[ 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 9 - Truth

Aya tucked his travel documents into the sidepocket of his bag, and pulled out a book. A satisfyingly thick volume on English history - a new passion - that should keep him occupied for most of the flight from London to Sendai. He waited until the plane was safely airbourne before he opened it, and had read three pages before he found Ken's note. A simple 'be happy' in Ken's usual untidy scrawl, and on the other side, a Tokyo address.

There was no-one quite as stubborn as Hidaka Ken.

Aya tucked the note away at the back of his book, and continued to read.

* * * * * * *

It was a relatively straightforward mission. He was to take the data to Kryptonbrand's contact in Sendai, receive the exchange package a few days later and then return to London. The delay made Aya uneasy, but those were his orders. He'd also been told that his contact had considerable power and influence. More, Aya guessed, than Kryptonbrand themselves.

It had been over a year since Aya had left Japan, and it wasn't long enough. It wasn't that he'd managed to forget while he was in England, but it was easier to bear without the constant landmarks of his former life. Even here in Sendai: just around the corner were houses that he had worked to build, that summer when Weiß had parted company; the hospital from which Aya-chan was kidnapped; the apartment block up the coast a little way in Matsushima Bay, where he had left Kasuki and a different, almost-happy life.

And Tokyo, so close he could taste the air and smell the summer rain.

Sendai was busy with tourists who'd flocked there for the Star Festival. An easy place to meet strangers in the dark. He turned up dutifully in the designated car park, and waited.

No-one came.

The scheduled time came and went, and it was three hours later, when Aya was about to leave, that he was approached by a man who wore an ill-fitting suit which gave away the shape of a gun underneath the polyester. He stank of whiskey and smoke, and other things Aya didn't want to recognise.

But he knew the passwords, and that's all Aya cared about. He handed over the package and turned to leave.

"You'll hear from us in five days. If this isn't what you say it is-"

"I understand."

"Do you?" said the contact, with a mocking laugh. "How interesting."

Aya span around, his senses screaming danger at him.

But the man was already gone.

Aya didn't mention any of this to Ken when they spoke the following morning. He wasn't even sure what there was to mention; as true as Aya's instincts usually were, there wasn't anything here that was really off on the larger scale of things. He resolved to watch his back and bide his time, and instead listened patiently to Ken's kick-by-kick account of the football match he'd been to see the night before, until Ken asked the inevitable question.

"So, are you going to Tokyo?"

At which point, Aya lied.

* * * * * * *

The Koneko hadn't changed at all.

She'd cut her hair. Not too short, just to shoulder length. It made her seem older, although the face Aya got a precious glimpse of still looked very young. She smiled and laughed with her customers, and with the tall young man who helped her.

A painful, miserable reassurance that she was better off with out him. Just like Kazuki, whom he'd seen last night, from a distance, walking on the beach with a good looking man who held him proudly by the hand.

This was how it had to be, to keep them safe.

The night before he'd dreamed of Yohji.

In the dream he was waiting outside Yohji's house; and it felt like he'd waited forever. Finally he recognised a lanky form striding towards him, briefcase in one hand, raincoat folded neatly over the other arm. The sun was shining brightly behind him, casting him in silhouette, but Aya knew.

He looked again at the place where Yohji lived, watched as she came out to meet him, all smiles and love and open arms.

Aya knew that in a moment's time they would meet and hug and touch, and he knew he couldn't stand it. He twisted the key in the ignition with shaking fingers, and before the man who looked like Yohji had stepped out of the shadow of the sun, he was gone.

Aya woke in a cold sweat, choking for breath.

He hadn't slept since then.

* * * * * * *

The brass plate on the door to the office bore the name 'Surefire Solutions', one of those pointless company names that could mean anything. Or nothing. Aya was ushered into a waiting area equipped with long, low couches and a backlit fishtank, where he sat for fifteen minutes until a door opposite the one he'd entered swung open, and a tall, slender woman emerged. She ushered Aya down a short corridor, past a water cooler and a few closed offices to a huge pair of double doors at the end. She swung them open with the confidence of someone who'd done so many times before, and Aya followed her inside.

And there, at the far side of the office, sitting behind a huge teak desk, was Omi.

Takatori.

"Aya-kun."

Aya gave the slightest of bows in greeting; none of Omi's names felt right.

He was older, his hair a little longer, brushing his shoulders at the back. His eyes had taken on a glint of steel, or perhaps it just showed more than it used to.

"How are you?" said Omi warmly.

"Fine, thanks."

"And Ken-kun?"

"He's fine. He doesn't know I'm here. Why did you want to see me?"

"Do I have to have a reason?" said Omi softly.

"Yes," said Aya. "Because it's dangerous. And isn't there an election around the corner?"

"There's always an election." There was scant enthusiasm in Omi's voice.

"So?"

"I need your help."

Of course.

"What do you need?"

"I want to give you a mission."

"I'm not Weiß any more."

"I know. But you're the only one I can trust with this. I wouldn't ask you if I had a choice. You can decline, if you wish."

After all they'd been through together and despite the path that Omi had chosen, Aya knew what his answer would be.

"He's a scientist who used to work for Eszett." Omi pulled an accordion envelope out of his desk drawer and passed it to Aya. "The information's in there. He's living just up the coast from Sendai. He committed many atrocities in the past; he was one of those who conducted experiments on your sister. We have intelligence to prove that he's started operating again: a number of people have gone missing, all of whom have special talents of one kind or another. It would seem that after he's got whatever he needs from them he gives them a lethal injection and dumps their bodies. He's been out of town for a week; my sources say he should arrive back in two days time."

"You're an influential man now," said Aya. "Couldn't you have him dealt with by the authorities?"

"Too dangerous. Besides, there's nothing to go on, not enough hard evidence to convict him. He still has contacts with Eszett, and you know what their lawyers are like. I want this dark beast gone, Aya. Before he takes another life."

They regarded each other for a long moment, then Aya nodded. He tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his coat. "I'll report back when it's done."

"No," said Omi. "I wouldn't ask you to do this alone. I'll be joining you."

"That's a huge risk," said Aya.

Omi gave him a shadow of his old smile. "It wouldn't be the first time I'd taken one of those, would it?"

"I suppose not." Aya got up to leave.

"Aya-kun?"

Omi looked up at Aya with big sad eyes that, while not exactly full of tears, were still the same ones that had watched too many people he loved die.

"Yes?"

"Is Ken-kun happy?"

Aya's throat felt tight; he swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice steady.

"He's okay," he said.

Omi looked down at his desk. "Good," he all but whispered. "Good."

* * * * * * *

Aya sat in the car and read the papers Omi had given him. To say the research had been thorough would be an understatement. Unlike so many of Weiß's missions in the past, he had everthing he needed to know right there in one manilla envelope: names, false names, addresses, habits, even that the target was right handed and had poor sight in one eye as the result of an accident. Aya wondered fleetingly how Kritiker could know so much.

He could have left Tokyo forever then; gone back to his hotel and planned the mission, talked to Ken. But instead he found himself walking the streets for hours. The afternoon light was fading by the time he reached the diner for the third time. This time his tiredness got the better of him, and he went inside. He ordered coffee and food that he probably wouldn't eat, and sat well away from the window.

As soon as the door opened, he knew.

And then he was somehow on his feet, throat tight and chest hurting, and Yohji saw him and registered surprise.

Yohji's lips moved to mouth a single word.

"Aya?"

Aya's heart thudded in his chest; all he could do was stare.

His name, the name Yohji had given him, the name he'd kept for all these years: not because of what he'd become, or what he fought for, or even because Ran was so far away. The name he'd kept because it was all Yohji had left him with.

He watched the panic of discovery cross Yohji's face. Saw him struggle for a moment, think of leaving, even, but he couldn't, any more than Aya could. Instead Yohji crossed the sterile tiled floor in five long strides, and touched him. Slight and brief, bare fingertips to Aya's hair and jaw, but Aya had to close his eyes to keep from sobbing.

"Aya. I can't believe it's you. Shit. Oh, God. Aya."

Aya bit down hard on his lower lip, and dared to look. Yohji was still there, his eyes huge and green. His hair was dark, Aya realised, and long again, and he wore a suit, immaculate with the crispest, whitest shirt that Aya had ever seen.

"You..."

You remembered. You're here. You're mine.

No. Not mine.

The waitress's voice cut through Aya's confusion like a stream of light through fog. "Hey, gorgeous! The usual?"

"Just a coffee, beautiful," Aya heard Yohji say, in that light, flirting tone he reserved for customers and girls he'd never sleep with.

But he didn't take his eyes of Aya all the while, and they stood there, frozen as surely as they'd been by Yohji's wire, a year ago.

"I thought..." Aya struggled with words; hardly able to believe this was happening.

"What are you doing here?" whispered Yohji.

A man squeezed past them with a martyred sigh; they were blocking the aisle between the rows of tables. Aya slid back into his seat, and Yohji sat opposite him.

"I came to see Omi," Aya said. "It's a long story,but... Yohji, you... when did you get your memory back?"

"Ken said you were out of the country for good." Yohji took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket. His hands were shaking.

"It's the first time. How-"

They were interrupted by the waitress, who set Yohji's coffee down in front of him. Yohji smiled at her with his usual charm, and got a giggle in return. He flicked ash into the metal ashtray, and Aya's eyes were drawn to his hand. The long, clever fingers that he knew so well, and on one of them, a ring. A thick gold band.

"You were... you're married," he said, flatly. Suddenly believing it.

"Yeah," said Yohji, softly. "And you? You and Ken still together?"

"What?"

"He was wearing your sweater, when he came to see me that time." Yohji smirked, but there was something else in his eyes that he hid behind a cloud of smoke. "I put two and two together. Once a detective..."

"Yohji..." Aya felt anger and hurt welling in his chest, but he was too shocked to know what to do with any of it. "They said you'd lost your memory. That you'd never get it back. Ken said you didn't recognise him, and the sword..."

The sword. Ken said you seemed happy. You sent back the sword.

Things started to fall into place.

Aya stumbled to his feet, stopped only by Yohji's hand upon his arm.

"Aya, it's not what you think. I couldn't let them know... It was for the best."

Aya forced himself to breathe. It didn't make a difference, after all, whether Yohji had made this choice with or without his memory. The choice had been made, either way, and Aya had made his. That's why Ken had been in his bed for a while, why Ken had worn his sweaters and worried about him.

"We split up," he said. "A couple of months back. It wasn't good for the team."

Yohji snorted. "That should go in the book of cliches, right up there with 'maybe we should see other people' and 'but I don't want to lose you as a friend'.

"And 'I'm sorry but I'm married'?"

Yohji winced.

"Whatever happened, it's between me and Ken," said Aya. "And nothing to do with you."

"I was only asking," said Yohji, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world for them to be catching up on each other's lives like this. As if they hadn't been to hell and back together. As if there had been no promise.

"This is pointless." He got up again, stronger now, and threw money on the table to pay for his untouched drink. Ignoring Yohji's efforts to stop him this time, he stormed out onto the street, and hesitated there for the barest moment. Which to do? Drive back tonight? Or find somwhere to escape into a bottle of something? He'd taken a single step towards a bar he hoped was still there, before Yohji came running out of the diner and stopped him.

"Aya! Please, don't leave like this. We need to talk. We need to... to..."

Aya glared at him, his whole body trembling with rage. "What's left to say, Yohji? What the fuck to we have to-"

His eyes were huge, and green, and it was all still there. All of it. Still there.

Aya froze.

And then Yohji was kissing him, hard and urgent, gripping Aya's shoulders so tight it hurt, and Aya twisted his hand in Yohji's hair and held him there. Kissed him back and took control, because why the fuck did Yohji think he had a right to do this?

Why had Yohji suddenly sprung back into his life? Only Yohji could make him feel this way, make his guts flip over and his spine tingle and steal his reason. This was definitely Yohji, not an echo or a twisted memory or a dream. Not an empty shell who didn't remember his own name. This was Yohji, wanting, needing, screwed up Yohji, and oh, fuck but he was beautiful, and he tasted so good, and his body was lean and hot and hard, and all Aya wanted was to-

"There's a hotel, not far from here," Yohji panted, and Aya felt the words as puffs of air against his lips. "Just once, Aya, please, and then I promise I'll-"

Aya silenced him with another kiss, tongue plunging deep this time, and when it ended Yohji whimpered.

He followed Yohji two blocks to the place he'd mentioned. Trying to think. Trying not to think. Not able to think. He let Yohji take control, picking the room, paying for it. Aya's uneasiness grew. What in the name of hell was he doing? What was Yohji doing? He was married, for fuck's sake, and oh, but Aya didn't care. It was dangerous and stupid and wrong, but he couldn't stop. He followed Yohji up two flights of stairs at a run, stopped at their allotted door, picked up the keycard when Yohji dropped it and slid it quickly through the slot. The door clicked and swung open, and Yohji tugged him inside, pressed him against the wall by the door and kissed him again.

Yohji's kiss was hungry; the long-missed taste of cigarettes and coffee; the clever tongue that knew just how to drive him wild, teasing and darting, comforting nipped lips, invading, plunging, stealing breath.

Yohji tugged Aya's coat open and pushed it roughly off his shoulders; Aya fumbled with Yohji's tie - for some reason it occurred to him that he'd never taken a tie off another man before - and shirt buttons. They left a trail of clothes from the door to the bed, shoes and socks and coat and tie and Aya's t-shirt, and jeans and trousers were undone and Yohji was falling back on the bed, pulling Aya with him.

"Oh God, Aya... I never thought I'd see you again. Oh God..."

"We could just talk," said Aya, as if he meant it. "We don't have to-"

"Yes," panted Yohji, between urgent kisses to Aya's neck. "We do have to. We really, really do."

He clamped his mouth over Aya's throat and sucked; soothing the burgeoning bruise with his tongue even as he made it. One shaking hand worked its way into Aya's jeans and briefs and touched his cock; quickly first, as if afraid it would bite. Then a longer stroke, fingertips, then knuckles, then fevered palm, firm clasp, and Yohji shivered head to foot, and moaned.

"So beautiful," he murmured, lips brushing the mark he'd left on Aya's flesh. "You feel so good."

Aya followed Yohji's lead; gave up a half-hearted fight with Yohji's shirt buttons and tugged his pants open instead. Yohji's dick leapt into his hand, twitched at every touch, every squeeze. Aya found Yohji's mouth and they kissed again, long, open mouthed, delicious slip of tongue on tongue; he could have come like that, they both could, and it would have been better than good, but not enough. This was the last time, and Aya wanted it to be everything, not just release or comfort in the dark. It had to be everything.

"Get these off," he tugged impatiently at Yohji's pants. "Naked, I want you naked."

"Sure," said Yohji, smirking. "But you'll have to let go of my dick first."

Aya looked down, as if he'd forgotten that his hand was welded to Yohji's willing flesh. "Okay, but hurry."

"You too." And Yohji started another long, deep, hungry kiss.

Eventually he pulled away, for long enough to shed his clothes, and laugh at Aya when he got his jeans stuck on one foot and swore. And then they lay there on the bed, naked and bare, and Yohji was so, so beautiful. His body all lean muscle and golden skin; hip bones that begged for Aya to pin them to the bed; long limbs he wanted wrapped around him. His jaw, his hair, his eyes, his nose, his mouth, all perfect, and, for now, for Aya. Just for now.

He spread Yohji's legs and knelt between them, traced a line from the tip of his leaking cock to his balls and beyond, found the tiny knot of muscle, soft, soft skin, and stroked. Licked his finger, and stroked some more.

"We need..." he struggled to find words, his brain a mess of lust. "Yohji, do you-"

Yohji blinked at him. No, of course he didn't. He was married. What would a respectably married man be doing carrying condoms and lube around with him? Fuck.

"The dish," said Yohji.

Aya followed his pointing finger to the bowl of condoms on the low table by the bed. Of course. It was that kind of hotel. Of course.

He picked one out, but his hands were trembling and he couldn't get it open... Yohji kissed him, took it from him and next he knew he was sliding over Aya's twitching cock.

He couldn't stop shaking. Yohji raised his legs gracefully, balanced them on Aya's shoulders, and Aya gripped his aching erection by the root, put it in place, the tip nestling perfectly in the dimple of Yohji's ass. He pushed, slipped in a little, and Yohji grunted.

He looked down at Yohji's face; cheekbones flushed pink, eyes big and dark with lust. He was chewing on his lower lip, rocking his hips up to impale himself on Aya's cock, even though it must be hurting, he was so tight.

"Steady, Yohji. Take it easy." He stroked Yohji's hair back from his face, rubbed his thumb along his jawbone.

"I want you so fucking much," said Yohji.

Aya's heart pounded, he let out a single sob. "I love you."

And even as he said it, Yohji's body gave way, letting Aya slide in, and in, and in, all the way. He heard himself cry out.

"Oh God," breathed Yohji. "Aya..."

His legs slid down, threading between Aya's arms and body to wrap around his back. Strong and supple as ever. Aya started to move, and as he slid in and out of Yohji's body time slipped away. As if the last few years simply hadn't happened, and they were back in the Koneko on a Sunday afternoon, before Neu, when Yohji's fears were dormant and Aya's revenge hadn't yet consumed him; when they could fool themselves that this was just for comfort, when the rock and slide of bodies made it better. Aya's face was wet with tears, Yohji's fingers wound tightly in his hair; and he poured out everything he'd kept locked inside, the grief and pain and hope, and he couldn't even wait for Yohji to come, he had no control at all. Yohji held and stroked and kissed him, and Aya surged helplessly inside him, his body spasmed and he thought he must have screamed, and it didn't matter, nothing mattered, nothing... he yelled again as Yohji's ass clenched tight and his cock spurted sticky wet between their bodies.

They stopped rocking, slowly, and Aya slumped, not thinking, rested his forehead on Yohji's, panting. Crimson, sweat-damp hair falling over Yohji's face.

Eventually he opened his eyes to see Yohji wince as he lowered his legs. Aya disentangled himself, carefully; it was bound to sting, after all, but Yohji didn't seem to mind too much, tugging Aya close. Too exhausted to protest, Aya let him, and he must have fallen asleep for a few moments, because the next thing he knew, Yohji was clicking off his phone and tossing it to the floor.

The real world flooded back. They weren't in the Koneko. They were in a love hotel, a place for furtive liaisons and hopeless dreams. The Koneko they'd known was long gone. Everything was gone.

"I meant it for the best," said Yohji softly. "I was going to come and find you but... when I remembered..."

"When?"

"In the hospital, not long after I woke up, it came back in bits and pieces. At first all I remembered was you, and the killing, so I kept quiet until it all made sense. By then... I had a lot of time to think. I thought what it would be like, what the future held for all of us. I thought that you'd be better off without me. That you deserved better. I knew Ken wanted you. It made some kind of sense."

"That was for me to decide."

"You never came to the hospital. I thought-"

"They wouldn't let us," said Aya. "Kritiker. Omi kept us all apart for months. He put Ken in jail. I went to the States."

"For the election campaign?"

"Among other things. It made sense, at the time." He kissed Yohji's shoulder, nuzzled his hair, breathing in the scent of him so he'd remember.

"I guess Kenken took that badly."

"Yes, at first."

"And you made it better."

"It wasn't like that. It was..." Unconsciously, Aya's hand went to his belly, and Yohji's fingers fingers followed, stroking over the smooth, glossy skin that marked the spot where Aya's life had almost bled out of him.

"Who did this?"

"It's not important."

Yohji sighed, and stretched down to kiss the scar. "I missed you."

Aya kept his eyes tight shut. Didn't trust himself to speak.

"Aya..."

"We can't do this," Aya said. "We can't."

"It's a bit late for that, Aya," said Yohji with a wry grin, lying back again. "I think we already did."

"No, I mean..."

"So what's life like in England?"

"Not so different. Not as different as yours."

"Hmm."

"Do you love her?"

He watched Yohji's face, knowing too well that the truth lay in his eyes, even when he lied with his mouth.

"No," he whispered. "Not like this."

Aya hardly dared to breathe. His mind flooded with possibilities for a moment before he shoved down hope and forced himself to think. No.

"But she loves you."

"Yes."

"Just now, the phone... you called her?"

"She worries. I told her I'd be working late. She's on the night shift herself, she won't know any different." He shifted fully onto his side, propped his head up on one elbow. "Can you stay? Just for tonight?"

Aya nodded. "Just tonight," he forced himself to say.

Then he pulled Yohji on top of him, and kissed him, shutting out his conscience and the part of him that told him this was stupid and dangerous. Made love to him, and listened, even laughed out loud - he'd forgotten how much Yohji made him laugh - and morning found them curled together, hands and hair and tangled limbs.

And then it ended.

* * * * * * *

It was better this way.

Better for Yohji, because he loved Asuka, in a way. Not like he loved Aya. Not like he'd loved the old Asuka, the one who'd let him go. But he had made a promise, and this sober, saner Yohji kept his word.

Better for Aya, because to be with Yohji now would be to steal his life. To take away the normal things that they'd all longed for; to dip him once again in blood and death.

Better to keep those he loved away from him. Kazuki, Aya-chan and now Yohji, all sealed in normalcy, where he could watch and know that they were safe.

It was better.

* * * * * * *

Two nights later, Aya met Omi at the address he'd been given, ready to kill. It was an old apartment building, scheduled for demolition, evacuated weeks ago. They entered through a broken ground floor window and climbed a dozen flights of stairs, following a trail of disturbed dirt and dust which led them to a door. A door the same as all the others on its hallway, except that it was closed. Aya went to pick the lock, but Omi pulled out a key; in a moment they were inside. Omi locked the door again behind them. There were signs of life: a battered sofa, a small TV resting on an upturned crate, a heap of bedding on a bedroll under the boarded up window. One door led to a bathroom, another to a tiny kitchen, a third was locked and chained and padlocked. Aya prepared to fight his way in, but Omi laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Not yet, Aya-kun. We don't have time."

Aya tried to keep the vision of what might be behind that door firmly from his mind, and joined Omi in the shadows.

They didn't have to wait for long. Aya heard the creak of a door, a muffled scream, footsteps; short strides and a shuffle. He was dragging a girl with him. Probably his next victim. Aya shoved down anger and turned to Omi for the signal.

And then, too late, Aya saw the cold rage in Omi's eyes. He really was a good politician, to hide it so well.

"Who?" he asked.

Omi blinked, the mask came down. "Sorry, Aya-kun?" he whispered.

There was no time.

The target burst into the room, huffing from the effort of making it up all those stairs with his struggling, sobbing burden. The instant he'd released her, Aya stepped forward, sword in hand. Glared at the girl first, to make her scuttle away while he had the target's full attention.

It shouldn't have surprised him that it was the same man he'd met in the car park the other day. Kryptonbrand's contact. But it did. He kept those lives so seperate, and yet...

He should have known.

"You're a little early for the data, Fujimiya. I thought our date was for tomorrow."

Aya drew his sword, and tried not to think of Yohji as it settled with age-worn comfort in his hand. "It just got cancelled," he said. The gun was still there, under the tight-fitting jacket, but the target made no attempt to reach for it.

"Who are you now? Weiß? Krytonbrand? Or," with an amused glance at Omi, "Takatori?"

Aya let the rage wash over him for a moment before he spoke.

"I am your death."

It should have been simple: the man made no move, showed no defence. The sword should have sliced through him, a twisting upthrust should have had him crawling on the floor, vomiting blood.

Instead something hit Aya in the chest with the force of a hurricane, and threw him back against the wall. He slumped to the floor, clutching bruised or broken ribs, gasping for breath.

"Revenge, Takatori?" he heard, and after it a scream. Omi fell to his knees, clutching at his head, howling in pain.

Aya looked up to find himself facing the long cold barrel of the gun.

"I could crush your mind slowly," said the enemy. "Or I could shoot you quick. The choice is yours, Fujimiya." And then he hesitated.

The wire sang.

"The girl," said Yohji from the doorway, as the target gasped in his noose. "He's drawing power from the girl. Quick, Aya!"

Aya rolled just as the gun went off, scattering holes into the wall behind him. He landed by the girl, scooped her up in his arms and ran. Kicked the door shut behind him and hoped it was enough.

There was a struggle, a thud.

The girl looked up at him, tears pouring down her pretty face. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't ask to be like this. I didn't-"

"Stop crying," said Aya, and it came out more harshly than he'd intended. How could he explain that her pain was so close and real and sharp, so much his sister's, that it cut him up inside? "It's alright," he said, a little more kindly. "It's not your fault."

She blinked at him, smiled and promptly fainted.

The door opened and Yohji leaned back against the frame, lighting a cigarette. He wore a long coat that looked a little like his old uniform, well cut, snug at the waist and making him look even taller and lankier than usual. Aya's heart was still thudding in his chest. His arms tightened around the unconscious girl.

"Is Omi alright?"

"Yes. Are you?"

Aya considered that, briefly. His ribs ached, that was all. "Fine," he said. "But-"

"Aya!" A bark from the room beyond. "I need to get this fucking door open!"

Aya he returned to the apartment, laying the girl carfully on the sofa where if she woke she wouldn't see the target lying dead and blood-spattered. Killed not by wire, but crossbow, at close range. Omi was kicking the door with a fury Aya had never seen in him before.

"Hey, chibi," said Yohji. "Let me."

Omi stopped his assault with considerable reluctance. "Alright," he said. "Please hurry. Yohji-kun."

Yohji picked the locks, deft as ever, and the door swung open.

There were two boys, huddled together on a filfthy matress, eyes full of the kind of terror that never really went away. Omi signalled for Yohji and Aya to stay back, and approached the boys slowly.

"You're alright," he whispered. "It's over. You're safe."

The slightly older-looking of the two cuddled his companion protectively, shooting Omi a defiant look. "We can look after ourselves," he said.

"If that were true, you wouldn't be here," said Omi. "I can help you to develop your power. To really protect your brother and yourself, and others like you."

"Hey, Aya," whispered Yohji. "Has Omittchi been reading those X-men comics again?"

Aya managed a manic sort of grin.

"We saved you," said Omi. "Surely that counts for something?"

The boy relaxed a little.

"Come with me," said Omi. "And you'll be free. I promise."

He thought a moment longer, lost in Omi's big blue eyes, then nodded.

Omi nodded back, then drew a phone out of his coat pocket, and punched speed-dial.

"It's done. You can come in now."

Then he turned to Aya, and smiled. "Thank you, Aya-kun."

"Who was he?" said Aya.

"Exactly who it said in the briefing, Aya-kun. An Eszett scientist."

"He was also working for Kryptonbrand. Or did you know that?"

"Yes, I knew. They gave you that information to pass on to him at my request. I needed to let him think he'd tricked Kryptonbrand into giving him information that would help him, information about people with power he could use. I'm sorry we had to lie to you. It was the only way I could be sure."

He shouldn't be surprised. This was how it always worked. Takatori. Kritiker. Kryptonbrand.

"And you?" said Aya, turning to Yohji

"Woman's enemy is my enemy," said Yohji, with a grin.

"And here I was thinking you'd come to save me," said Aya, dryly.

"That too," said Yohji. "You know me. Any damsel will do."

Aya should have hit him for that, but he was too confused. "How did you know?"

"The mission papers fell out of your coat," said Yohji. "I accidentally read them."

"Accidentally?" said Aya. Omi snorted with laughter.

"Once a detective..."

"And you decided we couldn't do without you?"

"Nah." And Yohji's eyes locked with his, full of humour and affection that had no damn right to be there. "I just thought it might be fun to watch."

Aya might have flung him against the wall and done one of two things to him at that point, had he not suddenly heard footfalls behind them. Soft, measured steps.

"Nagi-kun."

"Omi." Nagi ran his eyes over Aya and Yohji with an odd kind of gratitude, but it was nothing compared with the affection with which he looked at Omi. "Thank you," he said, with more emotion in his voice than Aya had ever heard before. "You didn't have to-"

Omi reached out and squeezed Nagi's hand. "Yes," he said. "I did."

Their shared gaze was so intense that Aya found himself looking away.

"Omi," said Yohji, softly. "You done with us?"

Omi smiled at them, then, and nodded.

"Mission complete," he said.

* * * * * * *

Yohji and Aya parted company ouside the apartment block. Yohji tried to catch his hand, but Aya snatched it away. He'd given in once. He knew he couldn't do it again.

"You shouldn't have come," he said. "They'll know. They'll own you again. You-"

"Killed again?"

Aya looked away.

"You never stop being Weiß, Aya. You should know that by now."

"But you had a way out."

"So did you. So did Ken. Look where it got us."

Aya fixed his eyes on a distant lamp post, knowing Yohji was right, and hating it. Not for himself, he'd accepted his own fate a long time ago. But not for the people he loved. He deserved it. They didn't.

"You had a new start," he said. "You should have kept it."

"There was nothing new about it," said Yohji quietly. "I never stopped being Kudoh Yohji. You were right; I can't escape the past. It's part of me; you can't lose some of it and keep the rest; I can't lose Asuka, or Weiß, or you. I can't escape it, any more than you can stop being Ran. However much you might want to. We are what we are, Aya. That's all."

The night was very still, and Aya closed his eyes and listened to the dark, and waited for Yohji to touch him. But he didn't.

And when he looked, Yohji was walking away.

He watched him until he was a distant shape, lost in shadows.

* * * * * * *

Dawn found Aya back in Sendai, packing ready for the flight back to London. Two phone calls; one on the secure line from Omi, saying thank you for the gift. One from Ken, who asked outright if he'd seen Yohji.

Aya lied again. He'd explain in person, he told himself. Perhaps.

He walked around Sendai to eat up the hours before check in at the airport; the festival was in full swing now, the crowds full. Easy to lose himself and think. However grim his thoughts might be. Somehow, he had to put things back together, get on the plane and go back to London. Find a way of telling Ken what had happened. Or not.

Gradually it dawned on Aya that he was being followed.

Without altering his pace he peeled away from the crowd, and found a suitable alley where he could deal with whoever it was in an appropriate fashion. He wheeled around, fist snapped back, and hit.

"Ow! Fuck, Aya, you bastard!"

"Yohji?!"

Big green eyes looked up at him reproachfully.

"What were you following me for?"

"I only wanted to know what plane you're catching." Yohji scrambled to his feet and brushed dirt off his jeans. He tentatively felt his nose. "Am I bleeding?"

"No, idiot. And what does it matter which plane?"

"Don't sound so pissy. Maybe I wanted to come and see you off."

Aya caught his gaze, and wondered how much more he could stand.

"Or," said Yohji. "Maybe I want to come with you."

Aya's heart leapt into his mouth, blood roared in his ears.

"I was planning on maybe a big dramatic airport scene," said Yohji. "But I know you hate a fuss."

Aya blinked at him.

"I can't do that to you," he said. "I can't drag you away from the life you wanted, from Asuka-"

"She's not Asuka." Any trace of humour was wiped from Yohji's face in an instant; there was a shade of the old, desperate Yohji there instead. "I have Asuka here, in my heart. I always will. But I want you, Aya."

A beat, and then, again. "I want you."

Aya remembered the myriad good reasons why this should end here, why it should have ended a year ago in Sheol, or in the shot-out mission room in the Koneko. It should have ended a thousand times, in a thousand different places. But it hadn't. It never had. It never ended.

He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Pulled Yohji close and told him with his mouth and tongue, and fingers in his hair, and a tiny incoherent sound that felt like a whimper. He scrubbed damp cheeks on the silk of Yohji's shirt, and ached.

Yohji drew back first, one hand tangled with one of Aya's as if he never meant to let go, and smiled.

And it was real.