[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Walking on Hell
Scribblemoose

Never forget:
We walk on hell
Gazing at flowers

Issa

Chapter 5- Reunion

Aya. I'll find you, wherever you are. I promise.

The rain poured down, plastering Aya's hair to his skull, drenching his coat and making it heavy, dragging on his shoulders. The panic had settled now into the familiar, dull ache of anger in his belly. He had a mission again. To find Aya-chan. To find whoever had taken her, and kill them.

The adrenaline gave him focus and an energy he hadn't felt for months. He felt as sharp and deadly as the katana that had settled so comfortably back at his side.

Ken and Omi were leaving the roof, Omi sliding an arm around Ken's waist, snuggling into the crook of his lover's arm.

Yohji leaned on the safety rail, looking down at the street below with no respect for vertigo. His hair, a little longer, maybe, than the last time Aya had seen him, straggled over his collar and shoulders. His mission clothes clung to the line of his body, thinner than ever and seeming somehow taller.

He turned to look at Aya, leaning back on the rail, and took the soggy but still burning cigarette from his mouth.

"I'd forgotten what it felt like," Yohji said.

Aya didn't say anything. Yohji's eyes were locked on his, binding them together as sure as if he had his wire around Aya's throat.

"There's no feeling like it, just after a mission," Yohji continued. "You feel excited, exhilarated even, and sick and sad and guilty. Angry for whatever the bastards did, and angry that this world is so screwed up that we have to kill them. Feel like shit, because we're no better than them."

Yes we are. You are. It doesn't matter.

He was walking towards Yohji as if magnetised, even strides, slow and deliberate, until he was so close that the smoke from Yohji's cigarette was seeping into his own lungs, acrid and heavy with memories.

It was over with Kazuki. He'd always known it wouldn't last, and this was the moment it ended. More or less.

Aya felt a ruffle of a breeze through his hair, a whisper of loss.

"Always makes me horny, too," Yohji said, dropping the cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with one booted foot. "Eh, Aya? Do you find that? Post stress lust, I call it. Gets me every time."

They looked at each other.

"I remember," said Aya.

Then his mouth was on Yohji's, and he was bending him back over the rail, kissing him ruthlessly, and Yohji's gloved hands were in his hair, Yohji's tongue was twisting around his. Aya felt a searing passion he'd tried hard to forget over these months of gentle, normal affection. He wrenched Yohji's coat open, moaned and twisted his fingers inside, brushing the bare flesh of Yohji's midriff before he found buckle and button and zip, and finally clasped the heat of Yohji's cock, springing straight and hard into his hand.

"Fuck, Aya..." Yohji gasped, dropping his forehead down onto Aya's shoulder.

"Is this what you want?" said Aya, his voice cold and hard for all the feelings that were welling up inside of him.

"Aya..."

Aya started to rub, slow at first, with a soft, tantalising grip, forcing Yohji to thrust into his fist to get what he wanted.

"We could go back to the Koneko," Yohji murmured feebly. "Fuck properly... ah..." Aya gripped Yohji's shaft, a more firmly, squeezed a little. Yohji surrendered then, fucking Aya's hand, pressing his hipbone against Aya's own erection through the layers of denim and leather.

It took no more than a few minutes before Yohji was gasping and spurting over Aya's fingers. He milked out every last drop, wondering when Yohji had last had sex, that he should come so quickly and so much.

Of course. Neu. He must have had Neu. That's why he looked so guilty yesterday, in the mission room. How else could she have got close enough to strangle him?

So transparent. So fucking obvious.

And none of his business, he reminded himself, the memory of Kazuki's warm smile spearing guilt and sadness through him.

Yohji sank to his knees, unbuckling Aya's soaked coat with trembling fingers, opening his pants and shucking them down just far enough, shoving his shirt up out of the way. Aya closed his eyes and clutched at Yohji's shoulders with his fists as his cock was enveloped in wet warmth. The rain ran like tears down his uptilted face, ran into his mouth, soft and cool on his tongue.

Yohji let Aya's cock drop from his mouth, looked up at him.

"Aya..."

Aya forced his eyes open, and returned Yohji's gaze, instantly lost in pleading emerald eyes.

"Come home," said Yohji. "Let me make it good."

"No," Aya said, and pulled Yohji's head back towards his erection. He watched it disappear slowly between Yohji's pliant lips, saw the bulge of it against his cheek for a moment before Yohji adjusted the angle to take it down his throat. He watched as Yohji sucked and fucked him with his mouth, loving and expert as ever. He watched as he flooded that willing mouth with semen, saw the pleasure in Yohji's eyes, a kind of victory, and knew he was vulnerable in that moment, his own expression raw and uncertain.

"We need to get out of here," said Yohji, wiping the mouth with the back of his hand, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. "The police will be here any minute. There's a diner round the corner. Let's get changed and go there. We can talk."

"Alright," Aya agreed. "But I won't go back to the Koneko. I'm not staying. I won't be Weiss again."

"No," said Yohji. "I know."

They both knew it was a lie.

* * * * * * *

It was a week later that Aya went back to collect his things from the apartment before he finally returned to Weiss. The apartment block was clean and somehow cheerful, jarring with his melancholy mood. He felt as if death clung to him like a damp cloak; he almost expected Kazuki to be able to see it.

The kitchen was full of light, the windows open, letting in the distant sound of the ocean. Kazuki welcomed him with a bright smile and a gentleness he didn't deserve, hugged him tight, made him tea. He led Aya to the comfortable sofa Kazuki had made him buy, and the boy lay on his back, his head in Aya's lap, looking up at him through dark blonde bangs that streaked his face and obscured his soft green eyes.

He looked beautiful, and astoundingly young. It was easy to remember that he was only a scant year older than Omi, or Aya-chan.

Aya.

He had to find her. The hours and days of not knowing where she was were turning into weeks, and he couldn't bear it. Grief and loss writhed inside him, and it was all he could do to stop himself from screaming.

"How was your trip?" Kazuki asked, reaching up to wind a finger in one of Aya's eartails.

Aya stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time.

"It was... complicated," he said.

What am I doing here? He'd never deserved any of this. He'd been foolish to think his old life had stopped, that he could escape. It would never stop. He didn't deserve for it to stop.

"I missed you," said Kazuki. "Promise you won't think I'm silly but... I was running an errand down by the hospital last Tuesday, and I thought I saw your car. I got stupidly excited, I thought you were back early and... but it can't have been you, I know, not really. I didn't hang around, it was pissing down with rain, and when I'd finished the errand, the car was gone. I really missed you. Fuck, you must think I'm so stupid." He grinned, all cute dimples and twinkling eyes, as if defying Aya to think such a thing.

An unfamiliar guilt burned in Aya's gut. Nothing to do with killing and blood and revenge. Just ordinary, everyday, human guilt. He'd almost forgotten what that felt like.

"Kazuki..."

"You said there was a funeral," he said. "Was it someone close to you? You never talk about Tokyo, or your family or..."

"No, I'd only just met him. But I liked him. It wasn't right that he should die. He was very... honourable."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Still, you're back now. You can put it behind you. I'll cheer you up." He winked.

"Oh, Kazuki," Aya sighed, very quietly. "You deserve so much better."

"What?"

"I have to go back," he said, his voice as clear and dispassionate as he could make it. "I'm moving back to Tokyo tomorrow. For good. Alone."

Kazuki blinked; Aya watched him, waiting for it to sink in.

"I could come with you," he said. "I don't like it here much anyway."

Aya tried to imagine Kazuki living in the shadow of neon and rain that was Tokyo. It was impossible. There was no place for this sunkissed, golden vision of youth in the Hell Aya deserved. None at all. Kazuki's place was here, free to swim in the ocean, play in the sun, and above all else, be normal. Happy.

"I'm sorry," he said, brushing the hair back from Kazuki's gentle face. "I've always known I might have to go back. I should have told you before. But-"

"You thought I might have left if I'd known." His voice was steady, but the bright smile was long gone, his eyes sad.

"What? No, it wasn't that. It was just..."

"It's okay. I understand. You've never promised me anything." Matter of fact. Brave.

That was true, thought Aya, part of him wishing he had. That he could have given Kazuki that much at least, a broken promise.

"I want you to keep the apartment," said Aya. "I've changed the deeds into your name, and it's all paid for. You don't have to stay here if you don't want to, you can sell it and travel round the world or even go to college, but at least..."

"What?! Fuck, Aya, you didn't have to... wow. You're not kidding?"

"No," said Aya.

"Of course not," Kazuki grinned at him, although the hurt in his eyes was growing every second. "Sorry, I forgot for a minute. Mr serious and all."

"I want to know you'll be okay. Here."

"I will. Thanks, I... I don't know what to say. I won't sell it, I love this place, and the ocean and... oh Aya..."

"I'm sorry," said Aya. "I'm really sorry."

"Then stay," said Kazuki, earnestly.

For a moment, Aya almost thought he could. He didn't have to go back to the Koneko permanently, he could still work for Weiss and look for his sister and come back here sometimes and...

... and bring with him the stink of death and danger, until finally someone noticed what Kazuki meant to him, and decided to use him. A hostage, a sacrifice. Worse still, a recruit.

No.

And besides...

"I'm sorry," he repeated. He knew Kazuki wouldn't believe him. Not yet. Maybe in a few months, when Aya still hadn't returned, but not now.

He scooped Kazuki up in his arms to kiss him for the last time. In fact, it wasn't the last time; Kazuki pressed his warm body up against him and kissed him back so hard, and offered himself so completely and generously, and wanted him so much, that Aya ended up staying the night, lost in the boy he could almost have loved, in the life that Fujimiya Ran might have had.

It was dawn before he finally left Kazuki sleeping, and crept back to the rain-sodden hell of Tokyo.

* * * * * * *

"We should have made something special, for Aya-kun's first night back," said Omi, frowning at the odd array of sushi and pizza that Ken was spreading out on the kitchen table.

"Or at least stuck to one nationality of food," mused Yohji, as a MacDonald's bag emerged from Ken's pannier.

"The sushi's for Aya," said Ken. "You might have forgotten, but it's his favourite. Remember that time we took him to Sushisei for his birthday?"

Yohji grinned.

Aya watched them through the crack in the almost-closed door, arms folded protectively in front of his chest.

"We had to trick him into meeting us there," said Omi. "He didn't want us to make a fuss."

"I thought he was going skewer all three of us," said Ken. "He was so mad when he found out there wasn't a mission after all."

"Only at first," said Yohji, still grinning. "He got much more mellow about it as the night wore on."

"Yeah," said Ken. "The sake helped, as I recall."

Omi's eyes met Yohji's across the table, searing blue and huge as ever.

"You'll be pleased he's back, I expect, Yohji-kun?" said Omi, his tone deceptively light.

"Yes," said Yohji, not looking away.

"Fuck, I think the Coke's about ready to explode," said Ken, oblivious as ever. "I knew I should've taken those corners a bit more gently."

Aya sucked air into his lungs and held it there, his eyes tight shut, as if he were about to dive into the ocean. So familiar, and so far away. He reminded himself that he needed this. He needed them. He needed them to get Aya back, and to keep him alive while she was gone.

He needed them.

Knuckles clenching white on the handle, he opened the door.

* * * * * * *

He wasn't surprised, when Yohji followed him up the stairs. Those perceptive green eyes had been on him all evening, his hand brushing against Aya's arm or shoulder or even his knee under all manner of pretexts.

He reached the landing at the top of the stairs, and turned.

"Want a nightcap?" asked Yohji.

Yohji's room was different. The huge bed was gone, replaced by a more modest version, no more than ordinary double sized, European-looking in pine with a plain green quilt and a couple of pillows. The bookcases were half-empty, the desk completely free of the clutter Yohji usually gathered around him wherever he went. There was the usual abundance of full ashtrays, though, and a bottle of vodka and two of sake on the window sill. It smelt the same: cigarette smoke and damp laundry.

"The chibis are so sweet," said Yohji. "Did you see them cuddling on the sofa when they thought we couldn't see?"

"Didn't notice," lied Aya.

"They've kept it together all this time, you know," said Yohji, crossing to the window. "I think that's why Ken stayed here. He could've gone to Europe, even played soccer again. But he didn't. He wants to make sure Omi gets through college."

Aya didn't say anything. He stood in the middle of the room, arms folded, and watched Yohji as he poured sake into two glasses.

"How did you like the construction trade, Aya?" Yohji asked. "Did you meet anyone... interesting?"

The memory of Kazuki clenched in Aya's heart. "No," he said.

"Me neither," said Yohji. "I got to screw Manx, but she's not all that I thought she'd be."

Aya glared at him, sure that his hypocritical disgust must be written all over his face.

"Oh, she was a good fuck," said Yohji. "But she wouldn't tell me where you were."

He noticed the anger in Yohji's eyes then, and cursed himself for not realising earlier. He was out of practice at guessing Yohji's mood. "I had no choice," he said, coldly.

"Yes, Aya, you did," said Yohji. "You could have taken me with you."

"I had to keep Aya-chan safe," said Aya. "If you'd come there would have been a connection, a link to Kritiker, to Takatori. I had to keep her safe."

"Yeah," said Yohji bitterly. "That worked well, didn't it?"

Rage flowed through Aya, cold and deadly as ever. For a split second he wasn't sure whether to push Yohji through the window or run him through.

He turned to leave, and was half way to the door before Yohji said anything.

"You can't do this on your own."

Aya froze.

You're not the only one who's lost somebody.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Aya. I didn't mean to... come and sit down, please. Have a drink. Please."

Aya looked over his shoulder. Yohji stood against the backdrop of Tokyo's night sky, inky sky painted with dots of pink and purple light. He looked sad, still a little angry, a little desperate.

As beautiful as ever.

He strode to the window and took the offered sake with a nod. They sat facing each other in the little window seat for a long time, avoiding the obvious things, talking about books and films instead, like they'd used to. He'd forgotten how much they had in common, apart from the killing. After a while he noticed Yohji's socked foot worming its way onto his thigh, and found himself gently massaging a bony ankle, pressing his thumb against familiar tendons and cool skin. Yohji gave a contented little sigh, poured more sake and leaned back against the alcove wall, shaking his next cigarette out of the pack.

Aya slid his hand a bit further up Yohji's leg, under his jeans, and stroked.

Yohji watched him.

"I missed you," said Yohji.

"Even with all those women?" said Aya, softly.

Yohji's lips twitched into a grin. "Even with all those women. It's not the same, Aya. I missed you."

Aya nodded, once.

"You want to stay? Tonight, I mean?"

"Just like old times?" said Aya.

"Something like that," said Yohji.

"The dreams have come back?"

Yohji looked away, staring out of the window. "Every night. Since Neu tried to... every fucking night."

Aya reached out and touched Yohji's throat, the bruise already fading. "She'll pay for that," he whispered. "I promise."

Yohji swallowed, still staring out at the night sky, but he caught Aya's hand in his, twining their fingers together and holding tight.

"I'll stay," said Aya.

Yohji's eyes slid closed; Aya took the unlit cigarette from between his lips and tossed it over his shoulder. He hooked his hand behind Yohji's neck and pulled him close enough to kiss, rising gracefully to his knees. Yohji gave a little moan and slid his arms around Aya's waist, slipping easily under the soft fabric of his button-down shirt, long fingers inching up his spine to knead the tight muscles across Aya's back and shoulders.

He doubted that even Yohji could get him to relax, but it still felt good, unbelievably good. He let himself sink into Yohji's warmth, closing his eyes and drifting, focused only on Yohji's tongue winding around his, on Yohji's hands on his skin, Yohji's lean muscles shifting under his own fingers. After a long while, Yohji finally pulled back. His hooded eyes were bright with familiar heat.

"Let's take this to the bed," he purred. He nodded towards the unshuttered window. "Kritiker haven't got around to giving us new blinds, and I don't think the rest of the city is ready for this kind of a show just yet."

Aya downed the last few gulps of sake, and followed Yohji across the room, undoing his own shirt on the way. Yohji had already pulled his over his head and tossed it into a corner; he reached under the bed and retrieved lube and condoms, tossed them on the quilt.

Aya shrugged his shirt off, and started on his jeans, but Yohji stopped him.

"Let me," he said. "It's like unwrapping a present."

Aya snorted disbelief.

"It's a turn on," Yohji said, popping the top button and toying with the tab of Aya's zipper. "Okay?"

"Whatever you want," said Aya. "So long as it gets both of us naked and on that bed so I can fuck you 'til you scream."

A broad grin spread across Yohji's face.

Yohji had Aya's jeans off in moments, and his underwear, and stroked his fingertips up his cock from root to tip, brushing a tiny drop of precome off the end and touching it to his tongue.

Aya pulled him close and kissed him hard, his fingers tangling in dark blonde hair, steering them both towards the bed until the backs of Yohji's legs struck the mattress. A single push made Yohji collapse onto his back; Aya swiftly stripped him of his remaining clothes and joined him on the bed, straddling his thighs, leaning down to carry on kissing him.

Passion spread quickly through Aya's body, clouding his thoughts, making everything simple. Just Yohji, here, beautiful and fragile and deadly and wanting him. Just Yohji.

Yohji moaned into the kiss and wound his arms around Aya's neck, wrists crossed behind his head, wriggling around until their cocks were brushing each other, hardness to hardness. It sent a thrill shooting up Aya's spine, and it was tempting to wrap his hand around both their cocks and bring them off like that. Maybe later. More than anything, he wanted to be inside Yohji again, to sink into the bliss of his body and hide.

He reached impatiently for lube and condom, and shifted so he knelt between Yohji's legs, smoothing Yohji's thighs apart. He prepared them both quickly, resisting the urge to spend time fingering and licking Yohji's ass - later, later - and within minutes he was feeding his cock slowly inside. It was incredibly tight, and hot, and felt like heaven, gripping him with perfect pressure as he pushed himself in.

"Shit, Aya, it's been a while. Take it easy."

"Sorry," he said, and meant it. He looked down at Yohji's face, and waited for him to adjust a little, smoothing the ragged hair away from his cheeks.

"Okay," said Yohji. "It feels good. Just... take it slow."

That was going to take a supreme force of will, Aya realised, but he did his best. He waited until the pain had faded from Yohji's eyes, and Yohji's legs were wrapped around his waist, before he finished filling him, and then when he started to thrust he forced himself to take it as slow as he could. It got easy when he noticed Yohji's response: he was tilting his hips to meet every thrust, stroking his own cock and chewing on his lower lip; little moans escaped from his throat every time Aya sank in to the hilt.

His head was thrown back, his neck a graceful arch, his chest golden and glinting with a faint sheen of sweat.

Beautiful.

It was Yohji who picked up the pace in the end, begging to be fucked hard and fast, pulling Aya down to be kissed, their foreheads pressing together as Aya complied. Yohji came first, spurting endlessly over his own hand, his ass clenching down hard. Aya waited for him to finish, catching his breath before he took his last few strokes and let himself go, buried as deep as he could be, precious oblivion.

He wanted to sleep straight away; his body was tired and sated, his mind desperate for refuge. But he felt Yohji trembling underneath him, and not just from the aftershock. He forced himself off the bed, found a towel and quickly wiped them both down, not looking at Yohji's face.

"Under the covers, Kudoh," he said.

"You're coming too, right?" Yohji's voice was small, vulnerable. He scooted under the quilt, holding it back for Aya to join him. "In case..."

"Baka. Of course." Aya threw the towel into a corner, and slid into bed beside him, scooping him into his arms. "I'm right here, Kudoh."

"Thanks." Yohji kissed his neck, and cuddled himself into Aya's side. Aya turned out the light and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of sex and Yohji and the distant sound of traffic. Tokyo.

Home.

* * * * * * *

He woke early the next morning, and prepared for his first shift, resigned to working alone until Yohji dragged himself out of bed. His worktable waited for him, ribbon and roses and scissors. As if they'd never been away, as if the shop hadn't been wrecked and closed for months. As if all this was normal.

The shop had only been open half an hour when Birman arrived.

He was wound up tight in an instant, every muscle tense. It had to be Aya-chan. Not an ordinary mission, not some unspeakable evil or political atrocity, it must be his sister.

Please, let it be Aya.

He pressed his back to the wall by the cold metal stairs that descended into the mission room, and closed his eyes. He heard Yohji's leaden footsteps as he dragged himself, yawning, to join them.

"A new mission this early in the morning?" he complained. "This is abuse."

Aya's eyes flickered open for long enough to flash Yohji a glare; he noticed with satisfaction that Birman was doing the same.

He wondered fleetingly whether Birman had really got this job because Manx had belonged to Persia, or whether Kritiker had found out that Yohji had finally got his way and slept with her, and were somehow concerned that such a union might upset their operation. Either way, it looked as if Birman was short on patience where Kudoh Yohji was concerned.

They hadn't found Aya.

The rest of the day was flowers and research and endless katas in the dojo; blending technique with the new found strength and muscle he'd gained from months on the construction site. The four of them ate dinner together, Ken relaying the story about the woman who'd stopped by that morning and wanted flowers to decorate a church, animatedly certain that she was connected somehow with the mission. Aya only half-listened, distracted by the half-formed plans mulling around his mind, and by Yohji's foot, which was stroking its way up his leg while Yohji chatted innocently with Omi. It felt uncomfortably normal, seductive, as if they weren't a bunch of miserable killers, as if they were ordinary guys sharing a house, and there was nothing wrong, no-one missing, as if...

Aya dropped his chopsticks on his still-full plate and pushed his chair back from the table, fighting down the urge to hit something. He stalked from the room without a word, or a look, wanting only escape.

"Aya-kun?" came Omi's surprised, concerned voice.

"Leave him, chibi," Yohji soothed. "He needs to be alone."

Aya slammed the door behind him, cursing Yohji for knowing him so well.

He walked for hours, trying to think of some kind of plan, of any way he could find Aya-chan. Botan had been right, it was impossible. All he could do was to wait for Kritiker. Again. Wait for the next mission after this one, and the next, and the next, until finally he had something to work with. Just like Takatori. Someone else's agenda, someone else's plan. Powerless. Hopeless. Alone.

It was past midnight when he finally returned to the Koneko, and the shop and the apartments above were in darkness. He hung his coat on its usual peg, kicked off his shoes and wearily climbed the stairs.

Yohji was waiting for him, sitting on the top stair, smoking.

"I was about to come looking for you," he said.

"The mission?" asked Aya, a fragile spark of optimism igniting in him at the thought that maybe Kritiker had found something.

"No," said Yohji, with a grin. "Just horny."

Aya glared at him, hope dying painfully inside.

"Oh," said Yohji, the grin fading. He watched Aya closely, far too closely, until Aya had to do something just to escape from his gaze. He closed the distance between them and knelt on the stair below Yohji's, cradled Yohji's head in one hand and kissed him.

His body rewarded him with a rush of lust; his mind struggled against the comfort of Yohji's arm sliding around him for a moment but finally surrendered, and for a few heartbeats he allowed himself to feel something other than anger and pain.

"Bed," he murmured against Yohji's lips. "Now, bed."

"Okay," said Yohji, stroking Aya's bangs out of his eyes, kissing his jaw and cheek and neck. "If you insist."

He made to stand up, but Aya stopped him, overwhelmed suddenly by a flood of emotion he had no idea what to do with. He pulled Yohji close, held him so tight it must have hurt, squeezed his eyes closed and pressed his face into Yohji's shoulder, fighting down the choking tears that burned his throat. Yohji stroked his back, and kissed his hair, and waited.

There was a sound; a door opening further up the landing, Omi's soft voice, then Ken's laughter. The door creaked closed again.

Aya took a shuddering breath, and sighed painfully. "Yohji-" he started, but Yohji silenced him with a kiss, his fingers clutched firm and certain in Aya's hair.

"We'll find her, Aya," whispered Yohji. "Wherever she is. I promise."

Aya answered him with a silent nod, his body rigid with grief, and wished he dared believe him.

* * * * * * *