Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Reflections ❯ Ashes, Ashes ( Chapter 18 )

Reflections:

Chapter 18: Ashes, Ashes

 

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason.

Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought.

 

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Author's Notes: Once again, if you aren't a mature adult, go away. I'm not going to waste my breath repeating the warnings. This chapter is dedicated to Beysie, who not only planted an (evil) idea in my brain, but led me to believe that it could happen…

 

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White hot light sheeted from floor to ceiling, a roaring inferno. Agony raced up Ken's leg, and he beat at it until the leather of his gloves smoldered. It took him a minute to realize that the frantic cries were his own, but by then, the poisonous heat of smoke was turning them raspy and hoarse. He staggered back a step, peeling one hand to scrub at his tearing eyes with bare skin.

 

Jesus. Fuckin.' Christ! Over the white-out crackle of static in his ear piece and the roar of the fire, Ken faintly heard Aya's frantic shouts, but he was too busy trying to beat out the new flames eating at the knit of his sweatshirt to reply. Then the entire building shook, and he sprawled over backwards, narrowly missing being hit by hunks of burning acoustic tile that rained down. But what missed him got the short-napped indoor-outdoor carpet, adding the noxious stench of burning rubber from its backing to the thickening air. The acrid stench made him cough and wish for a handkerchief - anything - to tie over his nose and mouth.

 

“Ken-kun! Ken!”

 

The scream wasn't Aya's.

 

“O- Omi!” He choked and spit phlegm. Heart hammering beneath his ribs, Ken had no idea which way to go, and disoriented by the fire, he spun desperately in place. Lurid orange was laced through with startling yellow and blue-white as different things caught and began to burn, turning the office and corridor into a maelstrom of too bright light and enveloping smoke.

 

“In here- ” The boy's lighter voice dissolved into a hacking cough. “Hurry, Ken-kun! I can't see Yohji!”

 

A partial rectangle of yellow silhouetted on red resolved itself into a doorway, and Ken threw himself blindly through, trusting to luck when he came out of a roll on the other side. He struck with a thud against the corner of a desk, and there, in a chair identical to the one that held Honey's corpse, was his teammate. But the difference was that Omi was alive.

 

It was hard to tell in the flickering, jumping light, just how much of the mess was blood, and how much was soot and dirt. And the way the younger Weiss writhed and struggled against the ropes that contained him wasn't helping. Dazed and confused, Ken crammed a moment of panic down to the bottom of his soul: Focus, dammit. Omi needs me to focus. The firelight painted bizarre colors across blond hair and fair skin, shimmering like molten metal on the fine mesh of his torn shirt, even as the swirling smoke obscured everything for longer and longer periods. Ken floundered to his knees, snatching the combat knife from his belt, and began hacking at the tough nylon strands around the hacker's thin wrists. When they were free, he thrust the knife into Omi's trembling hands. “Here. Can you do your legs? I'll look for Yohji.”

 

Bent forward at the waist, the smaller blond sawed clumsily at the bindings around first one ankle, then the other. But there was nothing awkward about the words tumbling from his mouth. “I last saw Yohji-kun over to your left, against the wall. I think the explosion threw him toward the corner.”

 

Despairing, Ken stared at the angle in question; it was engulfed in leaping flames. Unthinkingly, he whispered, “Shit…” but he was already in motion, crawling on hands and knees as fast as he could around the end of the massive executive desk.

 

His bare hand was burning from contact with the heated floor, and it was beginning to bite into the knees of his black pants when he butted blindly into a softer mass. The black fumes from the smoldering carpet made it impossible to see what he'd found. Choking, the Hunter fumbled along it until he encountered the sole of a shoe, and a hard heel. Another leg was folded awkwardly behind the first; Ken grasped both ankles and began dragging the dead weight back toward Omi.

 

He barely felt it when another explosion farther away rocked the building to its foundations.

 

In the leaping light, Ken was able to confirm that he had, indeed, found Yohji; it would have sucked to have rescued one of the enemy, under the circumstances. Not that they were out of the woods. Fighting down a stab of terror, the brunet fished for the wire cutters in his pocket and finished freeing Yohji's legs, peripherally counting their blessings that it was plastic-wrapped speaker wire, and not the deadly thin stuff from the watch still securely around the man's wrist. That would have cut dangerously deep, pulled so tight, whereas the thicker cords merely dug in with no give. As soon as he could, Ken rolled the former detective onto his back, and was relieved when a pulse jumped beneath his questing fingers. All in all, Yohji looked better than he had any right to, the camel colored wool of his sports jacket having smoldered, but not melted the way polyester would have. Although, the scorched coat would ever be the same again. A low, rumbling vibration jerked Ken's attention back up, and past the buckled door he could make out the harsher, livid glow of the now fully involved hallway. Omi patted his shoulder, and shouted in his ear, “Where's Aya-kun?”

 

“No good.” Ken yelled back. “He'll never get to us through that.”

 

Crouched against the older Hunter's side, Omi twisted to look. Fear widened the perpetually child-like eyes, before they narrowed grimly. “No choice. We've got to try it.”

 

“Windows?” Ken could barely hear himself over the crackling roar, but he didn't need ears for the sharp negative shake of the tactician's head. Of course Omi would have noted down any likely escape routes. The slight boy gripped Yohji's shoulders, trying to lift the taller man by sheer will until Ken shook him off. Grunting, the brunet heaved the man first into a slumped, sitting position. Then, planting his own shoulder against the lean midsection, Ken hauled him up. Omi helped drag still bound wrists up over to flop against Ken's back.

 

“Now!” he shouted.

 

And damned if the building didn't shudder again. This time, a flaming beam, trailing sparks like a wedding veil of hot white, sagged slowly in front of the door before crashing to the floor. “No…” Ken whispered, then he shrieked “NO! God damn it, no!” Small hands, but surprisingly strong ones, caught at him before he could do something suicidal like rush at the blocked opening anyhow, and it took a second for Ken to register that his best friend was laughing.

 

Shock stopped the brunet dead in his tracks. Had the stress of facing a horrible death by burning, on top of everything else, finally broken Omi's sanity? Then, a gust of cooler, blessedly fresher air fanned the fire to new heights, and staggering under the wire man's weight, Ken turned into the flowing air.

 

Where there had been solid wall, there was now a gaping hole, and Omi was dragging him willy-nilly toward it, paying scant attention to burning debris.

 

A familiar form was scrambling over the crushed masonry and broken bricks. In the wavering light, Aya's glossy, wine dark hair was painted a fiend's scarlet, but Ken didn't care if it were the color of blood; all that mattered was that he'd come for them. Pieces of the drop ceiling were falling in a sputtering, meteoric rain around them that left a brand across Ken's cheekbone, eliciting a yelp and a curse. Aya gripped Omi's extended arms and swung him up and over, and then it was Yohji's turn to be tossed summarily through the make-shift door, landing half on the petit hacker who tried to catch him. Ken met Aya's wide, terrified eyes for a heartbeat, and knew what it was costing his teammate to voluntarily enter the collapsing building.

 

And then the rest of ceiling fell down.

 

****************

 

 

Grumpily, Ken leaned against his door frame and cautiously took a deep breath. When it didn't hurt quite as much as he expected, he let it out in a huff of irritation. There was still the entire width of his room to cross before he could crawl back into bed, and he was having some serious doubt as to whether he could make it.

 

On the other hand, it was nice that he had managed his first solo trip to the bathroom - he was so fed up with anxious teammates holding him up when all he wanted was to pee in private - but the down side was that he had barely made it to the toilet in the first place because he ached. Then again, he hastily reminded himself, anything was better than the humiliation of Omi helping him with a bedpan. That thought alone was enough to spur him into motion.

 

I can do this.

 

And, somehow, he did.

 

The sheets had had plenty of time to chill down in his absence, and the cold felt initially half-good, then half-painful on the parts of him that were bare. There were enough bandages wrapped around his body to almost qualify as clothing, except that they left strategic parts naked. Not that he wanted to have gotten burned, punched, kicked, stabbed, or otherwise battered there, but dammit, if he had to get wrapped up like a mummy, it would have been nice to be totally covered up so that he could stay warm. Groaning, Ken shifted carefully onto his left side and awkwardly tugged the covers up over his shoulders. Christ, but he hated sleeping on his side. Sprawled out flat, one side up or the other - it didn't matter which - was far better. And now, chilled to the bone, it would take him forever to shiver his way back to warmth, anyway, so there was no point in even trying to sleep.

 

The really annoying part was that he had gotten used to waking up with one or the other of his partners stretched out on the bed beside him. Usually, it was Omi, but Yohji had been there a couple of times, one large hand lying familiarly on Ken's bruised hip, just as an assurance that he wasn't going any place.

 

Aya had even been there, once, so dead to the world that he hadn't so much as twitched when Ken jerked in surprise.

 

Of course, he was gone by the time the injured assassin was able to stay awake long enough to appreciate the novelty of the situation. The whole business sucked.

 

It wasn't that Aya had been avoiding him, exactly. Hell, since they had gotten home, Ken hadn't stayed conscious long enough at a stretch for avoiding/not avoiding to enter into play. Omi had assured him that once they had ruled out a concussion, his cracked ribs were the worst of the damage done. For the rest, burns and scrapes that covered upwards of half his body were annoying, but far from fatal, and sleep was the best remedy for both those and for the pure exhaustion that running for three days straight on nothing but adrenaline had left him with.

 

But it felt like he had been in bed forever.

 

He'd been hurt lots worse, many times. As had they all. And compared to what Aya had endured while he was missing, the injuries to Ken were trivial. He accepted all of that, and was prepared to move on… yet, unaccountably, the ex-ball player was thrown off-balance. It was as if gravity had suddenly reversed itself, or the rule of the game altered to allow goals to be scored in the opponent's net; things were just wrong, and out of sorts, and it was inclined to make him feel crabby and unsure of himself.

 

His bedroom door creaked open without the benefit of a knock, and Ken found himself staring at an Aya dressed in baggy old sweats, with a smudge of white that had to be rice flour across his face. The redhead nodded a silent greeting and, given that his hands were engaged in balancing a loaded tray, he nudged the door shut with his hip.

 

“Food?” Ken rasped hopefully. God, but he hoped it was something solid; one more spoonful of Omi's favorite red bean ice cream, and he'd scream, smoke-inhalation sore throat or no. The eloquence of his pained expression won him the faint smile that was as close as Aya normally came to a full-fledged grin.

 

“Yes. Food.” the older man murmured. He set the tray on Ken's desk, and turned to help arrange pillows for the grumpy brunet.

 

“Jesus! I can do it myself.” Ken batted his hands away.

 

“Hmm.” Aya folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head consideringly to one side. “I suppose that means that you're not interested in the sponge bath, either. Pity.”

 

Flabbergasted, the injured Hunter didn't even notice when the pillow was pried from his hands, fluffed, and positioned with care behind his lower back. “A- Aya, d- did you just make a joke?” he stammered. Slanted violet speared him with a look that clearly said what do you take me for? and Ken blurted, “You did!”

 

The tray was settled across his knees, and Aya pulled over the straight-backed chair from the desk before carefully saying, “I want to apologize. I said some things, before, that were unnecessarily harsh.”

 

Maybe this was what had been bugging him, leaving Ken with a sense of things subtly out of whack? On some subliminal level, perhaps he'd already been aware that the Aya who never did things like this was patiently waiting to speak. That, or the world had just come screeching to a halt, and resumed spinning in the opposite direction; there was no other explanation. Not that Aya had never given anyone an apology before, but for him to admit that he should have moderated his bluntness was a first. Ken couldn't help the suspicion in his tone when he growled, “Why now?”

 

Annoyance flashed across the handsome face, at odds with the ordinary domesticity of the flour. “I'm trying to say that I'm sorry for getting you involved in this mess, for getting you hurt, and for giving a damn about it!” They stared at one another in shocked silence, until the red haired assassin ran a hand awkwardly across the back of his neck. Quietly, he admitted, “That didn't come out quite as I planned.”

 

Mind whirling, there was nothing Ken could say in reply. Obviously, the team's close call had affected the taciturn Hunter more than he was comfortable with, and in a way, it served him right for withholding information time and again. Yet the inept vulnerability wasn't something that his partner would have wished on him, either. Grunting, Ken flipped the top off of a bowl, revealing steamed rice, and settled for muttering, “Thanks for bringing up lunch. I was getting really sick of Omi's idea of invalid food.”

 

“Hm.” Aya nodded tacit acceptance of the unspoken suggestion that they change topics. He reached for another bowl, uncovering miso with tiny dumplings and bits of tofu floating on its rich surface. Grinning, Ken traded the rice for soup.

 

His stomach was comfortably full, and his eyelids were drooping by the time his teammate moved the decimated tray back to the desk, but Ken was reluctant to let go of the peaceful companionship. As Aya shifted the pillows and eased him down to lie flat, the brunet closed his fingers in a lose circle around the man's sinewy wrist, murmuring, “Stay a while?”

 

A troubled sigh answered his request, then Aya finally shrugged. “All right. Can you slide over a little?”

 

Gingerly, the brunet complied, making room for the swordsman's slender body. The soft exhalation when the man settled by his side told him that even if Aya's stubborn personality denied it, his body was ready to call it a day. Stifling a chuckle, Ken said instead, “So, how'd you manage to knock down the wall? Not that we weren't glad to see you. I thought we were toast.”

 

“You recall that I had kept one of the explosives?” At the soccer player's sleepy nod, he continued, “It was their ground - they knew the lay of the land.” Vivid against the streak of white flour, his violet eyes flickered down, meeting Ken's confused brown. “So I changed the landscape. My intention was to provide an alternate exit that they could not have planned for, but as it turned out, it provided an escape from the fire, instead.”

 

“Why didn't you tell me that was what you wanted the extra explosives for?” Suddenly wide awake, Ken burst out, “Didn't you trust me to not screw it up, or something?”

 

Aya jerked as if the words had been backed by a physical slap. “No! Of course not.” he protested. “I didn't know if we would need it, and you had enough other worries.”

 

Ken bit back the first thing that came to mind, and the second as well. He'd trusted Aya, and the bastard had assumed that he couldn't handle his end of the mission. It was just like the old days, where the red haired swordsman was accustomed to take over in the field, directing the team's every move. Omi was the brains when it came to pre-ops, skillfully gathering the needed data, and planning for every contingency. But when it came down to the crunch, it was Aya's cool genius that controlled them.

 

Dammit. He wasn't a kid.

 

Why couldn't the uptight bastard treat him like an equal?

 

“I'm gonna get some sleep.” Ken stated flatly. The younger assassin twisted onto his side, ignoring the unpleasant pull of the burns beneath his bandages. Omi had promised to peel off some of the layers once the salve had been absorbed, since most of them were only first degree, anyway: red, swollen, and inclined to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but far from serious. It was better to think about that, than the deeper ache that no amount of bandages could help.

 

His announcement was met with silence, but then the bed rocked as Aya got up. Ken didn't open his eyes when the door clicked closed.

 

*************

 

 

“Go away. I don't want any company.” Deep in the enveloping nest of blankets, the surly brunet growled as the knock at his door was repeated. Predictably, whichever of the blonds it was simply came in, anyway.

 

“Ah, is that how you talk to a ministering angel, kiddo? No wonder you're stuck up here, all alone.”

 

Well, that answered that question. So it was the wire man's turn to try to do something with him. A corner of the comforter was lifted and, blinking against the afternoon sunlight flooding the bedroom with golden warmth, Ken scowled as ferociously as he could. Yohji's mouth curled into a self-satisfied smirk, and allowed him to yank back control of the bed covers. That the vision in electric blue shirt and tight jeans had referred to himself as an angel certainly came as no surprise, and neither did his presence. Omi had thrown up his hands in disgust and stomped out the last time. And Aya… Aya hadn't been back since their little non-fight the day before. “Yohji. Shut up. Get out.”

 

“Tch. Nope. No can do, Kenken. Your favorite nurse'll have my hide if I come back down empty-handed. I'm supposed to apply the old Kudoh charm, and grill you.” The mattress sagged as, again predictably, the lanky man made himself comfortable against the headboard. Exasperated, Ken shoved back the covers and glared at the sardonic grin that beamed down at him.

 

“Yohji, I'm not gonna repeat myself a third time: get the fuck out of my bedroom.” Instead of obeying, long fingers captured Ken's jaw, turning his head from side to side to look at the scarlet brand on the younger Hunter's cheek.

 

“Hurts, doesn't it?” Yohji murmured gently, and by his tone, he didn't mean the angry red mark, either. Against his better judgement, Ken nodded grudgingly. The senior assassin released him, settling back, and said, “Want to talk about it?”

 

This time, the question elicited a mute shake of the head and, in response to that, a quiet chuckle. “Okay. I can live with a brush-off. For now. Later is good, too.” His mood gone mercurial, the balance suddenly shifted back toward the teasing end of the spectrum again, and Yohji stretched lazily, lounging as if he hadn't a care in the world beyond looking good. “How about I get you up to speed on what you've been missing, huh?”

 

“I guess.” reluctantly, Ken agreed. Seeing that Yohji was in no hurry to vacate his place, the weary athlete slid up into a matching position, wincing when the adhesive on one of the remaining band-aides tried to take the fine hairs on his forearm out by the roots. A long arm reached over, snagging a pillow and holding it in place until the battered soccer player relaxed with a groan. Somehow, the playboy resisted making any remarks about cats, and the kinds of things they dragged in. Instead, he rubbed meditatively at the tip of his nose, ostensibly contemplating the smooth, honey brown boards that made up the slanted ceiling of the lodge. Ken sighed, willing his paranoid brain to quit cataloging the minute changes in his companion's appearance: ranging from how the artfully disheveled autumnal hair had been trimmed a bit to remove singed strands, to the way the jewel-bright blue satin shirt had long sleeves that hung down past Yohji's wrists, presumably to conceal the narrow, purple marks made by the wire that had bound him.

 

But none of the physical damage seemed to extend to his frame of mind as another stretch caused the electric blue shirt to ride up, exposing an inch of tanned flesh. He wriggled down until his lips were close to Ken's ear, and whispered seductively, “Let's see… Omitchi's been burning the midnight oil - if you'll pardon the phrase - back-tracking the faces we saw when we got snatched. One guy he had a really good lead on is already out of the country, but I saw the name of a car rental company in the vehicle they had me in, so there's still hope.”

 

“They're pros, Yotan. I kinda doubt they'd make that kind of a slip.” It was an effort to keep his own voice steady, but Ken managed. Mostly. So what if he was a little louder than necessary, considering the distance to his audience? So long as he kept his eyes centered on his own clenched hands, on top of the covers in his own lap, he was fine. The bed jiggled as the out-of-sight, but far from out-of-mind form next to him moved impatiently.

 

“I know that, Kenken. And the fact that they had the obvious sticker on the windshield covered up makes me think that the one on the complimentary map was for real.”

 

The sarcasm brought Ken's head up and whipping around, landing him nose to nose with his companion, and earning Yohji a glare worthy of Aya on a bad day. “Cut it out, Kudoh.”

 

Having gotten a reaction, Yohji let lose a delighted laugh, tilting his head back and showing off strong white teeth. Flushing angrily, Ken glowered at his own fists again. If this is another prank, so help me God… but as the older blond's amusement died down, so did the ex-ball player's temper. It wasn't Yohji's fault that his injured teammate was sore, and crabby… Not only did Ken have to confess that he made a lousy patient unless he was out cold, but it was probably the way Aya and Aya's issues gnawed at his subconscious that was mostly to blame… with his own problems coming in a close second. And, really, while spotting the rental company's name wasn't exactly what they'd had in hoped for at the start of the mission, maybe it wasn't so bad after all. At this point, any information was good information. Ken also had to admit that the PI's reasoning was just as sound as his eyes had been sharp, picking up on a detail like that.

 

Oh, Hell… He was over-thinking the whole damned thing. Let it go.

 

Grudgingly, the brunet nodded as he scratched at a patch of new, pink skin. But even if he accepted the glib answer, there were other things that still bugged him about the whole operation, beginning with the older man himself. “So… What happened, Yohji?” demanded Ken as he narrowly watched the blond place a cigarette between his lips. “How could you have let yourself get caught like that?”

 

“ `Let myself…' ” Yohji repeated. His voice trailed off into a wry chuckle, and he nervously finger-combed the thick waves of hair back from his forehead, obviously having forgotten that he no longer had a pair of sunglasses to hide behind. “Well… I guess when they grabbed me, I had some grand idea about getting inside their organization, and taking `em down, so they would quit coming after you guys. But let me tell you, when I saw them bring in the kid, I thought my heart stopped cold. I guess he knew I was thinking about doing something stupid.”

 

“No…” Ken whispered. He snagged the nearer of the lanky assassin's hands, gripping it tight as his own lungs constricted with fear, and the red haired swordsman's callous words rang through his memory: Why should his fate be any different? Somehow, the misanthrope of their team had been the one to pick up on what was going on in Yohji's head, not him, and not Omi. “Aya did. I don't know how he knew, but he did. He warned us.”

 

“Aya?” Yohji stopped dead, lighter half way to his mouth and the dangling cigarette. Only when Ken reached over and snapped the zippo shut did he come back to himself with a shake, like a wet dog coming in out of the rain. “Now, how in the Hell…?” The words trailed off into confusion, and finally the playboy waved his lighter in disgust. “How could he know I was set on getting into some trouble, when I didn't know? I didn't get the idea to break things loose until I walked into the Tanuki's office, and the cop-bastard started stone-walling me again.”

 

Bewildered, Ken glanced down to discover that he gripped the wire man's other hand so hard that his knuckles were turning white, yet Yohji hadn't protested, or even tried to free himself. In fact, the lean digits were warm and passive in the younger man's grasp, unaccountably bringing the heat of a blush to the top of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. The gust of a whisper against his ear brought Ken's head up with a jerk, to find himself again nose to nose with the handsome playboy, “Tch. Didn't know you cared, Kenken.”

 

Figure in the dead sexy, intimate tone, and Ken sputtered, “Cut it out, you moron.” The insult sounded strangled even to him, but humor lit the shadowed green eyes.

 

“Sure, sure.” Yohji replied amiably, returning to his normal, lazy drawl. “If you're done with it, can I have my hand back? Now, where was I? Ah… Omitchi's report. Mind you, I was out of the picture for pretty much everything at the whorehouse, so if you've got questions, you'll have to take them up with him. Anyway, the kid stuck to the cover story, letting them drag it out of him bit by bit. There's a pretty solid chance that the baddies do think I'm a PI who's making a living off of blackmail, and that Omi's a brat I'm using to put the squeeze on some hot-shot local politician. It helps that my background checks out. Now, the thing is, what's interesting is that they didn't care too much about the kid, or about me. Seems they asked about `Fujita,' and the Press Club. They might buy that Aya's another one of my sources, but I don't know. Something doesn't feel right. For one thing, they made connecting the dots between Aya's cover apartment, the safe houses, and the Kritiker office that they hit look way too easy. It might've been the coincidence of all of `em being paid for out of the same account, or it might be something more significant.”

 

If there was one thing Ken did trust about the frivolous blond, it was his instincts. If Yohji said that something didn't `feel right,' then there was definitely something wrong. Granted, Aya had figured that it was his own words in the hotel restroom that had blown his cover. Having a name, and an address to go with it could have unraveled the rest. And the interrogation confirmed what Weiss had already suspected, that the people running the auction, Aya's kidnappers, and their assailants were all one and the same. Sighing, he joined Yohji in leaning his head back and staring up at the sun-warmed glow of the high ceiling. It occurred to the younger Hunter that there was one other question that he had to ask, as well, “What about Honey?”

 

The weight beside him shifted uncomfortably, and Ken resisted the temptation to sneak a look at his teammate. The lighter clicked as Yohji lit the cigarette and sent a stream of soft, blue-gray smoke curling up into the air. It took very nearly every ounce of will power available on the part of the flinching athlete to not demand that the cancer stick be extinguished immediately, and ruefully, he reflected that the fire at the Hot Body had finally done what his first brush with death had not: it had made him afraid of flames and smoke. Surreptitiously, Ken rubbed at the oldest of his scars, smooth and white along the undersides of his forearms, a reminder of Kase's betrayal and the ending of a promising soccer career. But at least Yohji was too busy with his own delaying tactics to notice.

 

“Well-l-l…” the wire man's voice trailed off. To Ken's immediate relief, he reached over and stubbed out the cigarette in an abandoned plate on the cluttered nightstand. “Omi said that she must have seen him, when they dragged her into the adjoining office, because she started screaming `What are you doing to the kid?' One of the big, body guard types slapped her around some, to shut her up. From what Aya told us, this must have been right when she walked in the door, okay?” The blond's voice had grown progressively flatter in the course of his recitation, so that the words barely sounded like a question at all, but Ken still nodded his understanding. Poor Honey… She was so sure that it was going to work…

 

“A guy in a suit that was probably one of the two big shots took over interrogating her. Omi couldn't see exactly what they were doing, but it must have hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, because she was crying and screaming… and ended up telling him that the electricity was due to go down in a little while. When Honey-chan tried to tell him that she didn't know anything more, the guy answered that everyone has some secret. Whatever that was supposed to mean. And then the bastard killed her.” Bitterly, the former P.I. glanced over, and Ken was struck not only by how his normally easy-going expression had gone tight, but the way his green eyes turned pine-dark with sorrow.

 

Yohji has a thing about rescuing women…

 

And there had been nothing he could do to help the whore.

 

Swallowing hard, Ken nodded and stared miserably at his own hands, fingers flexing as if he were wearing his retractable blades. A hard clench would have shot the wickedly sharp, curved claws into any opponent, but it was hard to fight something that was proving to be as elusive as the dissipating cigarette smoke drifting through the air. Maybe it was time to face the facts: whoever the strangers were, Weiss was seriously out-classed. Gambling - and losing - with the life of someone from outside the team…

 

But, at the same time, it had been Honey's choice to help them. Sure, Ken had put a lot of pressure on the woman, but he kind of doubted that if push had come to shove that she couldn't have told him where to stick it if she had really wanted to. Nobody lived a successful life on the street unless they could stand up for themselves. Especially not somebody caught on the wrong side of the tracks. In that, he and Honey had been a lot alike. At the thought, he shivered, and let some of the anguished tension drain from his muscles. Glancing up, the shorter man was startled to find his companion staring speculatively.

 

“What's going through your head, Kenken?” Yohji whispered.

 

“Um… Honey, I guess. She had her own reasons for getting into the middle of this mess.” At the slow answer, the blond head dipped briefly, acknowledging. Yohji's generous mouth thinned into a thoughtful line.

 

“Hn. Not too surprising, I guess, that a smart woman like her was living that kind of a life. Sometimes, you just don't have a lot of choices.” A shadow flirted with the man's normally careless expression, turning it somber. For a moment, it was as if Yohji didn't see the brunet at his side at all, but saw something darker out of the past. He shook himself, flashing a humorless grin. “So, twenty-thousand-yen question, what do you think her motives were?”

 

Ken could play along, although he wasn't completely sure what the game was that his teammate was playing. There seemed to be a whole other conversation beneath their words, nuances and meanings that the athlete just didn't get. They slipped through his mental fingers like dry sand, leaving behind nothing but dust, and a nagging itch. He grimaced. “I dunno. Cash, and family, I guess. I don't believe that there is such a thing as a whore with a heart of gold. Not really, anyway. But whatever her reasons were, she didn't deserve to die like that. No one does.”

 

Caught unawares by the blunt reply, Yohji stared at the other Hunter for a long moment, then asked softly, “Do you blame yourself for her getting killed?”

 

It was Ken's turn to be surprised, and he could only return the steady regard as best he could. “No… Not really. Honey was like us. A professional. She knew the risks, and made her own choices. Whether they deserved it, or not, she was trying to help her cousins. And… that's like us, too. I won't dishonor her sacrifice by taking the credit for it away from her, by making it my fault.”

 

The speech wrung an unexpected laugh from the older blond. Smiling, Yohji shook his head, and gathered his younger teammate into a brotherly hug. “When did you get so wise, Kenken?” he murmured.

 

Blushing at the compliment, Ken fought off the urge to do the verbal equivalent of shuffling his feet; `wise' wasn't a word that he could remember ever having applied to him, and hearing it come out of Yohji's mouth somehow made the confusion worse. Maybe he was still over-thinking things? Something, certainly, was interfering with the younger man's ability to keep up with the street-smart PI even half as well as he typically did…

 

The alternative was that Ken was hallucinating the moist heat of the tongue licking at the side of his neck, just where the earlobe joined it.

 

The firm/soft sensations, like brass knuckles inside a velvet glove, were insidiously robbing the soccer player of his higher brain functions, one by one. Okay… it wasn't as if Kase hadn't laughed mercilessly at him in the past for turning into a drooling idiot whenever a fangirl - or boy - got inside his defenses, and God! - the knowing touch was hitting the exact spot… A deliciously wicked scrape of teeth and a low, gratified hum of amusement reminded Ken that it was Yohji.

 

Yohji?

 

It couldn't be. Sure, the blond flirted all the time; leaning confidingly into Ken's space, then whispering something obscene in the younger man's ear, or draping his long body carelessly up Ken's back, knowing that there was just no way the sensation could be ignored. That was standard operating procedure in Weiss. You either got used to it, or had a stroke fighting it, and Ken had learned to blow it off within weeks of when the ex-PI had joined the team, eventually even teaming up with Omi for retaliatory pranks when it became obvious that thinking of the baby assassin and sex in the same sentence messed with the older man's sanity. Not that that had put a stop to the playboy being himself. But none of the jokes and teasing meant a thing beyond Yohji using his incredible body to screw with the universe's percentages, and with the brains of every still-breathing human within the blast radius of his personality. In fact, as a wave of heat flushed Ken's skin, the distracted Hunter wondered if he oughtn't to change the statement to include the non-breathing, as well. A rough, purring laugh punctuated by an occasional appreciative word finally penetrated Ken's consciousness, and he was forced to amend the `it couldn't,' to `it could.' The lean, clever hands roaming across the brunet's torso, dipping alarmingly close to the boundary line formed by the edge of the comforter at his waist, weren't just teasing. They were using every trick in the playboy's alarmingly well-versed arsenal to reduce an injured teammate to Jello, robbing the automatic punch aimed at back of the honey-blond skull of its power.

 

Yohji didn't look like a big guy - all long ropes of muscle stretched on a skinny frame that somehow managed to be sleek and graceful in motion - but he was surprisingly solid. Combining that with his height, the lazy playboy had no trouble pinning his recuperating teammate to the mattress… not, Ken thought hazily as fingertips danced across the demilitarized zone between exposed skin and that covered by his blankets, that it was much of a battle. Something about the smoky, whiskey-and-cigarette-scented hair tickling his nose was acting like a tranquilizer dart in a real tiger's haunch; it was slowing down his goalie's reflexes, slowing down the assassin that lived under the younger man's skin, turning him into a shivering doormat… Christ all mighty, what would he do if Yohji decided to walk all over him?

 

Maybe it was because Ken was exhausted from struggling to get through to Aya all the time, and ending up smacking head first into the Fujimiya bricks? Whatever. Omi and Aya between them had stripped away the numbing insulation celibacy had provided, and it just figured that the predator in Yohji could smell out defenseless sexual prey. As one long leg rubbed unhurriedly along Ken's calf and thigh, the shorter assassin gave a throaty moan and arched his back.

 

“God, Kenken…” Yohji's chuckle was shaken. “Do you have a fuckin' clue what you look like…?”

 

“No… Tell me?” he whispered back, eyes firmly closed. Just then, the temptation to hear someone say the words was overwhelming. Silent Aya, who fought to bottle everything up inside, who was busy cementing shut every chink that had been opened in his soul by his ordeal, had torn down Ken's walls and left him wanting. Was it so terribly wrong to let Yohji have what Aya had refused? A light kiss that turned briefly insistent found the spot beside the trembling brunet's ear again, and then the low words were vibrating against his skin, all laziness forgotten.

 

“Hmm… Sexy, so damned sexy, Kenken. All this time, I've been watching you with those boys, wondering if you were as responsive as you looked… wanting a chance to try it out for myself. See if you're the kind to beg, or if you like to curse when you feel my hands on you…” Strong fingers were weaving themselves up into Ken's messy hair, tipping his head that fraction of an inch that allowed the tongue, and words - delicious, teasing, connecting his skin to his gut in one tight-strung strand of steel, like Yohji's wire words - to slide slowly down the younger man's neck to his collar bones. The broad hand slipped around to the back of his skull, nails just scrapping between the roots of thick, black and brown hair till goose bumps started across Ken's bare chest. The licking, kissing mouth followed, adding first the heat of breath, and then the cool of moisture.

 

“I love seeing you without a shirt, Ken. Always a surprise, and a pleasure, to find out you're hiding all this gorgeous muscle under a plain vanilla outside. Didja know, I watched you doing reps with those free weights, wearing nothing but those baggy soccer shorts, up on the roof…? Morning light, shining on the sweat, pecs and abs flexing… God, what a sight-! Made me hard, so hard, that rhythm just… like… sex.”

 

Without thinking, Ken arched a little more, lifting sternum and tensing abs into a harder, knowing caress that had somehow made it from his neck on down during the low recitation. Between Yohji's touch, and honey-thickened voice, he could imagine being back on the Koneko's roof, taking advantage of the summer breeze when his tiny apartment was stifling and airless, doing his crunches and push-ups till they blurred into meditative non-thought. The idea that Yohji might have come up for a final smoke at dawn, before finally hitting the sack, maybe still dressed in his tight clubbing gear, or maybe shirtless for the breeze, too… it was doing something to a bit of Ken's tightly closed off imagination. He gave a frustrated whine, and would have reached out to pull Yohji over on top, except that the more experienced blond anticipated the move, and caught his companion's wrist, drawing his arm up to lie passively on the pillow over his head.

 

“Hn. Not yet, sweet heart. Not quite done with you yet, you know?” The wicked chuckle hit just as Yohji's mouth grazed past the nearer of Ken's nipples, turning the teasing touch electric.

 

“Bastard.” The harsh gasp hardly sounded like his own voice, and cracked into a sputter that was less pleading than it was a growing keen of grief. Frustrated tears were soaking into the tangled hair along his temples, hot and sticky at the same time. Then he was being pulled up into a rough embrace, snarled in blankets and sheets on the one side and flush against slick satin that was both cool and body-heat warm on the other. Yohji's palm was cradling the back of his skull, and the lean body was rocking gently, drawing Ken into the comforting sway.

 

“It's Aya, isn't it? He's what's got you in such a mess…” Raw sympathy, Yohji being completely honest, for once, broke the last of the Ken's reserve, and he nearly howled, “God damn it, Yohji, just fuck me and get it over with! I don't want your-”

 

“Shut up, Ken.” The simple statement was delivered without malice, just as a steel grip abruptly twisted the athlete's arm up and behind his back, into a neat hold that rendered him powerless to escape the unwelcome comforting. Automatically, Ken tried to struggle free, and promptly discovered that trickery and martial arts again prevailed over brute strength, and he was helpless. In silent apology, Yohji pressed a light kiss to the trapped man's forehead.

 

The fight drained out of Ken.

 

“Look, I know you don't think much of my morals,” The husky whisper against sweaty, sun-streaked hair drew a shiver from Ken. “But I won't just fuck you. You want it, but it's for all the wrong reasons… and I'm the wrong person, too. You may not believe it, but if I'm a slut, then I'm an honorable slut, Kenken. I'll tease you till you burst a blood vessel, but I'll never actually hurt you. Got that?” When the words penetrated, and the younger assassin managed a shaky nod, the pressure on his arm fell away although the hug remained. “So… now you wanna tell me what's going on with you two?”

 

“We… keep fighting. It's like I've got no idea what's going on inside his head.” Ken muttered thickly. “He pushes us away, then he blows off the surveillance on the cops to come rescue Omi and me. He… touches me, does stuff… then he tells me I'll never understand, and he storms out again. I- I have no fucking clue what he's thinking!” The clot in his throat broke free, becoming a hoarse, open-mouthed sob.

 

He was barely thinking as the patient detective skillfully extracted each and every one of his stupid, screwed up encounters with his redheaded tormenter from his memory. Oddly enough, it felt good to dump the disastrous mess onto the playboy, even if it meant getting laughed at for his pains.

 

Except, Yohji wasn't laughing.

 

In fact, his lean fingers were still kneading thoughtfully at Ken's shoulders. The non-judgmental, comforting touch felt like a friend's and the concept finally shocked the act-first, think later ball player into silence. He leaned back and simply stared.

 

“What?” Concern shaded into amusement in the summer-green eyes and, prompted by habit, Ken growled. Then he poked the satin-and-tear-stain covered chest. Hard.

 

“You listened. Without making any smart-ass comments. What is wrong with you?”

 

Yohji shrugged. “I could go back to trying to get in your pants, if you want. Oops, not wearing any under that sheet, are you, Kenken? Guess I only `rise to the occasion' if it's a challenge.”

 

“Smart ass.” Glowering, the brunet repeated the insult. “You're trying to change the subject.” And, much to his surprise, the older man laughed out loud.

 

“Touché. My secret is out: I'm really a closet romantic, and the thought of you melting the Ice Prince does it for me. So much so, that I'll even deny you the pleasure of the Kudoh experience.” His hand snapped up to deflect the automatic slap aimed at the side of his skull, as he made puppy-eyes at the smaller Hunter still coiled in his lap. Then the obnoxious grin eased into a kinder, genuine smile. “Joking aside, you mentioned Aya yelling at you about reading that book, the one about the Meiji assassin that he's obsessed with. Do you want some help with that? I think I might know what's got our fearless leader's undies in a twist.”

 

“You do?” Hope leaped in Ken's chest, ordering him to forget worrying about the source, and to go for it.

 

“Yup. And if I'm right,” the blond paused to leer significantly, “I'll collect my finder's fee later. Deal?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Ken snapped impatiently. He wriggled free of the loosening embrace, suddenly self-conscious. “You find a way to explain Aya so that he makes sense, and you can name your price, okay?”

 

“Sure thing, sweet cheeks. Lemme go get the book.” The smooch and quick grope that he gave Ken as he lazily rose from the bed hardly registered, eclipsed by the sudden fire of curiosity - and hope - that flooded the athlete's brain.

 

Could the investigator actually have spotted something that would be of use? Yohji said that he thought he knew what Aya had been referring to, and the chance to finally get a lead on what was going on in that messed up psyche would be worth any amount of teasing… even sex, if that was the fee that Yohji had in mind charging. Then again, maybe it wasn't…? Who'd a thought that Tokyo's gift to women - and apparently, men - would scruple to bed someone who was willing? A flush burned across Ken's face; he'd not only been willing for a few minutes there, but eager. Anything, just to get the memory of Aya out of his head. To judge by Yohji's skillful approach, the route to forgetfulness wouldn't have been bad, at all.

 

He was still pink when the lanky figure in blue ambled back into his bedroom, and the sight of denim hugging long legs did bad, bad things for Ken's self-control. Thankfully, the too perceptive green eyes were otherwise occupied. Flipping rapidly through the book, Yohji eventually stopped better than half-way through and thrust the volume into Ken's hands. “Here. Start reading at the top of the page.”

 

“What?” All it got him was one of the man's most annoyingly inscrutable looks as Yohji winked and turned to leave, not bothering to offer an explanation. Ken growled and threw himself back against the headboard to follow orders.

 

Unlike the other bits that he had read, this chapter seemed to have been written by someone other than the famed Choshu assassin, and it took Ken a while to figure out the who: Himura Kenshin's son, Kenji. But once he did, he grasped the reason for the tall blond's reluctance to just tell him easily enough, and it was that reluctance that made him sit up and take the time to go through the book more carefully.

 

… that there were many and varied regrets in the course of my father's life is something that I have come to accept, even as I sorrow, and it is because of that acceptance that I now understand that there was one whom he loved with a passion bordering on hatred, one whose simple existence meant more to him than that of my mother, his wife, or of my uncle Sagara-san, or even his bake wakashu, Yahiko-kun. That this person was not only a man, but an enemy, was the source of much anguish for my father, for the root of their differences lay not in Saitou's position with the Shinsengumi, who supported the Bakufu, rather than the Choshu and Satsuma factions, but in his belief that killing was an acceptable way to stamp out evil. For, as very nearly the sole survivor of the upper echelons of that group, Saitou Hajime embraced the philosophy of Aku Soku Zan, even as my father foreswore the killing of even the guilty.

 

I believe that it was this insurmountable difference that drove them to part company, despite discovering that they fought for the same goals, ultimately.

 

 

**************

 

 

Dammit. Now his brain was humming with conflicting urges, just as much as his body was. Reading that section of the book after Yohji had dumped it on him generated practically more questions than it had answered. Yeah, sure… Ken could see what the older man was getting at; if Aya had brain-washed himself into thinking that his situation paralleled that of the near-mythic red haired hitokiri of the Restoration, then it would provide him with all the excuses that the modern Kritiker assassin would need to keep on punishing himself. They were none of them free of sin - look at Yohji with that pretentious tattoo. If the team's generous, fun-loving playboy had seen the need to brand himself with an outward mark of the stain on his soul, where did that leave the rest of them? Even Omi, true-hearted and pure that he was, carried around a load of darkness and nightmares.

 

So… what if that Himura guy had, too? Aya wasn't the Choshu's sword, any more than Ken was. True, it was rare that they got a mission with no gray areas at all - just look at some of the politicians that Persia had sent them after during his brother's coup - and sometimes, the innocent died. Ken threw the book at his rumpled bed and put some of his nervous energy to use limping carefully from one side of his room to the other.

 

The innocent. Was that what this mess was all about, and not Himura, at all? Aya's history before Weiss was kind of vague, but from what the ball player had been able to learn, it sure seemed that the Takatori had deserved their fates, every one of them being more rotten than the last. In a way, it was a blessing in disguise that Takatori Reiji's callous disregard for his youngest child had landed that boy with Persia and Manx. They might not have done the greatest job parenting - no one could argue that turning their charge into an assassin was definitely not according to Dr. Spock - but they had given the kid an unfailing sense of what was right, and decent, and good in the world, and the chance to fight for it.

 

What more could any of them ask for, than that?

 

Ken paused by the mirror, and stared at himself: fit and healthy in nothing but shorts, despite fresh pink patches from going up against the burning whorehouse. Chestnut and sooty black streaked hair that was way past needing a trim, fell down across wide brown eyes that let the world outside too easily see every thought flittering through his head, but for all that, it was an honest, likeable face. Maybe he wasn't the smartest member of Weiss, but he did okay, holding up his end of things. The guilty hands curling unconsciously into fists were his contribution to the battle against the Dark Beasts.

 

For a second, he could have sworn that the darkness was dripping from his bugnuks like ink, puddling in a tide of night that threatened to swallow him from the ankles up, but he blinked, and the illusion was gone.

 

“What are you doing out of bed?” The low, barely curious words from behind spun Ken around, and nearly knocked him off his unsteady feet.

 

“A- Aya! What-” Involuntarily, half-spooked by the noiseless intrusion, the younger man took a clumsy step backwards, knocking against the mirror. A scowl flitted across pale, composed features, and the swordsman reluctantly gave up his post leaning against the open doorframe to stalk silently on stocking feet across the room.

 

“I heard you walking around from downstairs. Go back to bed.” The implacable voice implied that the injured athlete was an idiot, but that it was no skin off of Aya's nose if it came down to smacking some sense into him; either way the result would be the same, and Ken would be back under the covers.

 

Being scolded so coldly made the brunet want to whine in protest, something that he figured would go over like the proverbial lead balloon. Instead, he tried to walk past with careful dignity, and lowered himself gingerly to the mattress, grumbling, “Fine, fine… So sue me if I can't stand being stuck here any more.”

 

The stern set of Aya's mouth softened, quirking into a small, malicious smile. “Ah. I see. Would you like me to have Yohji come up to tuck you in?”

 

A hot flare of anger brought Ken surging to his feet, ready to connect his fist with the jaw of the stubborn, red haired bastard- Until realization stopped him in his tracks; Aya had subtly braced himself in anticipation of the violence, yet he made no move to slip into a defensive stance.

 

Ken's shoulders slumped as his fist dropped to hang limply at his side. “Christ, you want me to hit you, or something? What is with you? I don't understand what makes you act like this.” Tentatively, he took first one, then another slow step closer to the slender figure in its armor of faded black knit, and carefully reached out his other hand to touch a strand of unkempt hair. It had grown out a bit in the past couple of weeks, reaching now in a ragged line to brush elegant brows that pulled down into an uneasy frown. “Aya... I don't want to fight with you. I- I'm tired of it... of fighting. Of you, and me... of us pushing each other away all the time.”

 

Startled violet, catching at the room's fading light, flashed up to meet Ken's tired gaze, before skating uncontrollably to one side. But he didn't resist when the other Hunter leaned a head of bitter brown hair into the side of his neck. In fact, he exhaled quietly, murmuring, “Me, too.”

 

They stood there together, barely touching, for a long while as the spring evening ebbed toward nightfall. Somewhere below, the faint sounds of rattling dishes and the muted racket of a TV game show reminded them that they really weren't alone, that the rest of Weiss was occupied with mundane things like fixing dinner. But it didn't seem to matter. Ken nuzzled at the line where sweater collar met skin, feeling goose bumps spring into existence when his breath first warmed, then cooled. Aya's hand slid up to cradle the back of his skull, holding the athlete steady against him. He whispered, “I came upstairs to tell you to go to bed.”

 

“Okay.” Ken whispered back. “So tell me, why don't you?” That got him a barely felt chuckle, vibrating against his forehead.

 

“Ken. Go to bed.”

 

“Hah.” He snuggled against the thick knit, smelling the lingering tang of laundry detergent, and the cedar lining of the closet in Aya's room. Under that was the soap and shampoo scent of fastidious cleanliness, reminding the younger man on some subliminal level of the feeling of safety that had belonged to the convent school and the attached orphanage. The scrubbed corridors, and scratchy, fresh sheets of dormitory beds, and the nuns' habits... the first, and best home that he could remember. A home that he hadn't appreciated until years and disasters later, until now, when a teammate reminded him. The living pillow shifted minutely, conveying mild exasperation.

 

“Fine. We'll both go.” The fingers laced into Ken's hair slid down, gripping his upper arm with the same irresistible insistence of a nun enforcing curfew, as the swordsman urged his captive toward his waiting mattress and the snarled bedding. Snickering, Ken briefly entertained an image of Aya finding himself in a long black habit, instead of his baggy sweater, glaring fit to commit murder, and what Yohji would probably say if he knew the direction of supposedly innocent Kenken's thoughts. Aya added, “I'm not sure that I want to know what's so funny.”

 

“No, you don't.” agreed the former ball player, allowing himself to docilely follow the slim redhead's lead. “Some things really are best left as secrets.”

 

“Hn.” Aya grunted. “Bed.” He pushed and tugged at the unresisting body as if Ken where an especially uncooperative piece of furniture, or a picture that just had to hang tilted on the wall. It was too bad that the redhead didn't seem to notice that every contact with those sword-callused fingers was driving away the lethargy that had gripped the younger man, reminding him that that damned wire man, Yohji, had basically taken his ball and gone home, rather than play nice. But there was a difference to their touches, too. The older blond promised good times, while Aya... Aya felt like he smelled.

 

Like home.

 

There was a quizzical tilt to the man's head as he looked down at the idiotic grin creeping across Ken's face. The diffused light spilling through the half-open bedroom door from the hallway beyond painted shadows down one side of him, blending black clothing into darkness, while limning a straight nose and firm jaw. He seemed unaware of a sudden pang that clutched Ken's chest, or the way the new emotions were getting tangled up. But Aya made no objection when Ken pulled him down into the blankets, and then burrowed his face into the redhead's shabby sweater.

 

“Aya. Make love to me.”

 

The lengthy pause made Ken think that he had been refused, but then a quiet “All right.” drove the pent up breath from his lungs, and he sagged in relief. He turned his head fractionally, meeting unreadable violet eyes as Aya propped himself up on one elbow. They might have stayed that way all night, with the wary brunet trapped by the calm scrutiny, except that translucent lids closed slowly over the remarkable, twilight gaze until long lashes lay in perfect arcs against the pale skin. Aya's head dipped down, placing a lingering kiss on Ken's temple.

 

He shivered at the brush of soft skin. The kiss wandered lower, grazing his ear lobe, and it took a minute for him to realize that the moist warmth of an exhalation contained a word: “Relax.” Right… relax…?Ha! In spite of himself, Ken snorted derisively, but the snort got transformed into a gasp when sharp teeth nipped to reinforce the command. Strong fingers trapped his head from the other side, holding him still while Aya's mouth traced a leisurely line from ear, to jaw, to chin.

 

It was almost exactly the same thing that Yohji had done earlier, but despite that, the sensations were nothing the same. Yohji's caress was frank, and open, knowing exactly what he was capable of and generously willing. By contrast, everything about the redhead was about control. Each precise, skillful touch burned hotter than the whorehouse fire, and at the same time, was dry ice cold.

 

God, what Ken wouldn't give to feel Aya slip from his leash. And, as if the quiet groan had been words, unreadable slanted eyes flicked up briefly to meet Ken's before drifting half-closed, veiling the assassin's response. Aya slid gracefully from the bed, and pulled off his bulky sweater. But he didn't stop there, grasping the hem of the black tee-shirt that molded itself to his torso and stripping it away with the same smooth, economical movements, revealing taut muscle wrapped in milky skin that to the younger man's glazed eyes seemed to glow.

 

“Whoa.” muttered Ken. “Go take a cold shower, stupid brain.” The admonishment helped, letting him mentally smack his libido back in line. This was Aya, for Christ's sake, not some pretty Tanagawa whore. Aya, who had nearly died, neglected, locked in a fucking basement. Aya, who paused in the act of unzipping black jeans to give his partner a wary stare, as if talking to himself might be an indicator that Ken's sanity had finally slipped around the bend.

 

Shaking his head slightly, the redhead left the unfastened pants loose around his hips, padding first to Ken's desk to turn on the small lamp, then over to silently close the hall door, shutting off the noises of their housemates. Coming back into the pool of warmer, yellow light filtering through the lamp's shade, he very deliberately peeled away the rest of his clothing, and waited, nude, for a long moment.

 

Letting Ken look his fill.

 

That the pale skin glowed, was definitely a delusion brought on by an over-wrought brain. But even discounting that, Aya was beautiful. He'd gained back some of the weight he'd lost during his captivity, turning his lines predator-sleek, so that the pattern of scars took on the aspect of an animal's markings. So of course Ken's eyes followed the pointing triangle from the breadth of masculine shoulders to just as masculinely narrow hips, to carmine-dark, red curls. It was beyond gratifying to see that Aya was mostly erect, and hardening under the weight of Ken's perusal.

 

It just wasn't possible. How could a creature that threatened to drive the breath from his lungs - incredible and unearthly, while still completely and utterly mortal - be standing there? For him? Mute, Ken held out his hands.

 

But Aya was no apparition. He allowed the brunet to tangle their fingers together before inexorably pushing their entwined hands down to rest on the bedding. His head dipped down to brush a kiss over first one, then the other of the brown nipples. The tremulous whimper that the gesture elicited made the kisses return, open-mouthed and wet, the tip of his tongue curling around the rising peak. Unable to help himself, the shaking athlete bucked up against the temptation, only to have the solid weight sitting beside him lean in to hold him down.

 

And maybe that was a good thing, considering what Aya was doing to him. Whatever doubts Ken might have entertained about the slim swordsman being experienced were long gone - right on the heels of rational thought and the memory of the house being occupied by two more people. Ken cursed, hoarse and mostly incoherent, when the imprisoning hands refused to let him go, dammit! He wanted to run his own hands over flexing muscles, to feel the subtle shift and play of strength under him - not to be pinned down, helpless. But when teeth scraped lightly at the hollow between his collarbones, everything except his bones liquefied in the electric shock.

 

Dazed, Ken barely noticed when lean fingers slipped from his, turning so that thumb and forefinger closed around the solid mass of his wrists, stroking light and gentle over the tendons and pulse points before releasing him entirely.

 

The mattress tipped and shifted as Aya switched from sitting on the edge to stretching full length along Ken's side. The shorter Hunter wrestled his eyes open far enough to stare at the inhumanly calm face so close to his, feeling the steady rhythm of the swordsman's heart speed up at the proximity, before being ruthlessly tamed again. It was grief that Ken felt in that instant, over how unwilling Aya was to let go, even as he gave in to his partner's entreaties.

 

Aya. Make love to me.

 

Freeing his sister from Esstet had subtly broken something inside Aya. The lingering rage that had prompted spectacular tantrums against the Takatori had already burned out, but letting Aya-chan walk out of his life without even contacting her, had turned the ashes cold and bitter. More than anything, just then, Ken wanted to break past the barriers. Wanted not only to mend the fractures caused by the distant redhead's captivity, but to wipe away the older hurts as well.

 

But he didn't have the courage to say, `Let me love you back.'

 

Assuming that Ken even could.

 

Wasn't he just as damaged, with his obsession about Kase, and the way the berserk rages tempted him to let his mind fall away, and never come back? It would be so easy to let go, to forget everything that had ever mattered and just live for the immediacy of each kill. But at the same time, the whimpering Hunter didn't want to let go; if he did, he would lose the sense that what Weiss was trying to do was worth the carnage and sin.

 

“Don't think, Ken.” The soft command broke into his thoughts, scattering them like chaff in the face of the Divine Wind. Then the callused hand was back, briefly circling the younger man's wrist, squeezing the solid mass of bones and tendons nearly to the point of pain, as Aya added, “Not even about me.”

 

Shocked, dark brown eyes flew open wide, catching the echo of hurt on the pale oval hovering close enough to kiss. So he did the only thing he could think of, raising his head far enough from the pillow to let his actions say what words couldn't.

 

Aya's mouth tensed, resistant, before yielding to open and return the fierce onslaught. The flashes of teeth and tongue, teasing, were more than enough to force Ken into obedience; destroying his capacity to worry any further about the psychology of the situation. Instead, his attention was focused on the touch of lean shoulders to slim waist, of a sleek length moving purposefully along his own more compact, muscled body. Being arranged lying flat on his back with his knees upraised, and the soles of his feet planted firmly on the mattress felt awkward. Ken longed to move, to reciprocate, but the all-over ache of his body emphatically said nothing doing! He had no choice but to allow Aya to set the pace, and the problem with that was that the redhead was proving to have a sadistic gift for winding him up until he thought he was going to die from over-stimulation, and then backing off just enough to let the former ball player regain his focus.

 

It was leaving him hungry to just dammit get to the main event.

 

But Aya had made it clear that it was his show. Each slow, tender touch was deliberately contributing toward his goal, and each time Ken twitched impatiently, that impatience was redirected until the trembling eased. Kneeling over the gasping brunet, Aya lowered his head until the short-cropped length of his bangs brushed over first one cinnamon-brown nipple, then the other. The next pass, it was his forehead that lightly grazed the taut skin, and then the wet heat of his mouth was sucking on the painfully aroused nub. Choking back an inarticulate cry, Ken arched, and as his hips lifted involuntarily, the hand that had been gripping his thigh slid beneath his buttocks.

 

The short, panting breaths weren't pulling enough oxygen into his starved lungs, and black patches were growing in front of Ken's eyes. Blindly, he stared at the golden-brown slope of the wooden ceiling overhead as he fought to separate the sensations flooding over him, the slow lapping of a tongue getting confused with stroking fingers. Aya eased up just enough for Ken to take a deeper breath, then drove a finger in, extracting a strangled scream.

 

Oh… God!

 

Hard muscled arms were holding down his thrashing hips, refusing to allow Ken to buck wildly even as the burning pressure expanded, touching places that he'd half forgotten. But Kase's touch had never made him so crazy. A half memory of his former best friend's triumphant laughter, reveling in Ken's responsiveness and willingness to lose himself at another's direction flitted past, only to be lost in the here and now caress of someone else. Someone whose silence by contrast was even more capable of reducing the soccer player to sobbing incoherence.

 

Kase…. Kase couldn't begin to compare to what Aya could do to Ken's body, heart, and soul.

 

His pulse was slowly approaching something like normal as gentle hands palmed his chest and stomach, rubbing in calming circles until Ken could think and hear again. The familiar, deep voice said, “I want you to stay where you are, and trust me.” Jerkily, Ken nodded, unable to rely on his voice even for something as simple as giving his consent. Although he nearly had second thoughts when his partner's lean body curled on its side, seating Ken's rump firmly in Aya's lap. The nearer of Ken's legs wound up hooked over top of the redhead's hip, while the other was trapped between Aya's thighs.

 

Ken turned his head to find opaque pewter staring at him with calculating intensity. Then Aya blinked, and frowned. “Are you uncomfortable?”

 

“N- no…” he whispered. “Just feels kinda weird.” And it did. He couldn't remember lying on his back for sex without a solid weight to hold him down; it made him feel vulnerable and too naked.

 

“Ah.” The noncommittal sound was pure Aya. Lying on his side, head pillowed on one out-flung arm, the older Hunter seemed to read every random, nervous thought zinging through the brunet's brain. Sweat sheened the milk-pale skin, but every breath was steady and even. A wry smile abruptly quirked his lips, and he said softly, “Your injuries aren't severe, but I didn't want to put pressure on the burns, as that would be very painful. Does that make sense?” Aya's free hand settled lightly on Ken's stomach, and stroked down until callused fingers tangled into dark curls. At the same time, the narrow hips moved, settling Ken's bottom against Aya's groin.

 

Whimpering, the brunet pushed in return, grinding until he saw Aya flush, and felt the iron command slip. But even then, Aya was holding back, waiting for an answer. Ken gasped, “Yeah, I get it. Christ, Aya… I…” but the rest of the sentence was swallowed by a moan when Aya drew back, and then pushed.

 

Dazedly, Ken bit down on the inside of his cheek to contain the noises he was starting to make. At some point, when he hadn't been paying attention, Aya had slicked himself up so that the slow penetration was hot but surprisingly painless. Ignoring the steel grip on his own cock, Ken invited the intrusive pressure deeper, tightening internal muscles, then releasing them, until he couldn't stand it any more.

 

“Slow…” a low voice counseled. Lean hips flexed, drawing back, then thrusting forward with exquisite precision. Bracing himself, Ken reciprocated, discovering that despite having one limb pinned and a clever hand massaging around the base of his cock, he was still the one in control, and could chose the exact angle of the earth-shaking impact.

 

The deliberate rhythm had the measured cadence of a dance, sensuous and lingering, gradually building until Ken was sobbing out loud, matching the ragged, open-mouthed gasps of the man making love to him. Just as the shaking brunet reached the point where his movements disintegrated into convulsions, Aya let go, driving himself once, twice, and a third time into the shuddering body he clutched tightly. The force of the redhead's orgasm wrung a scream from Ken as he bent back in a taut bow, semen jetting over his stomach and the rumpled bedding.

 

**************

 

The sweaty sheets had been changed for cool, crisp cotton that felt better than silk against Ken's over-sensitized skin. He frowned a little, vaguely remembering strong hands rolling him like an invalid first onto one side, then the other as the bedding had been changed. A line of warmth all down his left side and looped across his middle attracted his attention next, and he blinked open confused eyes.

 

It would have been too weird if the post-sex clean-up had been performed by Yohji, but Ken was still relieved to see familiar dark crimson, rather than autumn gold on the pillow.

 

Aya had tucked the covers up around his bedmate's bare chest, but left himself largely bare. Damp tendrils of fine hair clung to his forehead, and curled at the hinge of his jaw, and the faint flush from a hot shower lent color to skin that resisted tanning. Scars, ice white for the oldest, and a raw red for the newest marred the perfection, making the swordsman mortally attractive, instead of inhumanly beautiful. Ken breathed out shakily, tempted to cover the wound on Aya's shoulder that had come from his kidnapping; just then, he didn't want to be reminded of the past weeks' events, didn't want memory to spoil something so precious.

 

But there was still an enemy out there.

 

“Aya.” A soft grunt from the apparently sleeping redhead confirmed that he was, indeed, already awake, even though he'd made no move to get out of Ken's bed. Taking that as a good sign, the younger man said quietly, “I borrowed that book back from Yohji. Your - our - situation is nothing like that Himura guy's. Or Saitou Hajime's.”

 

The swordsman's eyes were open, narrow slits of angry color in his pale face. Ken's hand closed on the wrist of the arm still flung across his waist, fingers grinding painfully into the small bones when Aya tried to jerk free. Before he could be shut out entirely, the brunet continued doggedly. “Himura was wrong to give up the person he loved, to turn his back on everything. You're wrong to do the same thing, to us. To me.”

 

“Himura was a murderer.” Aya hissed furiously, tensing where he lay at Ken's side. “He realized that what he'd done was wrong, and made the decision to atone. Saitou… did not. How could anyone in their right mind be expected to stay with someone who refused to repent?”

 

A spark of anger lit in Ken's gut, but he ignored the warning bells at the back of his mind, snapping back, “They were on opposite sides in a political revolt - but that's a question of right and wrong, not good and evil, Aya. Us… we made the same mistake, getting caught between the Takatori. Saitou changed his name, and became a policeman so he could fight corruption. We can do the same!”

 

Instinct gave the shorter Hunter a half a second's advance notice as the trapped redhead exploded into action, but for once it was enough. Ken levered the lean body over, wrapping one leg around the vicious kick aimed for the side of his knee as his right arm snaked up into a choke hold on Aya's neck. Neither of them was in the best of shape, but when it came to a contest of strength versus strength, Ken had the advantage in both weight and muscle mass. Gasping, he snarled into the exposed ear a scant inch from his mouth, “He. Was. Wrong.”

 

The tangled bed clothes caught between their straining bodies gave Aya's an opportunity to writhe out of Ken's hold on his legs. But the advantage was short lived when Ken growled and transferred his grip to the nape of the redhead's neck, flipping the two of them over in a heap onto the floor. The compact ball player landed on top, ruthlessly slamming his quarry's injured shoulder into the polished boards, incapacitating one arm in numbing agony. Furious, he shouted, “Listen to me! 'Saitou Hajime lived by the Shinsengumi's motto: `aku soku zan.' Slay. Evil. Instantly. They weren't just words, Aya, they were his life. What the Hell did he have to repent for?”

 

Rage overrode the pain contorting Aya's flushed face. Tightly, he hissed, “Fuck you, Hidaka.” And in the moment of stunned shock that followed, Ken found himself flying ass over tea kettle, and slamming into the front of his dresser. Before he could unscramble his brain and tongue, let alone his limbs, the door was ricocheting off the wall as Aya yanked it open and stormed out.

 

The younger man gave up and sagged against the floor.

 

 

*************

To be continued...

 

Bibliography and Author's Notes:

 

Yes, bibliography. Saitou Hajime was a real person, like some of the other characters in Rurouni Kenshin. As described earlier in the chapter, he really was one of the few in the Shinsengumi to survive the fall of the Bakufu. If you're interested, a fascinating English language resource is Mibu no Ookami (www. miburo. com / index.html) if the site is back up. Another is the Saitou Hajime Fact Sheet (www. shinsengumihq. com / saitouhajimebf. htm). What's particularly interesting about these sites is that they have photos of the actual Saitou, as well as information concerning his skills, record, and character.

 

A chronology of historical (as opposed to fictional) events is located here: www. dreamfeather. net / index. php? page= shinsengumi. It seems to be fairly accurate.

 

Another resource is The Shoguns's Most Dreaded Samurai Corps: The Bloody Legacy of the Shinsengumi by Romulus Hillsborough. (Tuttle Publishing, 2005, ISBN: 0804836272). I have the same complaint about this book as I did with his Samurai Sketches; while Hillsborough's writing is eminently readable, his books are a bit lacking in proper documentation. There are essentially no footnotes to lead the scholar to the juicy parts of his bibliography. On the other hand, given that this is the only book in English that focuses exclusively on the Shinsengumi that I've found, I suppose I should be grateful for even this much.

 

 

And, once again, thank you to the many people who have allowed me to drive them nuts via email and reviews. I appreciate your comments and suggestions more than I can express, even while I'm looking for cover from the oft-promised sharp objects headed my way.