regression
"What," Aya said.
"Well." Youji cleared his throat. "I." He started to gesture, uselessly, but the movement only transferred a smattering of blood from his gloves to Aya's face. Not that it made much of a difference. In the close quarters of the car and with the heater going full-blast the scent of blood had permeated the air; he could still smell it, distinct and unpleasant. He supposed that that should have been the word to describe the taste of Youji's mouth. He knew that was one of the words he would use to describe Youji.
"That's not," Aya tried again, and gave up.
"What?"
"What was that," Aya said. Not quite a question. The door to the flowershop was only a few meters away, and he supposed he could do without Youji's excuses or, for that matter, Youji's company, however many admonitions Omi might deal his way.
Whatever Youji had been expecting him to say, that apparently wasn't it. He laughed. "You couldn't tell? Either I'm losing my touch or you're --"
"You," Aya said, cutting him off, "are drunk. Get inside. I'll clean the car."
"I'm not. Actually." He stepped closer. Taking the graceful exit Aya was offering him was too much to ask; Aya couldn't muster up any surprise about that. "Not right now. This morning, yeah. In another hour, sure. But -- hey, what, you thought that was an accident?"
"No." Youji did nothing stupid entirely by accident; his life, as far as Aya could see, was a series of unconsciously planned collisions, each calculated for maximum damage. "You should know that I'm not --"
Youji raised an eyebrow.
"Interested," he finished, out of patience. "The word is 'interested', Youji. I'm also unwilling to put up with your pathetic attempts to -- whatever you think you're doing."
(Self-destruct, possibly. But to admit that would mean that he'd been watching, and whatever concern he might have, or have had, for Youji, it didn't run like that, and he was even less interested in being dragged down along with him: one way or another, Youji was none of his responsibility, not the reason he'd joined Weiss; beyond that one reason, everything else was ignorable.)
"Right," Youji said, "right, Aya. That's very, I don't know, flattering? Unconvincing?"
The part of him that said walk away, the part that saw the crooked and mocking grin on Youji's face, fell away as Aya dropped his katana, transferring his grip from its pommel to Youji's throat.
"You know, I thought so," Youji said, still conversationally, looking somewhere over Aya's shoulder.
"Stop."
"I hate to point out that I'm not the one --"
"Stop this. I'm not one of your women," Aya said. "Does it look like it?" He pressed against Youji, making his meaning clear. This close he could smell stale cigarette smoke in Youji's clothing; registered the slight but constant trembling of Youji's hands, pressed flat against the side of the car.
"No," Youji said. "That was kind of the point. Because this time -- you know, this time, when it goes wrong, I won't be sorry."
Yes. Of course. Always back to that. "You think you can kill me?"
Youji laughed again, covered Aya's hand with his own, tightening the grip on his own throat. "No, that's the thing. That's what makes the difference. I won't have to."
It was surprisingly difficult to let go.