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Ken pushed his face to the frosted window, his breath condensidng on the glass. The snow came down, not as individual flakes, but like a white sheet being unfurled by the sky. A cruel wind whipped through the streets, its low howl like a siren. He was worried. Omi and Yohji had gone out alone on the mission that night; Aya had been knocked out by a terrible cold, and Ken, willingly, had stayed home to play nurse. He turned from the window, and beyond the partition of the room could see the elongated, gaunt figure of his teammate stretched out on the couch. The situation could have, almost, been funny; to see Aya, generally so stoic it bordered on rudeness, shiffling around and sniffling miserably borderd on the absurd. However, overactivity had exacerbated the illness, and the deep flush on the unerringly pale skin was like a stain. It warned of danger.
Aya let out a stifled groan and Ken, instantly, was at his side. He reached into the basin and pulled out a washcloth, ringing lukewarm water onto the floor in his careless haste. When he applied it to the burning forehead, he caught his breath: the fever had gotten worse. Ken knew that Aya would refuse to go to the doctor, even if it killed him. Aya did a lot of things even if it would kill him. He looked at the clock; thankfully, enough time had elapsed that he could give Aya another dose of medication. He rose silently and padded towards the kitchen. Shaking out the bottle, he heard the clatter of the last pills dropping into his palm. He hoped Yohji and Omi were alright. He hoped they would come home soon.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
In the car, Yohji kept his eyes on the road with nervous apprehension. It was a treacherous night, the streets a minefield of accidents narrowly averted. To top it off, the job had been messy. Why did he do this? A deep furrow creased his brow.
"Yohji-kun . . ." Omi never took his eyes off the road, his nails digging deep into the upholstery. He thought Yohji's driving was scary at best; at the moment, it bordered on terrifying. "You're awfully quiet."
Yohji smiled, turning his eyes from the road to Omi. The car swervd to the left, dangerously close to the sidewalk and lamp posts. Nervous pedestrians scattered like cockroaches. "Oh, I'm sorry. Do you want me to take my attention off the road?" Purposely and with uncredited skill, he jerked the steering wheel again. There was a loud crack as the sideview mirror of a parked car collided with their own.
Omi screamed, the pitch betraying both his youth and his terror. Laughing, Yohji turned his attention back to the task at hand. "You should have some faith in me, Omi-chan. I would never purposely get into an accident . . . with such precious cargo on board."
Omi blushed.
"... I'm referring to myself, of course. The female population would never survive it if I died. Poor creatures. . . " He sniffled in mock-saddness. Omi frowned, and clenched a gloved fist.
The car swerved again.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Ken sat beside Aya on the couch, listening to the wheeze of air pouring into constricted lungs. The slightest sound of discomfort, the slightest groan and he was there, by Aya's side, shushing him in attempts to comfort. Ostensibly to feel for the fever, Ken lay his palm along the length of Aya's cheek, fingers resting lightly on the alabaster temple. An unnatural heat rose through the skin. For a moment, before he could catch himself, he leaned in very close. Aya's lips were red, like the stain the virus smeared on his cheek. He wondered if they, too, carried the heat of infection, the fire of an internal struggle. He closed his eyes, and self-control once again washed over him. He leaned a weary frame against the back of the couch; his neck hung back, and his eyes were open. How long could he go on like this? Dammit, Aya....
"Ken."
The sound coming from Aya's throat was startling and unnatural, like something borrowed. Ken bolted upright.
"Aya! You're awake!" He blushed; his voice betrayed his unnatural joy. "You've been sleeping all day; Youji and Omi went out on the mission alone."
Aya paused for a moment before answering, a swallow catching in his parched throat. He opened his eyes, and Ken rose to get cold water from the kitchen. "They aren't back yet - the storm outside is pretty bad. How are you feeling?"
Aya propped himself up on his elbows, and ran a hand through his damp, crimson hair. " Fine." He accepted the glass offered, and swung his legs around to make room for Ken on the couch beside him. "You stayed in." It was a simple remark, neatly and pointfully stated. And yet....
A nervous laugh. "Yeah.....y...you really don't looks so good, Aya. You need to see a doctor." Ken held his eyes on his lap, to aviod seeing the impression his suggestion made. He knew that Aya would never go . . . even the thought of doctors was probably something he pushed away. Reminders of hospitals. Reminders of Aya-chan.
Aya put down the glass, half-empty. There was a silence, broken only by the sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the apartment, echoing and mingling with the sound of thought. The air felt suddenly dense, and very heavy. Aya turned to Ken. "Do you care if I see a doctor or not?"
"Of . . . Of course I care!" Ken turned to look into the violet eyes, surprised at the conviction carried by his voice. Why had Aya asked that? He seemed different tonight. He was always the Olympian, stoic and immobile even in sickness, and yet . . .he looked so tired. His weakened state betrayed something, hidden dark and deep within himself, that Aya did not like to admit. An exhaustion beyond his physical body. Loneliness like a cage. A dependancy, a need never acknowledged. Ken was not used to seeing him looking so vulnerable, and the sight held on to something inside of him. Suddenly, inexplicably, he wanted to cry. "Of course...I....."
Aya continued to stare at him, his gaze holding tight. Without shifting his eyes, he reached for his glass to take a drink. A muffled clink. Water spilled across the table. Aya didn't move.
" ..... I....." Brown eyes filled with tears.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
"There - you see? Safe and sound!" Yohji pulled the car into the garage, relieved by the secure traction of the tires on dry concrete. He was glad to have forked out the extra dough for indoor parking. He parked effortlessly, and turned off the ignition with quiet triumph. Beside him, in the passenger's seat, Omi sat with wide eyes, staring blankly. Yohji patted him roughly on the shoulder.
"C'mon, Omi-chan! Last one upstairs has to clean the bathroom!" With a speed attainable only through habit, Yohji leapt from the car, and bolted for the elevator shaft. They played this game whenever they drove home from a mission, with the same outcome every time.
Omi jumped out of his seat, door slamming. "That's not fair, Yohji!" He was panting, feet pounding madly against the pavement in an effort to catch up with the blonde man racing ahead of him.
It was not a great challenge.
Before Yohji could reach the elevator, he collapsed, gasping for air. Omi ran past him, laughing and calling out: "You need to quit smoking, Yohji-kun, or you'll never win!" Omi touched the wall of the elevator and pushed the metal button to signal that they wanted to go up. It lit, a pale green. Omi cupped a hand over his mouth to hold in the laughter as Yohji, grumbling and panting, pushed himself up from the ground.
"Okay, ......pipsqeak.....," Yohji managed to sound out words between sobs for air. ".......rule change......first one thre has to ....." He staggered towards where Omi stood. Swiveling his narrow hips, he fell hard against the wall just as the elevator signaled its arrival with a metallic ding. With his stamina, it was amazing that he could ever finish a job. He thought, as he did every time, about quitting smoking.
Omi wiped away a tear, still jolting with intermittent giggles. "Has to what, unnnnn?" He smiled at Yohji teasingly.
Before Yohji could answer, he collapsed into the elevator. Omi barely had enough time to brace himself before Yohji's weight pushed him against the wall and pinned him there. Omi could feel his team-mate's heart beating through his shirt, and put his hands up against the muscular chest. He laughed nervously. "Yohji?..I..need to push the button..." Yohji pulled back from Omi for a brief moment, looking at him intensely. Omi did not understand the expression in those eyes, and turned away armed with an awkward smile. With a heavy reluctance of movement, Yohji averted his gaze and fell to the ground, still gasping for air. He smiled, palms up against the dirty ground.
The elevator doors shut.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Ken could not take his eyes off Aya. He was mortified; he could feel the tears coursing down his face, along the line of his jaw and dropping one by one in rhythm with the clock. Why are you doing this? His mind pounded him with questions for which the only answers were more tears. He felt as though Aya would disappear right infront of him; the pale skin had an effervecense to it that made it almost intangible. He was like a ghost. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He heard the water from Aya's glass, too: dripping off the table in time with his tears. He could not place the feeling he had, at that moment....He was thinking of nothing, except for Aya. Yet the tears kept coming, and he could feel himself burning with shame.
"Aya...."
Aya, too, had frozen: his hand hovered in mid-air, suspended over his overturned glass, while his eyes rested patiently on Ken's. He betrayed no disgust at his teammate's display of fragility. He betrayed nothing at all. He could hear the glass he had spilled, the one Ken had brought him, slowly rolling the length of the table, but could not turn his eyes to avert the disaster. He was frozen, stock still like a man at the edge of a precipice. One step, and he would fall.....
Instinctively, without thinking, Aya grabbed Ken's wrist. Slowly, slowly, he pulled the steel band close to his ear to assure that time continued. To make sure that the world hadn't stopped. Eyes fastened on Ken.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Aya placed the cold metal against his own burning cheek. He leaned forward, wickedly slowly - and Ken kept his eyes on him, not recoiling.
The glass dropped to the ground, shattering into a thousand crystal shards.
One step....
Blackout.
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Yohji and Omi had both heard the power cut out; it was the sound of death, of machinery and life sputtering out and dying in an instant. Following came a heavy silence, thicker than any other. Omi wondered if, if he pressed himself close enough to a body, this would be the sound he would hear at the end of a night's work. He was sure he could hear his blood flowing through his body, crashing in waves against his eardrums. The density of quiet unnerved him, and he held himself. Across the narrow compartment Omi could see Yohji, draped in a soft red by the glow of the emergecy light. He had regained his breath, but for the second time in the evening had a crease cutting through his fair brow. They both knew it could be hours before the power returned, and sat in a resigned silence.
"Ne, Yohji-kun." Omi spoke, simply to hear the sound of his own voice. "Let's play a game or something.... unless you'd rather sleep." Omi feared that, in that thick shroud of silence, Yohji would nod off and he would be alone, no company save his own thoughts; and those he often preferred to keep at bay.
"Alright...what did you have in mind?" Yohji sat upright, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Omi shook his head. Although he was still in high school, he rarely had times for games. He was at a loss.
"Alright, then - this is one an old ..... friend .... of mine and I used to play. Heard of 'truth or dare'?" His words were loaded, dripping with intent, and Yohji smirked at the recurrence of a memory which Omi did not share.
"Yeah...I....I think I know that one." Suddenly, Omi felt reluctant. He did not like to reveal himself, and had several things which he prefered to be kept secret. He did not like the truth. Plus, he was too chicken to ever choose the dare.
"Now, before we begin..." Yohji looked as though he were enjoying himself greatly at the prospect of this distraction. Omi could not guess his motivation. "I remind you that half of this game is a game of honour. We have to trust each other - so, when you answer something, I will believe you implicitly. I expect nothing but the truth from you ,and you will get the same from me. Alright?"
Omi swallowed, very hard. "Yes."
"Oh yeah - and a little something to make the game easier." Yohji reached into his boot and pulled out a neat, chrome flask. Omi gaped
"Yoh-JI! Where did you... wha....?"
"I swiped it off a guy druing the job tonight, I don't know why. I don't know what's in it, but it'll keep our minds offa this little pedicament." Yohji waved a finger vaguely at the darkness and swigged, sucking his teeth. "Yeow. Here" He tossed the alcohol to the teenage boy, who gave it a long look of contemplation. Then, to Yohji's surprise, he tilted his head back, his lips on the flask's rim. He did not flinch.
" Alright, then. Truth or dare?"
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Aya was so close, Ken could feel his long eyelashed brushing against his cheek like butterfly kisses. His eyes were open; yet, in that darkness, he could see nothing. There was no light coming in from the open windows, and the sounds of the street were swept away. Ken could hear his heart pounding in his ears, and feel Aya's fingers tracing the course of his tears.
"Are these for me?" Aya was close, so close, that breath mingled. "Why?"
The stoic, in the throwes of infection, had re-emerged. Aya kep his face, expressionless, as close to Ken's as he could be without contact. But the motions did not match the mind; like he was one step behind himself. He was not thinking: the part of him that cared to understand things had shut down long ago. Yet, the moment carried him along: There was something, there, he needed to find. Ken knew the answers that evaded him.
"Aya...I...." Suddenly, Ken grabbed him, clutching him to his chest in a gesture of utter desperation. Ken could put nothing into words, but perhaps this.... He had to make Aya understand. He could not live like this for another minute, for another second. He had fallen into that canyon long ago, and, after years of falling, had hit the bottom.
Aya lay in the arms of his teammate, unresponding. His head began to swim again with fever, but he said nothing. What was happening? He did not understand how very close he was to that ledge, looking over into a gaping nothing and a vast expanse of sky.
Ken, with the awkwardness of inexperience, took Aya's hand in a gesture imploring him to stand. Turning, he led Aya through the apartment, through seemingly endless and winding rooms and corridors. Aya followed without resistance and without compliance. In the dark, with his defenses lowered, he let himself be guided.
Finally, Ken took Aya through a doorway, and sat him down. Aya was not sure where he was, and fell back onto something soft and yeilding. Ken's scent was woven in with the sheets. Although he had only vague impressions of the rest of the world around him, Aya felt Ken's presence as acutely as he felt his own fever. It was like the two of them, in that silence and darkness deliciously complete, were suspended somewhere between earth and sky. There were only the two of them. Ken closed the door.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Yohji and Omi lay on the floor of the elevator, rolling with laughter and clutching their sides. In his previous turn, Omi had been dared to smoke an entire cigatrette; the result being a twelve-minute couighing fit that had causd Yohji to cry with laughter. In retaliation, Omi had made Yohji stand up and perform a good portion of the rock-opera Cats, complete with a little soft-shoe routine. Now, the two were cramped-up and exhausted, laughing with abandon on the floor of the elevator. Omi was sure that the sound of their mirth rang throghout the building. He didn't care who heard: Yohji's flask had long-since been emptied.
"OK, OK...." Yohji squeezed out the words between the remnants of giggles. "It's your turn: truth or dare?"
Since Yohji's proclamation at the beginning of the game, the two had been unconsciously skirting the 'truth' questions. Now, emboldened by alcohol and drunk on laughter, Omi was prepared. He fixed his eyes on Yohji, still giggling. "Truth." Yohji smiled, one corner of his mouth raising and giving shallow wrinkles to his youth. So, he had finally asked for it. He was not laughing any longer. Yohji returned the determined gaze.
"Ok, then. Me. How do you feel about me, Omi-chan?" His voice became teasing, imitating the tone so often used by Omi. He knew the boy would not answer He was right. Omi lowered his gaze.
"Ma, Yohji...." He laughed, the sound shallow and like a shrug. " I....I changed my mind. Dare."
"Hmmm..." Yohji was enjoying himself now, enjoying the game. "Ok - but there's no going back now: it's either that truth or this dare. Alright?"
Omi did not guess Yohji's intentions: while the older man was accustomed to alcohol, Omi was not. "Shoot."
"This is the point of no return, then...." Yohji once again fixed his gaze, calm and steady on the other's golden eyes. "Kiss me." The words rang out, not like a dare, but a command.
Omi blinked, a long second passing before his mind would allow for any reaction at all. Had he heard correctly? "D...did you say...."
"What, you've never kissed anyone before? Kiss me, Omi. Or answer the question. It's one or the other." He saw the blush spread like fire over the tanned cheeks, but would not look away. The boy was caught.
Inside, Omi was in turmoil. The game of cat and mouse between them had been going on for so long ... he hardly remembered when had been the first look, the first innuendo they had exchanged. It had been teasing, jokes edged with a hint of deeper intentions. But he could also not remember how long it had been since the game had lost its playful edge. Lately, the game had been like combat between them; the stakes were high, and were for keeps. Words were brambles, looks were barbed. His mind, thick and groggy with alcohol, would not let him think straight. Either way he would lose.....
Yohji, still staring, stood up. Omi looked at him imploringly, and accepted the offered hand. They stood, now, face to face: it was not aquiesence, but a standoff. Omi knew he could not make the confession, and yet also knew that the dare was even more than a confession. It was always easier to act than to speak, but....
Yohji saw the conflict in the boy's eyes. But it was too late: he would make Omi, himself, confront it. Things would change, maybe, but then they had already.....
It was too late to go back.
Yohji took a step forward, backing Omi into the wall. He saw Omi's eyes dart from one of his own to another, nervously searching for an escape. There was none.
He leaned his neck forward, his mouth hovering inches above his companion's. His air covered his eyes. "I can make it easy for you."
Omi tilted his head back, finally meeting the persistant gaze. Slowly, he raised two trembling, small hands to the slender body before him. They ran up, catching in the folds of the shirt and feeling the strength of the muscles underneath. He ran his hands up into Yohji's hair, and felt the silken curls fall through his fingers one by one. He couldn't breathe.
Yohji reached up, too, and closed Omi's eyes with trembling fingers.
Aya felt the bed shift under an added pressure, and the warmth of blankets being drawn up over his legs. Someone was pressed up close beside him, their breath on his neck coming shallow and short. Aya was sweating, and longed to tear off his clothes to diperse the heat. The fever would break soon, or get worse. Ken, with the patience and intuition of a mother, sat Aya up, and, beginning at the waist, began pulling up Aya's sweater. He could feel the sticky skin, and even in that darkness recognised the faint familiar glow of pallor. Aya lifted his arms over his head in meek obeisance, and , once the shirt was removed, let them fall limply by his sides. Ken was not thinking what he was doing, but was guided by something beyond his control. He tossed the sweater to the foot of the bed, and, straddling the lying man's lap, began to remove his own. He quickly pulled the covers back up over them both, and lay atop Aya, chest to chest.
He had to assure that this body was real. He had seen those eyes, latley: a semblance of something living, but a reminder of something dead. He was careless in battle, impassive in general, suicidal in action. So tall and thin....looking at him in the shop, framed against the floral display, Ken would often see it as an image of Aya lying in a bed of blooming flowers. Like Snow White: milk skin and rose lips. A metaphor for death. He had to hold onto him .... not to let him disappear.
"Ken."
Suddenly, Aya wrapped his arms around Ken. For a moment, he held him very hard. He was aware, now. He knew what would happen. He had known for a long time.
Ken opened his eyes. He knew, although he could not see, that Aya's were open as well. He could feel Aya's hand tracing up his body, and a shiver raced through him. Those delicate fingers, gliding through his hair. Every nerve was on fire. He lifed his face to Aya's. For so long, he thought he had wanted to protect Aya from himself. To be his salvation. Desires are so transient, and shift with each action as action becomes memory. Longings are so powerful.
Aya had been oblivious for so long. It was as if they each walked with blinders on, consciously unconscious of the signals and the signs. He did not want to know. And, yet, in the night deaf and blind, Aya let himself know.
He applied pressure, ever so slight, to the back of Ken's neck. Their lips met, warm and damp. Ken caught his breath, his nerves trilling. Unaccountable hours of pain, of quiet and desperate longing culminated in a single moment. He did not think about Aya's sickness; instead, he thought warmth of his mouth, the softness of his skin. His hands moved across Aya's body with the greed of satisfying a timeless curiosity. He devoured evey inch of skin, etching the tactile memory into his palms. He moved his lips to Aya's forehead and then down, along the delicate adam's apple. Desire coursed through him, mingled with the bitter aftertaste of months' worth of tears. He wondered what Aya was thinking.
Ken kissed the curve where neck and collar meet, drunk on the scent of this other man's skin. A meek sound escaped Aya's parted lips: the sound of inhibitions and barriers breaking down, the sound of falling. It was the scream of laboured acceptance, and the sigh of the pleasure acceptance can bring. With his white teeth he tugged at Ken's earlobe, his breath sending shrill shivers through Ken and back to him. He could not hold back anymore; he forgot the fever, forgot everything else but the man with him. The curves of his muscles. The planes of his body. The bottomless eyes so long avoided. He clutched at Ken's belt , at the fabric of his jeans.
Layers remove easily, sliding off like memories of the past or inhibitions. Like the shedding of baggage that has grown to be a burden too heavy to bear: once the weight is lifted, there remains of pleasure of having an empty hand.
Lips trace kisses along skin, mouths open in silent gasps.
The darkness edged in on them both, endless and bottomless, like a promise between them.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Yohji stood against Omi in the elevator, trembling very slighty. He, for the first time he could remember, was very, very nervous. His eyes rested on Omi's lips, blood red in the stale, artificial light. They looked soft, slightly parted, and were trembling as well. He could perceive the subtle motion of breath being drawn in and exhaled between them. He could feel that breath on his face, a faint trace of alcohol it whispered. He had won, had forced Omi to that point where he would have to admit himself. He had built this up, been wanting and waiting for it for a very long time. Those lips.....they awaited his touch. They yearned for it. He wanted so badly...... and, yet......
Slowly, he lifted his hands to Omi.s face, placing one on each smooth cheek. For a moment, he felt shame for the roughness of his hands, for the scars that patterned them.
Omi drew his breath, an audible meter of the tension in his body. He could feel Yohji lean in, even closer, and felt his nerves writhing in anticipation.
Suddenly, there was light, and Omi could feel two tender lips pressed lightly against his forehead.
Omi opened his eyes, blinking searching Yohji's face. "Yohji....."
The tall man smiled, kindly and sadly, and slumped back against the perpendicular wall. He slid slowly down to the floor, and reached up to pull Omi down to him. The pressure was so light, yet Omi fell, easily, into Yohji's lap. Yohji noticed how light to young boy felt, how slight his frame seemed. He could be blown away by a feather.
Omi held his head against Yohji's chest, listening to desire ebb away with the heartbeat. "Yohji....." Words would not come easily: his head felt heavy now, and his limbs exhausted. "What's wrong?"
Yohji smiled, and rested his cheek in the boy's fair hair. He smiled. "I don't know.... But something's not right about it. Not now. We have all the time in the world for eachother." His eyes closed and he could hear Omi's breath, deep and even. "The power's back, but it may be awhile before the elevator gets moving again....Omi?" Yohji opened heavy eyelids, and looked into Omi's face. It was angelically sweet, and fast asleep.
Yohji yawned, his eyes closing again, and felt the soft hair against his cheek. It smelled vaguely of summer....
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Yohji walked a few paced behind Omi, eyebrows knit together. Moments ago they had been awoken in the elevator by an elderly neighbour and her Pomeranian, whose shock at finding the men asleep in each other's arms was all but subtle. Omi was still chuckling, as though the situation was too funny. Yohji looked at Omi's back. What had happened the night before? Omi turned back, casually asking for the key to the apartment. Had he forgotten what had happened in that elevator? He searched his deep pockets, found the metal loop, and tossed it to Omi. It made a small arc in the air, and was caught soundlessly. Omi prattled on about something, and Yohji leaned against the wall. Of course, nothing had actually happened. It was just a game after all. He shoved his hands into his pockets again. He desperately wanted a cigarette.
"......time we should try to bump into her in our bathrobes! Ha ha...."Omi put the ley into the lock, listening to the small click. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Yohji place a cigarette in his mouth and pat his jeans in an effort to find his lighter. He removed one hand from the door knob. "Oh yeah - and Yohji...."
In an instant, before he had time to react, Omi grabbed Yohji's wrist and pulled him to him. Before Yohji could react, before he could blink, Omi's mouth was on his, soft and yeilding. He could his his heart beating in his chest.
For a long moment they stood there in the hall.
When Omi pulled away, Yohji stared back at him. A broken cigarette hung from between his parted lips. Omi smiled warmly, and turned to go into the apartment. Yohji,still blinking stupidly, smiled to himself and followed.
"We're hoooome! Were you worried?" Yohji called out, the words ringing off the walls. Silence.
"Hello?" Yohji wandered into the living room while Omi went the opposite direction. Where could they be? It was early morning, and so much snow must have piled up that business would grind to a halt. Where they at the store? In the living room, he noticed the water spilled across the table as something cut into the bottom of his foot. Broken glass glittered on the fllor like a thousand diamonds. What the...?
"WAAAAAHHHH!"
Yohji heard Omi's scream from across the apartment, and before he could move Omi pounding down the hall towards him. He was crippled with laughter, doubling over in the effort to contain himself. He fell to the ground, inches from the glass and covered his mouth with his palms. Yohji bent forwards, trying to get him to reveal the joke.
"What? What's so funny" The sound was infectuous, and Yohji could feel the corners of his own mouth lifting in joyous sympathy.
"Ken..." gasped out the words, tears spilling down his cheeks. " Aya ... Ken and Aya...!" He was laughing again, dissolving into fits of giggles.
"Aya and ....?" Yohji's words were cut off a sound from the corridor. He looked up, and saw him there.
Ken.
Ken, sniffling and shivering, with a cover hastily wraped around his waist like a make-shift sarong. His face was bright red, a startling contrast to the orange turtleneck which swam around him, past his fingertips and bunched at the waist. He had obviously been interrupted from sleep.
"Uhh......" Ken began the attempt to explain it to them, to justify what Omi had stumbled in upon. Then he stopped, and smiled in a way that Yohji was not quite sure he understood. He padded slowly into the kitchen; to Yohji's amazement he reached into the medicine cabinet, took a bottle of something, and walked slowly back down the corridor. A door slammed.
Yohji remained kneeling, looking first from the hall, to Omi, and back to the hall. Very slowly, he got up, and reached into his pockets. Like a faithful companion he found his cigarettes there, and pulled a fresh one out as he walked towards the balcony. To the sound of Omi's laughter he lifted the lock, and slid the glass door open.
Outside, the snow drifts had piled high, and Yohji could feel the cold in his feet like a thousand pin pricks. He was no thinking of that, howvever - rather, he was thinking of the previous night. He slid the slim cigarette between his lips, not caring to remove the crushed one that remained there from Omi's embrace. Aya and Ken? Omi? He looked out over the city, wondering what else had happened in the dark of that night. He did not think about going back into the apartment, of the questions and the excuses and the explanations that might be made. He thought only of the tabacco between his fingers, of the cold wind that ran through the streets and gutters. The city was white, so dazzling that Yohji felt as though it emitted its own light independent of the sun. A white, purifying light. It was as if the old city had been replaced, overnight, by a new one which had no boundaries.
He laughed, quietly at first, and lit his cigarette. Inside he could hear Omi laughing too, and another voice trying desperately to defend itself. He inhaled warm smoke, and watched it drift over the city with the wind.