"The world is always ending for someone."
― Neil Gaiman, Signal to Noise
-ooo-
Akira is lying dead beside him and he is alone, himself, but not. He is something else, something more, but the knowledge of what that might be shatters like glass breaking, scattering upon examination.
Akira is dead and nothing will ever be right again, least of all him.
Tears drip warm across his cheeks and his eyes are burning, his chest aflame as if something vital and irreplaceable has been carved away.
The world is quiet like this.
So terribly, terribly quiet.
He is alone and fiercely glad when the end comes that Akira's face is the last he sees, that there will be no life, no world, no existence for him without Akira in it.
Love.
There is no such thing.
He knows this to be true.
And yet… and yet.
And then he wakes.
He wakes to his heart beating out the staccato rhythm of gunfire in his chest.
It was just a dream.
Nothing real.
Nothing true.
He wakes to the bright lit darkness of the city, to the steady hum of an air conditioner and the soft of his pillow and the ache in his ankle and the bruises on his face.
Everything hurts.
His cheeks are damp and his eyes feel puffy and swollen and the taste of salt lingers on his lips.
He is in a hospital bed, in a private room, in a private wing, in a private hospital and he knows he was dreaming about something truly terrible, worse by far than Sabbath could ever have been, but the knowledge of what that something might have been seems as malleable as moist clay in his hands, the form changing and morphing and further lost with each passing moment he spends staring out into the night.
He dreams of demons often and flying always.
But there are no wings at his back and when he runs a shaking hand back through his hair, it's as short and orderly as ever and he can't quite determine why he expected it to be any different.
Already the dream has become a distant, unknowable thing, made unreal and impossible as much by the fantastical notions within as by the snoring boy sprawled across the bed beside him taking up far more than his share of space. He grimaces as he realizes that there are still bits of demon blood and flesh in his hair and splattered across his bare skin.
Fudo Akira, soft features made sharp by the devil that now resides within him, snorts and huffs and grumbles in his sleep, his mouth gapping wide to show off white, white teeth that seem much sharper than they used to be.
Beautiful, still, always, but no longer easy prey.
Those visions that haunted his dreams disturbing though they were would never come to pass now.
Akira had taken Amon's power and ridden it, had used it to tear through a room full of demons to get to him, to save him, had clutched him against his chest, cradled him as if he were a small, precious, fragile thing.
So warm.
He had felt so warm.
And now he lay, exhausted, spent, but still himself, human heart still beating firm and familiar within the prison of his chest when he lays his ear against it to assure himself of its steady rhythm. It's a little faster than it had been before, when he'd lain with him like this when they were children, during those distant halcyon days before Jenny had led him away towards knowledge and its pursuit and far, far away from the simple boy who so fascinated him.
From the crybaby who had wept for him again and again, from Akira who was kind and beautiful and relentlessly good and so very, very human and so different from anyone else he's ever known. Akira who made him want to spend every waking moment with him, watching him. He'd taken so many pictures during those last days, small fingers clutched desperately around the disposable camera he'd stolen from the corner store. He could keep pictures, could carry them with him, always, so he would never forget those days as he had forgotten so many things before Akira and so many things since.
Not that he thought he'd even truly be able to forget him.
Even if he tried.
His thoughts still snapped back to him, always, like a compass pointing ever North.
No matter where he went there was always Akira, always that inescapable, ever-present longing for home.
So, he'd watched him from a distance. In those quiet moments between his studies.
How many times had he fallen asleep to the flickering feed of the security camera near the school, waiting to catch a glimpse of him walking to school, eating lunch outside?
Too many.
He missed him every moment they were apart.
He never wondered if Akira missed him.
There was no need.
He knew he did.
Akira was the only thing he'd ever truly believed in.
The one constant star in his sky.
Those years had passed so slowly.
He had learned and he had taught and they had written each other letters at first and sent each other e-mails later.
Phone calls were more difficult.
Akira had homework and he had lesson plans to write and Akira worried too much if he called too late and he hated to interrupt the rhythm of Akira's days with his own selfish desires.
And always, always, hearing his voice made him miss him all the more.
"Hey, it's late there. You should get some sleep, Professor," Akira's voice was soft and teasing, but there was concern there too and a half-dozen unasked questions.
Are you getting enough sleep?
Are you eating well?
Are you happy?
Are you okay?
Are you lonely?
Do you miss me?
And he has no answers for any of them that will not worry him further and, knowing this, he always answers: "I was hoping you'd bore me to sleep with tales of high school academics and track meets."
And Akira would humor him.
Would tell him about all the inconsequential things that filled his days.
The sport he enjoyed, but would never excel at.
The friends he'd made.
The girl he adored.
"Have you even told her you like her?"
"Ryo-chan! No! I can't... it'd be too weird, wouldn't it? I mean we live together."
"I imagine that would make some things easier at least."
"Ryo!"
"Akira."
"C'mon, you know I'm... no way. Ugh. No. Maybe this stuff is easy for you, because you're cool and smart and everything, but I'm just..."
"You're perfect as you are. If she can't see that, she wouldn't be worthy of you anyway."
"Ryo, seriously, you can't just...ugh."
He can hear the embarrassment in his words, can feel the heat of his blush across the thousands of miles that separate them and it never fails to make him smile.
"Look, whatever, okay, but I can't tell her I like her. No way. It'd make things... weird, you know? I don't want things to be weird."
"Alright, fine, fine, if that's what you want."
And he is secretly, fiercely glad.
He hates this girl who Akira adores.
Hates her as deeply and completely as anyone or anything has ever hated has ever hated a thorn in their paw or a rock in their shoe that they can't shake free.
It's a strange and maddening sensation he can't explain and thus he ignores it and tries his best to be helpful to Akira in spite of it.
He called Akira often.
Not as often as he'd like, of course, he generally limits himself to one every few weeks so Akira will have plenty to talk about.
He can count on one hand the number of times Akira has called him and, without fail, each of those times has been in some way marked by tears.
He's eating breakfast at Jenny's insistance when the phone rings.
He knows it's Akira from the ringtone.
He's the only one of his contacts who has been assigned a specific tone.
It's the way it's been since he purchased his first cellphone.
There is Akira... and there is everyone else.
"Why are you calling me?" He asked in lieu of a more customary greeting. "You have school tomorrow, Akira. You should be sleeping."
It was late in Japan, well past midnight, and while coherency would likely have been too much to hope for he always tries for it anyway.
"Ryo-chan."
He is crying.
He expects it, but it doesn't make it any easier to hear.
He can hear the ache of sadness in his voice, in the way the syllables of his name tremble as they fall off his tongue, tone thick and sticky as paste as each syllable trips out over a half-voiced sob.
Sometimes Akira attempts to explain his troubles, but this is clearly not to be one of those nights.
"It's okay. You're okay," he tells him though it doesn't mean anything and he doesn't know for certain that he is, but it's the best he can do for him when he is so very far away and unable to touch him. Unable to wrap his arms around him and hold him tightly and let his tears soak his coat. "Everything will be fine. Everyone is okay."
Those might be lies too, but he doesn't know for sure and he will prioritize Akira's well-being and safety over the truth every time.
Besides, he is relatively confident in his informed assessment that Akira has simply had some sort of nightmare.
It wouldn't be the first time, after all.
Akira's sobs eventually subside and his breathing becomes deep and slow.
He should say his goodbyes and leave him to sleep, but as he has no pressing or particularly interesting obligations to see to, he decides to keep him company instead.
He puts the phone on speaker and sends a few quick e-mails to cancel his classes and keep Jenny busy and out of his hair before curling up on his couch with the phone pressed to his ear and a blanket tucked around him, listening to Akira grumble and mumble and snore on the other end of the line.
He is drowsing, more than half-asleep himself, when he hears Akira wake.
"Oh, Ryo, sorry, I..." he mumbles, voice creaking like a rusty gate before falling silent.
He considers responding, but Akira's voice is pleasant and distant and he's warm and comfortable and can't quite bring himself to bother when Akira isn't saying goodbye or demanding his attention.
Akira doesn't say anything further, doesn't apologize again or call his name or hang up.
His breathing is a little quicker than it was.
Just a little.
The sheets rustle.
And there's a noise.
Soft, muffled, almost a sob, but not quite.
Then everything is silent.
Perfectly silent.
He continues to breathe, wide awake now, staring sightlessly out into the bright sunlit afternoon, mind spiraling through all that might be happening behind the silence of that mute button.
When noise and life floods back in, Akira is drawing in deep, stuttering, shaky breaths that make him squirm.
His toes curl against the couch cushions and he pushes shaking hands against his clothes, unfastening buttons pressing cloth aside to settle against the aching flesh beneath before he can think better about it, before he can think about it at all.
"Akira?" He asks without meaning to and his voice is almost unrecognizable.
"Are you okay?" Akira is quick to reply, concern stealing the slur of satisfaction from his words.
"Mm-hm," he says, nothing close to articulate, his hands already making quick, efficient work of the problem his thoughts and Akira's silence have created. "I... I must have fallen asleep."
"Uh, yeah, sorry, me too. You didn't miss any classes did you?" He sounds so worried, as if his missing a few classes were some horrible tragedy.
"No," he lies, closing his eyes as the sensation built, climax already moments away. "I had the day off."
"Oh, okay, good, um, I'm sorry I called you so late, Ryo."
Ryo.
His back arches and his toes ache and he bites his bottom lip bloody.
When it's over, his hands and the blanket still draped across his lap are damp and his clothes are probably ruined, but he can't quite bring himself to care too much about the mess though he's certain it will bother him later.
On the other end of the line Akira is silent and he's still blinking black spots from his eyes as he realizes, belatedly, that it's his turn to speak and move the conversation along.
"It's okay," he manages and his voice is languid and thick as honey drizzled across toast. "It's fine. You can always call me whenever you like."
"Yeah, yeah, okay," Akira's voice seems shakier than it was a moment before and he's not sure what that means or if it means anything at all. "Ryo-chan, I..."
He trails off.
He always does these days, but he can still hear the words.
Love you.
He never says the words anymore, not since he told him that love didn't exist, that it was just a social construct, that it wasn't anything real.
He never says the words, but he can still somehow hear them echoing in the silence as they have been ever since the day he left him.
Since that day when Akira threw his skinny arms around his neck and whispered them in his ear as he cried and cried and cried.
He hadn't understood them then.
He didn't understand them now.
Love.
It meant so much to so many, but it still meant nothing to him.
"Yes, I know," he replies, because it's the best he can do. The best answer he's found and saying it still makes him frown, makes his skin crawl, but he says it anyway.
He always says it anyway.
"Good," Akira laughs and he can tell that he's smiling, that it doesn't bother him that he does not, can not, will not, return the unspoken sentiment.
It never has.
And he doesn't understand that either.
"We'll talk again soon," he murmurs in reply, wiping his filthy hands against the equally filthy blanket as he presses the button to end the call with the tip of his nose.
Blood from his lip dribbles down upon the surface anyway.
Weeks later, as he'd stood in the middle of the jungle and watched the professor burn, his first thought, his only thought, is that he needs to go.
He needs to get to Akira.
He needs him.
Just him.
Sometimes he thought Jenny had been right to take him from that place.
Akira was a distraction, a presence which she'd been right to fear, if anything she felt could be called fear.
Love.
There was no such thing.
He has often wondered how different the course of his life might have been if he'd stayed at Akira's side, grown with him. If they had spent all their firsts together rather than apart.
Would he have learned to run alongside him?
Would he have watched from the stands?
Would it have been his home Akira stayed at while his parents were absent?
Would he have learned to cry and feel and live as he lived if he had stayed with him?
Would Akira still have looked to him for advice?
For acceptance?
Would he have become Akira's whole world the way Akira was his?
Would he have looked at him differently when their bodies began to change?
Would his have been the first hand to touch him intimately when they were older and prepared for such things?
Would they have learned about desire together?
Would he have read too many books and tried to give too much instruction? Tried too hard to impress with his knowledge of a subject he had only begun to comprehend.
He had no doubt that Akira would have been an eager and earnest pupil at first, but would have soon lost patience with books and rules and structure. That in the end he would have been the one dragged along with him into practical application, knowledge and books forsaken in favor of grasping hands and curious fingers.
That's how it would have been.
If Akira had looked to him with any interest at all.
It would probably have been messy and too much and he might have tried to squirm free of his embrace again and again, secure in the knowledge that Akira would chase after him every time, would laugh and catch him and pull him into his rhythm whenever he tried to shy away from trying new things.
Would it have been different if it had been Akira?
Would he have been different?
Would he have felt something beyond the brief flash of relief and rush of endorphins he'd experienced at the hands of the experienced discreet men and women Jenny had called to handle the carnal requirements of his body in the same way she ordered food or doctors to see to his continued health and well being.
Something like what he'd felt on the couch beneath the ministrations of his own hands with Akira's voice in his ear.
He wasn't sure, would never know.
But even if it had changed nothing for him, he'd still have been able to see Akira's face.
And that... that would have been enough.
To see his lip tremble and his eyes close as he reached his climax… that would have been enough.
More than enough.
Would Akira have cried as he came?
If he had, he would have licked those tears from his cheeks, might even have licked the mess from his fingers and chest.
If he had stayed with him, would Akira have eventually looked at him the way he looked at that girl now?
With that same pure adoration?
Did it matter?
No.
What might have been did not matter.
Might have beens were just that.
This was the way the world was.
And wondering about what might have been was merely a way to pass the time.
It was just as likely that everything would be just as it was, more or less.
He did not know.
Would never know.
And none of it truly mattered anyway.
Whatever else he is, he has always been a creature of the moment and the past is just that and the future has yet to happen and can not matter until it does.
The dream is fading and with it the surety and dread and panic of those first frantic waking moments. Whatever it had been about, whatever he had feared there, it was now nothing more than transparent images and half-remembered meanderings, frail and unimportant, as they drifted away to wherever it is dreams go when they die.
A hand slips into his hair, fingers gentle and careful even in sleep, holding him there when he might have otherwise slipped away, keeping him close. There is a strange greedy desperation in that hold that seems important, but the meaning alludes him. It's the sort of mystery he's never had an interest in solving as he suspects it might be beyond his abilities and he has never enjoyed the taste of failure.
Akira mumbles his name- not the name that is already fading from his mind as if it had never been, that name is unimportant, meaningless when stacked against the reality of the present, against the rumble of Akira's stomach and the beat of his heart and the big, not yet familiar hand trailing fire across the back of his neck- but the name only Akira calls him, the familiarity of an honorific he should have long outgrown and the warmth of the affection each syllable carries.
Whoever he dreamed he was, it has nothing to do with the present. With this moment in which he is Asuka Ryo or maybe not even that. Instead perhaps he is simply Ryo-chan, Akira's Ryo-chan. A boy in man's clothing, an empty vessel yet to be filled, longing for something that has always been within his grasp and will remain ever out of reach.
Something he can almost feel in the tightness of his chest and the way those bloodstained fingers catch in his hair.
"Akira?" He asks, and for some reason he can not begin to understand, his voice is soft and plaintive and breathtakingly lonely.
"S'okay," Akira slurs, turning towards him, curling around him, the hand in his hair urging him close and closer still. Akira shelters his head against his chest, the palm of his free hand- bigger than it was before- slides down his back, lower and lower still, until it can slip beneath the fine white linen of his shirt and spread wide across his bare back, press warmth against the base of his spine. It's a lazy gesture, lacking intent, sharpened nails like claws scratching across his skin. And it draws a sound from his throat like the plaintive wail of a kitten as heat pools slow, liquid, and strange in his belly.
He can feel the proof of Akira's unfocused, aimless desire hot against him, pinned and twitching between them, dampening and staining the front of his shirt and soaking through to the skin beneath.
Can feel the slight reflexive jump of his hips every time he shifts, every time he breathes.
Demons are creatures of violence and rage and carnal desire.
He knows this to be true.
He knows that eventually- sooner rather than later- Akira will be consumed by the need to kill and eat and fuck, but those urges, those needs, are still new, still developing and so, for now, they remain vague and half-formed things, easily denied.
He will be different.
But he will still be Akira in every way that truly matters.
He can hear the tears in Akira's voice even if he can't see them as he continues to mumble words of unnecessary comfort, to stroke his hair as if he is the one in need of soothing.
"S'okay, Ryo," he says, nails scratching light as a sprint breeze across his scalp. "You're okay. It's okay. We're okay."
Akira's hips rock against him, the motion still slow and aimless as Akira growls, soft and low, his breath hot against the crown of his head.
He does not wonder whose name would slip from Akira's lips if he were he to put a hand between them and pull desire from him with the steady, careful tugs he used to ease his own body's occasional tensions.
It does not matter if it's her name or his or no name at all.
Regardless, he would still wish to draw back and away from him so he could stare into his face as he brought him over the edge, not caring how the mess of it would splatter across them both so long as he got to see the color in his cheeks and record the expression he would wear as his body shivered and shook beneath him so he could play it and watch it back again and again.
He knew without a doubt that no matter how ridiculous a face he made, the sight of it would still somehow be more stunning, more magnificent than any sunrise.
He does not touch him.
Instead he lays still within his easy embrace and lets such thoughts drift away for the moment though he knows they will return to haunt him again and again in the days to come as Akira's appetites grow.
Love.
There's no such thing.
He knows this.
He has always known.
Yet still he came here.
He came here and he made him strong, strong enough to survive what's coming.
And he wants to promise him the world, the girl, all that he might want or desire even as he selfishly wishes to also linger forever in the stillness of this moment.
A moment where there is no world beyond the strength of Akira's arms around him and the warmth of his tears as they fall upon his hair as Akira continues to press soft, haphazard kisses against him and murmur nonsense words against his bowed head even as sleep reaches out to pull them both into its embrace.
Love.
There is no such thing.
He knows this.
He has always known this.
But if there were, he could imagine that it might feel a bit like this.