In Fear Of
The Weaver Atropos
Chapter 1 --Suspicions


Ken was depressed. There was no doubt about it. The usually energetic and lithe athlete was, at the moment, curled into a lazy ball on the floor beside the couch. His head was cradled absently within his arms, his expression almost nonminding that he was pressed flat against the cold marble of the basement floor.

Ken usually did illogical things like that when he was upset.

Why he didn't just crawl up into the more comfortable sofa, Youji couldn't particularly fathom. All he knew was that if things continued as they were, he was going to have a rather displeased amethyst-eyed man on his trail. "Ne, Kenken?"

Youji nudged the immobile body curiously with a toe, wondering if Ken had somehow slipped into any type of irrational coma. Maybe Shulidich had stopped by, or maybe…

"Ken," the brunette corrected, sparing Youji a melancholy glance. "It's Ken."

Youji shrugged but proceeded just as well, "Kenken, our ever fearless leader suggests you make you way upstairs before a permanent boot mark becomes etched on your behind."

Ken rolled his eyes and turned on his side. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Aya's pain in the ass persona. As it was, Ken could barely handle talking to Youji—much less would he survive with the human block of ice. Especially since Aya was the source of the entire problem in the first place.

He would've gone up to his apartment long ago if he hadn't had to pass by the myriad of girls at the shop on the way there. No, he preferred laying, cold and quite morose, on the tiled floor of their 'mission room' then risk being glomped one more time. Growling, Ken pondered at the possibility of it being the girls' faults that he was feeling the way he was.

Aya would, of course, laugh at the notion—if the man were ever to commit such a crime—as being foolish and impractical. Ken mentally crossed his arms. So what if he was foolish and impractical? At least he wasn't maniacally anal about keeping his room clean. Though, why Aya bothered to keep his room in such an immaculate state made no sense to Ken. It wasn't as if the red head compulsively allowed visitors into his room; Sakura was the obvious rare exception, and even then, those visits were quite terse.

"Don't you think you're being too dramatic?"

That was Youji again. During his brief internal rant, he had almost completely forgotten the presence of the self-proclaimed sex god. Ken shook his head and sank further into the floor with woe. "A whole month, Youji—a whole month without salary. Why? Because that little twit of Aya's decided to have a common 'fainting spell' right in the middle of the Koneko."

Youji grinned at Ken's rampant usage of his fingertips to indicate his emphasis and point, "…and no one said—look out Ken, there's an awfully irritating fifteen year old swerving in your direction. No one bothered, Youji. And Aya was there, too—"

Shrugging, the blond playboy dropped down beside Ken and offered him a Cheshire grin. "At least Sakura's been too bedridden to show up here. I have to offer my praise for that one."

Ken managed a somewhat wry grin. "Yeah, but Aya's been visiting her for the greater part of the week. Almost as much as Aya-chan, I'd wager, were Sakura to ever be comatose.

Youji shrugged once more and ruffled Ken's hair affectionately. It was nearly Christmas and, for one sadistic reason or another, Aya had gotten it in his skin that everything—despite his normal aversion to the Christian holiday—had to be perfect for the 25th.

"Besides," Youji began with a yawn, "Aya wants the entire place decked out in decorations."

Ken raised an eyebrow in surprise as much as his current state would allow him. "Aya wants decorations up?"

Youji nodded and Ken sat up suddenly, slightly more energized then before, "The same Aya who called Halloween a 'childish and maniacally ridiculous' celebration?" At Youji's nod, Ken continued, "the same Aya who unfortunately happened to step on all our Easter eggs this spring?"

"Apparently Sakura coaxed him into it. That and a bout of puppy-dog eyes with Omi."

Ken, who had livened up during his conversation with Youji, felt his shoulders sag once more at the mention of Sakura's ability to convince Aya to do certain things. "I guess I'll put up the decorations, then…"

Rising, and frowning a bit as he did so, Youji lazily made his way back upstairs to the flower shop. It was his break time—had been for the past hour—but he'd skipped it, taking over Ken's shift instead. He might've not always been the most considerate of fellows, but Youji'd always do something to make a friend feel better.


"Ohayo, Ken-san!"

"Ohayo!"

"Ne, Ken-san—"

Ken gave a wan smile and tried in vain to tune out the loads of screaming fangirls suddenly obscuring his vision. From the corner of an eye, he could see his violet-eyed comrade glaring obstinately in his direction, as if willing the girls away by the blink of an eye. Self-conscious, Ken turned his body fully in the direction of a particularly excited young girl and offered a tired request for her order.

He was halfway back to the register when he felt the weight of an arm drop on his shoulder without warning. Startled and ready to pounce on his attacker, Ken turned, eyebrow quirking adoringly at coming face to face with a lock of Aya's fiery crimson hair. Absently, Ken realized just how small he was when compared with Aya. Almost as if he could…

Aya paused a moment, only mildly aware that Ken had drifted off, and tightened his grip on the brunette to help rouse him from his daydream. Ken responded accordingly, blinking coffee eyes quickly and focusing them on his teammate. What?

"Are they bothering you?" Ken was caught off guard by the question, not expecting any concern from Aya's persona, and quite used to the callous nature of the redhead. Ken shook his head no and swallowed thickly. He wasn't sure where this was going…

Clearing his throat, Ken let his eyes drop to the ground, his neck aching at having to constantly arch it to meet Aya's violet-hued gaze, and felt his throat tighten as they took in Aya's pale, creamy hands—one of which had only recently left his shoulder. Feeling a slight tingle of warmth spread through his limb, Ken uncomfortably rotated it, raising his left arm to rub at it when the sensation didn't fade.

Aya, though curious, let Ken be, offering only a nod before his departure. Grateful more than he liked to admit, Ken returned to his arrangement, frowning slightly as an idle rose pricked his index finger. Glowering at the offending thorn, he propped open a side drawer and withdrew a pair of sterling silver hand scissors as well as a roll of red and green ribbon. Not being nearly as careful as he usually was, Ken began to heedlessly curl the strands of ribbon, running the sharp edge of the scissors along the plane of the trimming to help it along. He was near finished when the scissors slipped and, much like a blade would, grazed the surface of Ken's right hand. Not thinking, the brunette sighed and heeded the advice of young toddlers over the world, and brought the appendage to his lips, suckling on it absently. Humming a bit to himself as he did so, Ken was only slightly conscious of the quiet tittering in the shop. Sighing once more, Ken rearranged the flowers in the arrangement, licking his lips at their sudden dryness.

"Ken?"

Shaken from his silent reverie, Ken raised his gaze toward Aya, noting a peculiar expression on his face. The youth cocked his head curiously to the side, waiting for the redhead to continue, and was surprised when Abyssinian's cold fingertips closed about his own and roughly pulled down his hand, tearing his injured finger from its sedated cavern. Ken frowned. "Oi, Aya—"

"Stop that!"

His tone was curt. Exasperated, almost. Intrigued, Ken glanced around towards Youji, knitting his eyebrows together as he posed the silent question. Wha??

Youji wasn't much help, though, offering only a slight chuckle before turning back towards the buxom woman with whom he'd been conversing.

Ken was about to begin his complaining once more when he felt Aya roughly tug on his wrist. Biting down the growl that was threatening to make its way past his lips, Ken allowed himself to be pulled into the adjoining inventory room.

Small and decorated only by shelves laden with stock books and deliveries that hadn't yet been moved into the greenhouse for safe keeping, it had only been further crowded by the myriad of Christmas decorations that had been haphazardly tossed inside. Aya scanned the room quickly, seeming only slightly annoyed at its messy state before motioning for Ken to sit.

"Aya—" Ken was nearly whining, "Why do I—"

"You hand," was all the redhead commanded, extending one thin, frail-looking hand. Glaring, Ken surrendered his own, eyes drawn to the sharp contrast of milky white and toasted bronze.

"It's not that serious, you know—I've had worse. Say, like that time when we had to attack Liott? You remember that? Yeah…well, my bugnuks weren't fast enough and this idiot went whoosh…right there—" Ken wrenched his hand away for a second and pointed to the juncture of his arm and forearm. "I've had this gash on it since then—its kind of…"

"Do you ever shut up?"

Aya's tone wasn't nearly as exasperated as it was amazed. As unflattering as the comment perceding it might've been, it was a new emotion that was being expressed by his comrade and Ken prided himself in the knowledge that it had been caused by him.

Smiling in response, Ken cradled his head in his left arm while Aya tended to his right. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Aya's soft tenor broke through Ken's thoughts. "Your mouth has a lot of germs."

"Huh?" Ken lifted his head off his arm for a few seconds, keen on telling Aya his mouth wasn't the only one with germs, when he caught onto what the redhead was saying. Assuaged, he dropped it back into his arms. "…Guess it does."

Aya's gaze flickered to him for a few seconds in amusement before returning to his palm. But Ken's attention had been picquied. "So then, why does everyone tell you to do it?"

"Do what?"

"Suck on it."

"Suck on what?"

Ken's cheeks colored slightly despite himself, "Your finger. Or on any other cut."

Aya shrugged. "It's not sanitary. Logically, at least. Granted some bacteria's going to be destroyed by your salival fluids, but—-what?"

Ken wore a disgusted expression. "You make saliva sound like the most abhorrable thing in the world."

Aya shrugged, seemingly not bothered by Ken's random spoutings. "I mean, saliva's involved in a lot of things—"

Now, the redhead lifted an interested eyebrow. He had his own idea of where that particular sentence could go, but wanted to let the brunette realize what he'd gotten himself into. "…you use it to eat, and to kill some germs, and for lots of other stuff, too."

"Like?"

Ken shifted uncomfortably. "To glue envelopes."

"That's the best you can do?"

The bugnuk-wielding soccer player turned his gaze on a violet to the left of Aya's head, absentmindedly comparing the color of his eyes to the vibrant hues of the flower. "And…well, you use it to clean stuff."

"And…?"

And...?

"And, you use it when—"

"Finished."

"Huh?"

Aya motioned towards Ken's hand. "Finished," he softly repeated.

Ken smiled thankfully when Aya finished securing the final clip of the bandage about Ken's wrist. It meant he'd be saved from further questioning. He was nearly out the door when Aya's soft voice fluttered to him. "Next time don't suckle on it."

Ken gave another vibrant grin. "Promise."

He'd only just stepped out of the room when Youji's grinning face came into view. "Leader had his boxers in a knick, didn't he?"

Ken frowned at the blonde, not quite understanding what was being said and moved away, intending to head back towards the girl who was awaiting her arrangement, when Youji caught his arm. "You mean you didn't see it?"

"See what?"

"Ahh…Kenken, you can be so…innocent sometimes."

Ken bristled at the use of the adjective to describe himself. He hardly saw himself as being innocent. Sakura, however conniving she could be, was innocent, Yuriko was innocent, Aya-chan was innocent. Ken Hidaka was, by no means, innocent. "Out with it, Kudou, I have customers."

"Tch. I have enough gall not to tell you after this right now."

Ken rolled his eyes, knowing rather well that the blonde playboy couldn't hold his tongue for over a day and would certainly prefer telling him to waiting and suffering his harboring of a secret from Ken. "All right, Kenken, you win."

Allowing the nickname to slide for once, Ken crossed naked forearms across his chest and reclined carelessly against the back wall. "Well?"

"Well?" Youji seemed affronted, personally aggrieved, "You mean you really didn't notice?"

Ken felt a slight blush into his cheeks, but fought it off valiantly…and failed. Face now burning in anger, the young athlete made to leave but was held in check by Youji, who apologized with a quick smile. "Your finger."

Eyebrows knitting in confusion, Ken lifted a bandaged hand. "Yeah—Aya bandaged it."

At the new information, Youji raised a mustard colored eyebrow. Aya had bandaged it? "Willingly?" he couldn't help inquiring, chuckling a bit when the shorter man smacked him heartily about the head. He ignored the loads of fangirls who screeched indignantly at the defilement of their beloved at the soccer player's 'crude and unskilled' hands.

"So you really didn't notice, then, Kenken?" as he spoke, Youji ruffled his hair affectionately. Shrugging no, Ken blinked up curious brown eyes to his teasing teammate and waited for the older man to continue speaking. "All right then…"

"Do you remember what you were doing, just then?"

"I sliced my hand—from the inside of my finger to about halfway through my palm—why?"

Youji shook his head no, "What were you doing?"

Ken remained thoughtful for a few seconds before bringing up the index finger of his left hand and popping it absently in his mouth. Speaking around it, he began, "Bwell…I mfhad in thfere—"

Youji chuckled amusedly at Ken's attempt to speak and deftly lifted his own hand to come around Ken's fingers, mirroring Aya's earlier move. He brought Ken's hand down. "Have you any idea how many men and women in here have just had their fantasies fulfilled because of your total and absolute cluelessness?"

Ken frowned. He wasn't sure he understood what Youji was saying. But his doubts were soon clarified, "You, Kenken, were sucking your finger with all the reckless abandon of a hormonal school-girl."

Had the soccer player's skin tone been any lighter, he would've surely resembled a tomato. As it was, he was dangerously close. Eyes wide, he opened his mouth only to hear a strangled cry emerge.

"Y-Youji!"

Youji's ever-growing grin was only further nursed by Ken's efforts to make it disappear. Youji had to admit, he'd known the brunette wouldn't have taken care of his cut the way he had if he'd known how everyone else would take it, but Youji'd never known one to be so unintentionally sensual. Especially not if that someone was Hidaka Ken. It was all in good fun, though.

"Oh God…" Ken slid to the ground morosely, "Is that why Aya—oh…man…" The young man's face shifted through a variety of shades of red, each one seemingly darker than the last, before settling on a soft pink. Heaving out one final sigh, he dared to peek out at Youji from behind the fingers he had brought up to obscure his face, "Do you think—"

Youji would've outright laughed had he not known his teammate wouldn't have appreciated that. The fact was, their ever silent, icicle resembling leader had seemed to be taken off-balance by Ken's little display. It was a minimal crack in the armor, no doubt, but for a moment Youji had seen Aya the living, breathing, feeling man as opposed to the cold assassin Abyssinian.

"I'm sure he felt something. Hell, everyone in here did."

Ken raised doleful coffee eyes at him, "Everyone…?" At Youji's nod, they were only buried once more in his arms. If there was one thing Ken had never been quite able to adapt to as being the star soccer player, it was his ability to attract attention. Having been of slight build and good looks for the greater part of his life, Ken had never quite managed to get out of being dubbed adorable and cute. He'd even been called sexy once, though he hadn't quite understood what it was a girl found sexy about his running around, sweaty, in old jeans and a shirt full of holes.

"Don't worry Kenken," Youji assuaged, stooping down to offer his comrade's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, "there's absolutely nothing shameable about being a sex-magnet."

"Yooouji! I am not a sex magnet! I haven't even—" Ken cut himself off when he realized half of the shop's occupants were staring oddly in his direction. The other half were muttering excitedly and giggling.

Ken flushed a thick red and looked away hastily. He really didn't want to think he'd done all of that…

Youji affectionately ruffled the brunette's hair. Then, leaning closer, he stooped so that his mouth was only centimeters from Ken's left ear. About to complain, the young man was cut short by four heavy-weighing words. "We have a mission tonight."


Ken growled. A mission. Tonight. Oh, why the hell not—his day couldn't get any worse. Stomping his way upstairs, Ken made sure to make each step reverberate with the weight of his moroseness. He couldn't help it. He knew he was being childish, but then again—why the hell shouldn't he be childish? He was only nineteen…that was still pretty young. Hell, if his room was any indication of his age, he was still very much the teenager.

Ken sidestepped numerous water bottles scattered about and kicked aside his dirty soccer shirt from earlier that week on his way to his bed…on which he would've promptly collapsed if not for the fact that last night's dinner plate was still on it. And, despite his mood, the dish looked strangely appetizing. Ken bit his lip and looked quickly from side to side. Oh, why not?! He had every chance of dying of food poisoning than he did of being shot that night, anyway.

And that was true.

The missions were getting tougher by the day. Kritiker wasn't content with their eliminating the 'Pick of the Week' anymore. They wanted Weiss to dig deeper into the organized crime of Japan. They wanted Weiss to kill the virus where it started. Attack the cause instead of the effect, so to speak.

Ken absently scuffed the toe of his sneaker against a brown stain on his carpet. The only consolation the missions brought to him were the fact that he'd get to spend more time with Aya, pathetic as that may sound. The truth was, Ken had taken to the fact that Aya always partnered the two together. It was always Youji and Omi working on the lights, the alarms—the distractions. But it was always Aya and Ken who attacked—always Aya and Ken who carried out the missions. Ken figured it was because they both worked with close-range weapons. Omi would, after all, be very much vulnerable without his darts or bow and arrow. He was too small to prove a hefty opponent. And, while Youji could very well hold his own in a fight—with or without his wires—the older man tended to avoid physical contact whenever he could. He had an aversion with touching someone he was to kill. It was a rule he fervently abided by.

Ken—Ken really couldn't avoid touching his victims. He had to hold on to them with his free hand sometimes to keep them from moving away. They writhed a lot, yes, and that was often more disturbing than he cared to admit, but it was nothing he wasn't already used to. It was a liability, sometimes—his weapon. Youji and Omi, they had invisibility on their side. They could shoot or strangle from afar. They didn't have to get too involved with the victims, or any of their lackeys, for that matter. Ken, on the other hand, had to deal with the fact that—once he used his bugnuks on one person, they'd let out a scream loud enough to warn anyone else around of his presence. His weapon wasn't a stealthy one. Not that he wanted it that way, either. Ken wasn't the type to be stealthy. He was straightforward…head on…a bit reckless in that manner, too. And he was way too clumsy to be stealthy even if he had wanted to be. He couldn't recount the many times he'd fallen flat on his face right before disarming some maniac, or been saved from a fired shot only because he'd tripped over his own feet.

Ken blushed. He could be very absentminded in that regard. Which was why he believed Aya tried to keep out an eye for him. As much as he could, anyway. A katana may have been a great weapon in the hands of the great Aya Fujimiya, but it meant diddly-squat against a gun—regardless of its wielder's prowess with it.

Ken wondered at that again. Logically and strategically speaking, pairing Aya and him on a mission did have its dangers. For one, both were close-range fighters; should they be attacked by someone with a gun, they'd have a greater chance being shot trying to disarm him than Omi or Youji would. It would make more sense to pair Ken with Youji and Omi with Aya, or vice-versa. Then again, that would have its dangers as well, as it would leave both Ken and Aya—in their respective pairs—to fend off all the physical attackers. That would be rather tiring on one person, however trained they might be. The only thing Ken figured would be good strategy would be to send in Youji and Omi first, have them eliminate whatever far-range targets they could, and leave Aya and him to deal with the rest. The only problem with that theory would be that they would no longer have the element of surprise as an aid. "Argh…"

Ken groaned as he fell backwards into his bed. Whatever way he saw it, their chances of survival—regardless of logic—where always slim. And, ironically, they outran death more times than a tight-rope walker. The brunette grinned sadistically. He bet divine forces were pulling their hairs out at the thought of their repeated success.

"Hidaka!"

Glancing tiredly to his bedside clock, Ken was surprised to note that his break was over. "Time sure flies when you're thinking about why you haven't died yet."


"Seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three…" Grinning, Ken managed to wipe sweat-drenched bangs from his face and continue his kicks of his soccer ball at the same time. His charges were amazed.

"Wow! Ken-niisan is great!" a small, pixie-faced girl was elbowed in the ribs by another child, this one a scraggly blond boy. "Of course he's great!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air as he rolled his eyes, "He's a professional."

A round of 'oohs' and 'ahhs' echoed through the small group of children, all of them eventually fading to open-mouthed expressions. "ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven…"

"He's gonna make it!"

"Shush! Ya're gonna make 'im mess up!"

"Go, Ken-niichan!!"

"One-hundred!"

Catching the ball before it rolled all the way to the ground, Ken used his free hand to push a triumphant fist into the air. The tiny tots about his mirrored his move. He was their idol. He could, in their eyes, do no wrong that couldn't—in one way or another—be justified. The brunette's eyebrows furrowed together slightly at the thought. If only they knew…

Soon, the group of children he coached every afternoon dispersed, some parents coming up to him to tell them how much they'd heard about him, the mothers fawning over his sweaty state, exclaiming he'd get sick if he didn't get home soon. Others still, invited him over to watch the game on their plasma TVs, nonminding that he drip sweat all over their expensive bearskin rugs. Ken politely turned down all their invitations, saying he had a date with a friend…fact which sent most of the mothers chattering with excitement. They demanded that—whoever that date be—come over to join him at their house. They wanted to meet whoever Ken thought special. They wanted to protect him. And, in a way, having a variety of middle-aged women affectionately tidying up his hair and straightening up his shirt, made him smile. It reminded of the times when he'd had a mother—however unbiological she might've been.

Nearly an hour later, all the kids had left—their mothers thankfully gone with them, and Ken was left wistfully staring after them. The sun was setting, and once the blanket of darkness was firmly in place, he'd have to set out on a mission. The soccer played let out a heavy sigh. He really wasn't in the mood to go out tonight. All he wanted to do was curl up in his bed and sleep—just curl up on his bed and have a good, dreamless sleep…because his dreams were just as accursed as his reality.

Shivering slightly, Ken expertly dribbled the ball along, jogging around the field a few times to clear his mind. He stopped when a rather unsteadying vertigo seized him. Wincing and losing his balance, he found himself flat on the ground, eyes squeezed shut against the whirling visage. Then, the strangest urge to hurl overcame him and, mustering whatever strength he had left in him, Ken turned so that he was on his stomach and let the contents of his stomach spill forward. He groaned a bit, choking on the substance, and dug his hands into the cool grass to steel himself. His hands were caked with mud by then, but he was too sick to care, as he brought up his hands to his mouth and brushed at it disgustedly. He left a stark trail of brown against his sallow face.

Ken licked his lips. They were chapped, cut by when he'd tried to hold in his vomit. The brunette rose to his feet and again tried to close his eyes to clear his head. Once more, he felt the world around him begin to spin. He would've deemed the entire experience beautiful—comparing it to a child's kaleidoscope, perhaps—if not for the fact that he felt as if that same kaleidoscope had been bashed against his head twenty times over.

He brought his hand to his head and stayed standing where he was for a few seconds, his breath quick and shallow. When that wasn't enough, he brought up his other hand and rubbed it absently against his eyes. He hated feeling sick—moreso because he wasn't used to the sensation. Ken had, for the greater part of his life, enjoyed the benefits of a ridiculously strong immune system. It came from his routine of vigorous exercise and healthy diets, he'd been told. But having a good resistance to disease wasn't always a good thing. For one, when he did fall sick, he fell hard. His body wasn't used to the feeling and reacted oddly to it. Ken always knew when he was falling ill because he'd get the strongest of headaches. Headaches, yes, but vertigo? Ken had never actually had to deal with dizzy spells, especially not when he was playing soccer—or as a result of it.

"Better get home soon…"


Soaked to the bone with sweat, this time a result of his shaking body and smoldering temperature, Ken smacked his jeans feverishly for his keys. Somehow, he wasn't sure how, Ken had managed to gather up all the soccer balls he brought to practice, slick them over his shoulder, and trudge all the way to the Koneko. He should've called Youji, his common sense had told him, Youji or Aya…but, he'd had the strangest idea that he shouldn't be bothering the two when they'd be preparing for the mission. Missions came before his life, after all.

Unable to find his keys, and doubting he'd be able to use them even if he did, Ken banged his fist weakly against the Koneko's door just as a few drops of rain began to fall from the sky. No one answered. Ken debated standing out in the rain, wondering if that would ease the heat from his body. It was an odd sensation—being both stiflingly hot and frightfully cold at the same time. And Ken would've surely chosen to stay outside and cool off, had he not known that would make things worse.

Clumsily pulling out his cell phone, he dialed the Koneko's number. Absently, he pondered—through a haze—why the Koneko was closed. Even the metal sheathing had been pulled over the glass window, and it was only six in the afternoon. Aya usually kept the store open at least until eight—and that was because most older people came by around seven, after they'd been let out from work. Somewhere in his disorientated state, Ken vaguely realized that someone had answered his call. "Hello?"

He felt himself smile. "Hey, Aya-kun."

Ken could almost see Aya frown. The redhead did that when he wasn't particularly sure about something. He detected a hint of hesitation in Aya's answer. "Ken. Where are you?"

"Outside." Ken tried to clear his throat. His voice was noticeably hoarse.

"Come inside, then. Why are you wasting time like this, Ken?" He sounded exasperated. Ken hated it when Aya was upset with him. Frowning, Ken nodded mutely at Aya—apparently not realizing that the redhead couldn't see the motion—and clicked off his phone.

He looked about himself slowly, the action taxing in itself, and made his way towards a bench a little to the right of the store. It felt as if he were walking on air…each footstep he took never seemed to touch the ground—they faded under him—and the water…the water that fell from above was cool. Cool and refreshing. Refreshing and purging.


Youji was not in the best of moods. After Ken had gone off to coach his team, Omi had volunteered to cook for the evening and Aya had—as he often did—disappeared without a word. Of course, that left him to work the store for the rest of the afternoon. Not that he minded, but he wished someone'd told him that was what he'd be doing. He would've thought of a way to get out of it, then. He paid only slight attention to the man standing primly before a green map—he might've been interested in the forecast a bit more if the forecaster had been wearing, say, a miniskirt, tanktop, and had undergone a sex-change operation. Not that he minded men that much…it was just that that particular man was too uptight. Very reminiscent of their leader. Not as attractive, though. Oh no…

"Speak of the devil."

Aya cast Youji a mild look, raising his eyebrow minutely to show that he'd heard the comment, and didn't care, and pushed a bit roughly past him. "Ken's not back yet?"

A feline grin graced Youji's lips. "Is that concern I hear, O fearless leader?"

Aya's lips tightened and his posture stiffened, "He's usually here by now, is what I mean. There's a mission tonight in case you'd forgotten, and I was hoping to run through it at least once."

"Ah…yes, of course. Omi's here, too, in case you wanted to know."

Aya glared. "I saw his bike outside. I knew he was in."

"Either way," Youji began, nodding towards the television, "Kenken had better hurry. There's a storm forecasted to hit tonight. Mission strategy's gonna have to change a bit. Can't have Omi standing at the top of a building with an antenna during a lightning storm, can we?"

Aya shook his head. "I might have to contact Manx about it. Close the store."

Youji saluted Aya and rather leisurely headed outside to bring down the steel covering over the glass window. When he walked back inside, he glanced bemusedly at Aya. "Ne, Aya-kun…its already started raining. Shouldn't we pick up Ken? He might catch a cold, after all."

But Aya waved Youji away. "Go find Omi and brief him about the probable change in plans. I'll be upstairs."

Half an hour later, Ken still wasn't home. By then, they were all more than a little worried, mostly because Ken had an innate habit of informing everyone of where he was going. "What if he ran into Schwartz?"

That was Omi. And well, it was a possibility. Ken did have a knack for getting in trouble with that Schwartz fellow, Schulidich.

"I doubt it." Aya crossed the threshold into the kitchen, "They'd have already called to taunt us about it."

Youji nodded and was about to speak when a vibrant ring echoed through the room. Omi had already dived towards the cordless and was giving it an odd look, when Aya eased his cell-phone out of his pocket and glanced at the number speculatively. He paused then, and a look of annoyance crossed his pale features. Youji figured that if Aya had been an animal, he would've growled (not that he didn't do that already…)

"Hello?"

Youji studied his leader's expression curiously. He saw, rather quickly, the look of exasperation fade into one of mild concern. Aya wasn't the type to switch moods rapidly, unless he were going from annoyed to pissed off. "Ken. Where are you?"

Whatever Ken said next didn't seem to sit too well with Aya. "Come on in, then. Why are you wasting time like this?"

Youji let out a silent whistle and glanced at Omi. The boy matched his stare evenly, eyes shining sympathetically towards Ken. Youji was distracted from Omi by Aya, who had opened his mouth as if to speak, begun to sputter the first lines of his sentence, and worn a look of utter surprise when Ken—Youji guessed—hung up on him. He could vaguely hear the dial-tone beeping over the silence of the room.

Omi spun around quickly, turning his attention to the stove and Youji, very wisely, chose to follow the example. Aya remained where he was, stricken into silence, and glaring at his cell-phone with a vengeance. Youji figured the machine would soon be dust if someone didn't pry it from his fingertips and, rather than have his neck replace the phone, he decided to send Omi on the mission. The genki youth quietly approached Aya, soft expression in place, and gently pressed his hands over Aya's tense fingers. Omi was surprised, actually, to note the force with which Aya had been holding the communications device captive. The redhead released it, however, when he realized that was what Omi had been after. "So…he's here?"

Aya shrugged and when he spoke, the restrained anger was evident. "He might've been."

They ate dinner in silence, Omi only occasionally trying to brighten the atmosphere by speaking of his new computer teachers, and Youji playing along by mercilessly teasing the teen. It was a normal, albeit slightly tenser, dinner between them. And then, Aya's phone rang again. The minute he heard it go off, Aya glared at the device with such fervor, that Youji figured Aya could've impressed Prodigy by using his mind to burst it to bits.

Finally, Omi eased himself from his chair and reached for Aya's phone. "Hello?"


Youji pulled up the store's metal sheathing and smiled at the sight of Manx's finely shaped calves. "Why hello there, fair lady."

Manx, closing her crimson umbrella, walked carelessly past Youji and thrust the offending item against his chest, at which point Youji indignantly muttered that his shirt was dry-clean only. She offered Omi a warm smile and Aya a formal nod. Then, just as Youji was getting ready to close the door behind her, she asked, "Is there any particular reason why Siberian is sitting outside, dozing in the freezing rain?"

Omi, Aya, and Youji's twin expressions of bewilderment were enough to tell her that they hadn't known their comrade was outside, drenched to the bone in cold rain.

"Ken?" Youji asked, wondering if Manx had maybe mistaken Ken for someone else. Manx nodded.

"He has his soccer gear with him."

Omi, with an open-mouthed expression, was the first to surrender to curiosity and walk outside. It only took him one glance towards Ken to know that his friend was neither dozing, nor in any shape to attend a mission. Raising his voice he called to Youji and Aya for help. "Ne, Youji-kun, Aya-kun, he's burning up. Hurry up—get him inside!"

The two young men reacted quickly and, while Youji thrust up the remaining coverlet of the shop with a quick push, Aya went outside to retrieve Ken. He walked back inside, slightly wet, with a cold, pale, soaked Ken. Youji's eyes went wide at the sight and he rushed towards the brunette, hand flying immediately to Ken's forehead. He was expecting for the boy to be cold to the touch—that was certainly how he looked to be—but Ken was so hot that Youji pulled his hand away almost instantly.

His puzzlement was evident in his voice. "What the hell was he doing outside?!"

Omi, who had come in behind Aya, shivered slightly at the contact of his wet clothes against his skin, and could only imagine how Ken might be feeling. Youji, seeing his discomfort, extended his arms and brought the trembling mass of Omi's body against him. The boy's skin was pink and his lips red from the cold. Youji licked his own lips and looked back towards Ken.

Aya had sat down on a chair, depositing Ken in his lap, and was checking the soccer player's pulse with a muted expression. "Fever definitely," he murmured, "he'll be lucky if he gets away with pneumonia."

In Youji's arms, Omi whimpered. The russet-haired man ruffled Omi's hair affectionately. "Don't worry about it, Omittichi—he'll be all right."

"I don't mean to be the evil witch of the scenario, but the mission is still on for tonight. I understand that Ken won't attend, he's excused from this mission, but you've all agreed prior to this. Contacts have been made and payments offered; you can't all sit this one out. It's too late for that."

Youji loosened his grip on Omi and stepped forward. "I'll stay with him."

"Negative." Manx shook thick red curls from left to right. "I need you and Bombay on this one. Bombay is indispensable regardless. We need him to crack the alarm system and hack into the company's database. I need you to take out the target. The cameras are satellite operated and, although Bombay'll be able to overrun the systems and disable them for a while, there's not a definite chance you'll be able to near the target without being tagged by the camera. I'd rather not risk a close-range attack this time. Your wire's essential to this mission."

"What about Aya-kun, Manx-san?"

Manx cast the brooding youth a perfunctory glance. "He's not necessary on this mission. There's only one target to take out, 6—10 bodyguards at most. It's at night, so there aren't many security officials nearby since nothing in the building—other than the target itself—is valuable. It's up to him."

Omi bit his lip, "Aya-kun? Will you?"

A deep red head bobbed up and down in agreement.

"All right then, Bombay, Balinese—here are the mission plans; these are blueprints of the building—that's for you Balinese and these," Manx shuffled through a folder full of pink sheets, "these are for you, Bombay. Possible codes and decoding elements. Lists of family names and hobbies, in case you think they might be necessary in cracking the codes. Or, if you have the need to blackmail Yamaguchi into submission."


He was trembling. Hell—he wasn't trembling, he was shuddering. Aya found that he couldn't quite look at Ken without wincing at the brunette's state. He was soaked—as he had been when they'd found him—from head to toe in a mixture of cold sweat, icy rainwater, and mud.

Aya had been surprised to note that, despite his light appearance, Ken was a lot heavier than he looked. Youji and Omi had already left, both glancing warily at their sick friend, and Aya had decided he should take the boy to his room. He had supposed that carrying Ken up the steps wouldn't take much work—the boy was so slight and thin, after all—and had promptly reminded himself that making assumptions were hardly the way to go. Ken was not, by any means, light. And Aya should've known better. Ken was not simply thin; he was lean—meaning that, what Aya had mistaken for scrawniness, was in fact a healthy supply of hard, coiled muscle.

Not that Aya thought Ken was scrawny…the soccer player had quite the appealing body.

Aya wrapped his arms about Ken's waist, pressing the brunette close to him, and took the steps as fast as he could without dropping him. He was getting wet at their closeness, the water seeping from Ken's clothes into his. But he found that he didn't mind…he actually cherished the closeness—the warmth Ken's sick body radiated.

He made it to his room without much trouble, having to stop only twice to readjust Ken's weight, and eased the door open quietly. Aya was careful as he lowered Ken against his bed, and—with all the tenderness of a parent—gently undid Ken's sneakers. That was when he noticed something was out of place. Ken's sneakers were muddy—fact which was understandable, but intermixed with the dark brown was something of a fainter, lighter hue. Something he might've passed off as dirt had he not been so used to it...

Taking ahold of Ken's sneaker, Aya walked noiselessly towards the corner of his room and turned on the light. He leaned his face close, studying the caked appearance of the mud. He rotated the shoe in his hands and paused when his eyes alighted on another oddly colored mark. This one was brighter, wetter—and Aya hated that he recognized what it was…he hated that he knew that somehow—and for some reason, Ken had been bleeding.

He returned to the brunette's side then, deciding that the wet clothes would only help to make Ken sicker, and made easy work of his shirt when his eyes fell once more upon a rust-colored mar. He had been about to toss it on the floor—it looked as if it had lived three generations too long—when his eyes had been drawn to the stain. Hell, Aya figured he'd been seeing so much blood lately that it was only natural that he be aroused by its presence. Blood, to him, meant death and nightmares. And so, his eyes had grown sharp to the substance.

Having determined that Ken had, in fact, been bleeding, Aya thought back to Omi's earlier suggestion. Perhaps Ken had run into Mastermind. That would explain the blood…but…

Aya eased himself beside Ken, and wrapped his arms about the lithe man's torso. Lifting him up slightly, he looked over Ken's chest, back, and abdomen. No blood. No marks. Aside from faint, scattered scars and the more pronounced fire-induced licks of healed skin, Ken showed no indication of having been in a fight—or of having bled, for that matter. Aya glanced back towards the shirt. He picked it up gingerly and stood, once more heading towards the lamp in the corner, the only source of light in the room. There, he narrowed his eyes as he inspected the stain. It was dry; old, he figured, but it certainly had been made today. There was no doubt about that. He was about to give up on his paranoiac antics, when the proximity of the shirt to his nostrils made him recoil. His eyes narrowed.

Now positively suspicious, he stalked into his adjoining bathroom, thankful for the bright phosphorescent lighting, and draped the shirt over the sink. What the dim light of his room had hidden, the stark lights of his bathroom made known—along with the faint stains of blood on Ken's shirt, were obvious marks of where he had thrown up. Through the open door, Aya glanced back towards his partner, concern evident in his troubled features. "What happened, Ken?"


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