The Goddess of Love

By Nix Winter

Disclaimers: I don't own WK. Na.

This story is a gift fic for Raven! :)

For Raven

The house was two stories, dusty hardwood floors and windows that had probably been washed last before Omi was born. Omi squeezed in behind Aya, moving very close to Ken, to whom he gave an apologetic smile. Aya took a step farther into the place, a red eyebrow arching. The house was nestled between to other houses, a brownstone façade on the front making it look more modern than it obviously once. Manx had said the property had belonged to Kritiker for a 'substantial' period of time.

Youji thought that it had to go all the way the Reformation and if they looked hard enough there'd be a priest skeleton stuck in a hide spot somewhere. "Well, at least we'll know if anyone's been fixing it up for us."

Ken dropped his duffle back, causing a cloud of dust, which set Youji to coughing.

Right then, they all shared a common desire to go home. Tokyo with its familiar places and decent tea appealed to all of them.

"It's not that bad," Omi said moving down the hall to open the first set of double doors. "There's a fire place."

"Good," Aya said, shifting his hold on his bags and taking to the stairs at the back of the hall. "It may not have central heat."

"No central heat?" Youji looked back towards the door, which Ken kicked closed. Youji liked French cigarettes and French wine. Youji liked paying too much money for crepes with chicken in onion sauce. He liked being the only blond for kilometers. He'd been France for nearly four hours by the time he dropped his bag on top of Ken's.

"Hey! Get your bag off mine!" Ken growled, abandoning his bag to being uke to Youji's as he followed Omi down the hall. "You never now what kind of stuff might leak out of yours."

Those had been long four hours. In Japan he had this flavor of who he was and he could smooth any portal for entry, or at least remind himself that he was worth something by trying. That didn't work as well with French that sounded like he was a tourist commercial. He grabbed his bag from on top of Ken's and took for the stairs.

Surprised, Ken moved back down the hall and called after him, "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Youji said, giving Aya a glare to nail home that coffin before it got started. He was fine. The gnawing inadequacy in him was just something he deserved anyway.

"I thought you'd like France," Ken shouted behind him.

There seemed to be six bedrooms on the second floor, each without a bathroom. Old house. Youji nudged one door open with his foot, stood there in the hall as the door opened. Aya had taken the room next over, and for Youji, standing there in the door looking at a room out of a dusty Jane Eyre.

He crossed the room and dropped his bag, green samsonite soft case, on the bed, then regretted it as more dust swirled up. It just summoned a joke, somehow. What did one do with old assassins? Youji stood there by the window, missing his own window from the Koneko. That had been his home for a long time. He laid a hand against the window, finger tips sliding on the white soap smeared to make the windows opaque. Outside the sky cried rain on them, and it just made up for the dryness in Youji's soul. He sought the end of that joke he was trying to make up. What did one do with old assassins? Make them live in haunted houses? Somehow. That wasn't funny.

"Hey," Ken said, leaning in his door, a corduroy casual and happy with it smile on his face. "You okay?"

"Yes," Youji lied, or maybe just it was true, because he was as good as he was ever going to be again. "I'm fine. It's just weird to be here."

"No joke. You want to go shopping with me and Omi?"

Once, Youji would have agreed, gone with them, and enjoyed the sport of tormenting them both as much as possible. Now. He just wanted to be alone. "That's okay, Kenken. Thanks though. I think I just want to settle in on my own for a while."

"You sure? Omi's excited and squealing like a girl." It was a bribe and Youji knew it.

"Have fun." Youji turned back to the window, trying to see the rain from between the smears of soap.

"Yeah. Whatever," Ken said, heading back towards the stairs, "Later!"

A few minutes later, Youji wandered back down the stairs and out into the rain.

Aya watched from a window he'd freed from soap already, watched the rain quickly darken Youji's hair, wet the dark shirt. Aya tilted his head as Youji stood on the corner, waiting for a rainbow maybe. They were in Paris. Aya had expected Youji to like it here, to blossom like a bee in a hothouse. The feeling of confusion around Youji, of hesitation, contaminated Aya too and so they both stood there, waiting for that rainbow.

Whatever rainbow might come with French rain didn't come fast enough. Hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets, Youji moved off into the gray city.

Waiting had never been something that Aya had been good at. It just kind of came to him that there wasn't anything else to do, except wait. Wait for his sister, wait for vengeance, wait for some life on the other side, wait for Youji to come home.

At three in the morning, Aya didn't know why he was up, waiting, cleaning, waiting, practicing, snarling, and then he was home. Youji let himself in, closing the door quietly behind him, shutting out the still falling rain.

Aya moved into the hall, scowling, ready to tear into him. It wasn't that he wanted to hurt him. It wasn't that he didn't like him. It was all the pent up anger inside, all the worry, all the words he couldn't say. And then.

Youji smiled. Aya blinked. Aya froze.

Youji's smile turned into a grin, as he toed his shoes off there by the door, and winked.

Aya scowled, building up steam for the argument he was about to start, but then Youji sprinted past, up the stairs, leaving a trail of wet foot prints. Gone without a word, without a fight, and Aya stood there, fists clenched.

Aya had never seen Youji smile like that. Never.