AN: Not much to say except that this is my latest fic and... I still don't own the characters. Isn't it tragic?
Aya thought he could tolerate anything. He'd felt every type of pain possible. Emotional, physical, mental. He'd had his soul turned to shreds, his body slashed open and his mind raped. He got hurt, and he repressed. He got wounded, and he was patched up. He got mind fucked, and he . . . he couldn't be sure he'd always remember when that happened. And really, it was just as well.
But despite all this, he found it hard to deal with his current discomfort. There seemed to be a knot lodged in his chest. His lungs were bound and his eyes felt as if they were watering. The urge to cry was strong and the effort of keeping it down added to the knot in his chest. The force that bound his lungs grew tighter.
He was guilty. That thought in and of itself wasn't a surprise. He was always guilty. He killed killers and thus was one himself. He enjoyed his work a little bit, maybe more than a little, and got paid for it. That money was used to keep clothes on his back and a clean room for his comatose sister to vegetate in. It was a dismal routine, but one he'd become accustomed to. He visited her on weekends and days off and pretended she was just asleep and that things were normal. Perfect. He still couldn't bring himself to touch her hand. It was cliche, he new, but they were never quite clean enough. He'd put his hand near hers though. Feel the warmth radiating from her body. That and the steady beep of the heart monitor were the only signs that she was alive. Alive. Heart beating, lungs inflating and deflating, blood circulating, alive. A technical definition was the only appropriate one.
But he was losing his train of thought. The guilt . . . why the guilt? He knew why, but it was always easier to ease into these things.
He'd kissed someone. That wasn't so unusual, he supposed, the actual act of kissing. The fact that it was him might be something to peak someone's curiosity. The fact that it was Ken was a little more alarming. He'd kissed Ken, deceptively cute and volatile Ken. He wasn't sure how exactly it'd happen except that he was there and Ken was there and . . . and he could. Aya hadn't really asked and Ken had given up no objections.
It was . . . nice.
Well, it wasn't bad. He was sure that in one of Ken's assault on his neck, a mark had been made. The idea made him feel . . . defiant, because the last person he'd kissed had been Yohji. It was a little like moving on, except not really because that was why he felt guilty. They weren't anything anymore and yet it seemed he'd cheated on Yohji and used Ken in the process. It felt as if he had.
It was more than a little absurd and yet, what was he if not loyal?
Loyalty was made him feel such abject disgust at himself, much less his actions. Loyalty was what kept him from meeting Yohji's eyes. Loyalty was what kept him from being alone in a room with Ken for more than two minutes.
He was wrong and stupid and more than a little fucked up. He knew that. He didn't know how to fix it, but he knew. He didn't know how to admit it out loud, but he knew.
It occurred to him that he could tell Yohji and find some sort of redemption, absolution. The thought made him feel a little freer. It made him feel a little less like he was hiding. Humiliation and surrender and then, hopefully, forgiveness.
He knew wouldn't tell.