the arm was nothing. Something as simple as feeling fingers brushing his own would have before caused Ken to blush, his muscles to tighten involuntarily, and for his breath to catch in his throat. When Aya would kiss him, he would do the same, and Aya would often draw away, believing he had done something wrong.

Still, there was always a certain thrill about those moments. When their eyes would meet in the flower shop over the heads of exuberant high school and junior high girls, or when their shoulders would brush as they walked past each other in the hall. Those small moments were always rare and somewhat awkward, but at the same time had always left the lingering feeling of wanting more.

Youji and Omi had known what was there long before either of them did. They watched and saw what was becoming of their two friends, and watched further, with no certain amount of exasperation, as the rare, casual affection went no further than those brushes in the hall and those glances in the flower shop. They watched as months rolled past and nothing came. They watched until it seemed to be tearing them both to pieces to see one another and know there was nothing more than the relationship of two people that worked and killed together.

Ken remembered the day that Youji had drawn him aside. What are you doing, Ken? Omi and I can both see it -- everyone in the whole damn world can probably see it! Why aren't you doing anything?

It's none of your business.

It's not, huh? So I'm not allowed to give a damn, am I?

That's not it...

Look, Ken. The longer you let this last the longer it's going to fester up inside of you until it eats you alive. Believe me, I know.

The change had been gradual, but it happened. No catalyst had happened to draw them closer together. Nothing happened to either of them to make them realize that life was so short and fleeting, that there was a chance they were going to let a chance to be happy to slip through their fingers. It had just happened. Those casual gestures of affection had become more frequent and meaningful. Those glances in the flower shop were answered with smiles. It came slow, but that it happened at all was what mattered.

Aya loosened his arms around Ken to allow more free movement, and fell back against the mattress, pulling the smaller man along with him. Ken pressed his cheek against Aya's shoulder, allowing a brief, tired sigh to leave his lips.

"Ran?"

Eyes closed as sleep came to take him, Aya murmured, "Mm?"

"Don't laugh at me..."

"I wouldn't."

Ken laughed, a short and brief sound without mirth. "Liar."

Aya opened his eyes. "What is it?"

"Sometimes I feel like there are two of me. Sometimes like the two are going to split, like something is trying to tear me into two. Sometimes... I'm just scared. When I'm alone. I wonder what's going to happen to me and what I'm going to become, and... it scares me."

He closed his eyes tightly.

"Do you think that's dumb? It's so stupid."

"Idiot. It's not stupid."

He remembered the feeling he had when he had killed Kase. He remembered exactly what it felt like to drive those blades through him, to fill his blood pouring out onto his hands and staining him. In that moment, he had not felt sorrow. He had not felt guilt. He had not felt pain to kill someone he had once cared so much for. What he had felt was exhilaration. Happiness. Satisfaction. He had killed someone that had betrayed him and nearly destroyed his entire life.

And it scared him.

"Something will tear me into two," he whispered.

"Something will put you back together."

"Ran."

"I won't let it happen to you."

"But--"

"Don't you believe me?"

Sometimes. Some moments he could believe that Aya meant what he said. But in other moments, it was all too easy to believe that he would someday be completely alone in the world.

It was too easy to believe.

"I believe you."

But he could always pretend. Whatever happened, he could always pretend.

V
End

"Some one once told me that love is to be able to kill the person you love without shedding a tear."

"Why is that love?"

"Because it would make the person you love unhappy to see you cry. To kill them and not shed a tear... to kill them if they ask it of you... that is love."

He told me that.

Because it was what he wanted.

To kill and shed no tears...

Drenched their own blood and the blood of others, bleeding profusely from unattended wounds, gasping for breath, chests heaving, two figures stood facing one another. One smiled. The other, eyes narrowed, blood dripping from the socket, grit his teeth. His hands tightened around the bloodied katana in his hands.

The former, armed to the elbows with gloves attached to four long, vicious looking blades, smiling, pitched forward. The latter raised his eyebrows, surprised, and made a stuttering move forward to catch him. He stopped. The former caught himself before he barreled into the ground. He kept coming forward, each step more tremulous than the one before it.

"I knew it would come to this." His words were croaked. As he spoke, blood seeped from the corner of his mouth and dribbled down his chin. He did not brother to wipe it away.

His leg was slashed open. The clothing was torn away, revealing a cut that went deep to the bone. Each step was another stab of pain. Yet he pushed himself forward, one hand pressed against his hip, as though in a vain attempt to ease the pain.

"But I think it's all right." His words were punctuated by sharp intakes of breath with each step he made. The pain was intensifying. He would soon collapse.

"You should be the one to kill me, Ran."

The latter took a blind step backward. His hands, tight on the hilt of the katana, lost their purchase. It fell uselessly to the ground. The other collapsed forward into the arms waiting for him.

"Kill me, Ran. Kill me."

Ran buried his face against the blood-soaked hair of the smaller man.

"Ken."

"Kill me." He pleaded. His mouth pressed against the chest of the other man, his words were muffled, but the pain of his request loud. Fingers gripped into the jacket of the man holding him, desperately seeking to feel something -- anything at all.

A hand sought for the discarded katana.

"Kill me."

Fingers wrapped around the hilt.

"Please."

Drained of his strength, it was with faltering movements that the katana was lifted.

A splash of blood fell across the ground.

"Ran..."'