After The Rain 1 - Autumn

What happens between the Kapitel after the Powell mission and the beginning of Gluehen? Is mistrust tearing Weiss apart, or can they win through? Does love truly conquer all? And how are Schwarz coping?

Disclaimer: This story is not for profit, all rights with their current owners.
Warnings: Spoilers throughout. The boys are foulmouthed. The chibis are no cuties.
Rating: M for male/male affection and references to sex. Don't look for graphic instructions though - you will be disappointed.
Pairs (I would not call them couples):Aya/Yohji (destiny interrupted), Omi/Ken (definitely no sweeties), Crawford/Schuldig (Schuldig has a thing for Yohji though).
Disclaimer, warnings and rating valid for all chapters of this story.

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(This chapter is Weiss focused.)

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"Yo, Yohji," Omi knocked lightly at the half-open door to Yohji's bedroom.

Yohji lounged on his futon, smoking a cigarette while leafing through a magazine. A lazy reggae tune was chugging from the stereo, and he reached out to turn it down. "Hey, chibi, what's up?" he returned without looking up.

Omi slid into the room and folded into a crouch by Yohji's side. Yohji slapped the magazine shut and shook bleach-blond locks out of his face to crack a patently false smile at the young man. "Beg to kindly get off my back, Omitchi. That stuff's not for you to see."

Omi laughed. "Dontcha think it's a bit late for that?" He pulled at a strand of blond hair, and Yohji cringed.

"Hell, yeah, I wasn't the best example now, was I?" He took a deep pull at his cigarette and wrapped himself into a cloud of smoke, hiding his eyes.

Omi smiled and tugged again before letting go and resting his thin hand on Yohji's shoulder in a friendly, comradely gesture. "You did fine, Yotan."

Yohji's hand trembled slightly as he shoved the magazine aside and rolled onto his back. "So?"

"I found this," Omi pressed a piece of stiff paper into his hand and closed his fingers round it. "Thought you might like to keep it."

Yohji lifted it and stared. A photograph. Of him and Aya, looking incredibly young in jeans and fancy t-shirts, kissing in front of a graffitti-spattered wall. He remembered Omi snapping them – they had chased after him, in vain of course because the chibi had decided to play catch-ball with the camera and thrown it to Ken, who had caught it with soccer-honed skill…

With a chortling sound, somewhere between a snort and a laugh, Yohji let the picture flutter to his chest and lifted one arm to rub over his eyes with the back of his hand. He left it there, long hard fingers covering his eyes and shading his expression.

"Yohji," Omi said, a softness to his voice that hurt more than the businesslike tone he had adopted since he had confronted them with Kritiker's decision to disband their team. Omi was the only one they wanted to retain, to take Persia's place, the rest of them were free of their contractual obligations.

Discarded, Yohji had remarked acidly, without surprise, into the stunned silence that had followed Omi's revelation. Aya had shrouded himself into frosty stillness, and Ken… well, instead of flying into a rage, he had fallen silent too, a sadness in his eyes that did not suit his hot temperament.

"Is ok, chibi," Yohji said quietly, "really, don't worry. It's not the end of the world now, is it?" Never mind that he had no idea what to do next, or why, or that Ken had not been himself since that meeting, and that Aya had drifted from them apparently without trying to hold on. Not even to Yohji. Especially not to Yohji.

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After the cataclysm of the tower, they had scrambled from the sea, half-drowned, badly hurt, ill, confused and utterly lost. Sharply reminded of Crawford's cynical words, we all know too much…

They had clashed, fought, only to find they had both lost and won. Won through with their lives, but lost all they had: money, a place to be, their purpose. Thought they had seen Schwarz go down in the flaming, drowning inferno, but it was so unlike Crawford to sink with his ship that they found it difficult to believe.

Even felt something like a sense of loss at the lack of a true adversary. They had grown accustomed to one another, known each other as one spiteful lover might know another.

They had limped back to the Koneko, to find it closed and bare of flowers, the old woman gone, the blinds down, the doors locked and barred with iron grids, a for-sale sign in the window. Ken had picked the locks of the backdoor, and they had holed up to lick their wounds and try to find back to reality. To realise it was difficult without the framework of rules and jobs thrust at them, without good pay, their business accounts closed and all records wiped.

They had officially ceased to be, and the funds in Omi's private account were melting away like snow in spring. With their past records destroyed and no new IDs, they were in limbo. Nobodies, non-existing, caught in a timelag between past and future, in a surreal world of not-being.

Omi was the first one to stir, though they had not realised it at the time – he quietly used old contacts and began his negotiations with what was left of Kritiker. Yohji went out to live off some willing girlfriends for a while, taking on some smaller investigation jobs along the lines. Aya brooded in his room, locking himself in for days on end, going for food and whatever else he needed while the others were out. Ken spent much time sitting in the dark, empty shop, staring at the bare walls until he finally went out to the park to play soccer with some kids. At least it revived him somewhat.

Once, Aya's sister came to the shop. Ken and Omi were out, Yohji making coffee in the dank kitchen. She walked around, tried the front door, knocked, tried to peer through the shutters, then walked around the back to see whether she could get into the house. Yohji saw her and went to open, but before he could turn the knob, Aya was behind him, silent and starkly white in the gloomy light, his hand clamping hard over Yohji's. "Don't," he hissed into Yohji's ear.

But, Yohji meant to say when he felt something sharp and cool against the vein at his neck. So he remained silent, motionless, until Aya's sister gave up calling and knocking and went away, wiping her eyes as she left.

Bastard, Yohji had snarled at Aya when she had gone, but Aya had only shot him a glare and retreated back to his room.

Once, Yohji – hair dyed dark, black shades hiding most of his face – believed to glimpse a flash of wild copper hair in the stream of pedestrians on the street. An odd, dragging sensation tightened his chest as he tried to push towards the owner of this striking mop of hair, but was swallowed up by the mass of people that nudged and pushed about their daily business. Their normal lives: work, home, school…

Many times, Yohji would wake up, sweaty, alone on his futon on the bare floorboards, to hear the echo of his yells, this nightmare or another still sitting heavily on his chest. He would take some endless, timeless moments to try and find to himself, then grope for the bottle of whiskey he had begun to keep by his bedside, to drink a few swigs and smoke a cigarette, hands shaking ash onto the comforter, the dirty floor, uncaring, unseeing.

Some times, he would go back to sleep. Others, he would spend lying awake, staring wide-eyed and vacantly at the spider-webbed ceiling, and trying to ignore the soreness of his heart. He longed for warmth, closeness, hope. He longed for Aya. Who would not touch, let alone kiss him, and hardly spoke to any of them.

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"So whatcha gonna do, Yohji?" Omi enquired, fishing for the cigarette that grew a long, bending stalk of ash as it idled between Yohji's long fingers.

Yohji let him take it and shrugged lightly. "Life goes on, ne? I'll fall to my feet, as usual. Get some contract work, perhaps. Marry…"

Omi almost choked, and Yohji cracked one green eye open and laughed, less bitter now. "Nah… well, maybe… have kids…" He lost his breath and turned his face away. This was cutting him deeper than he had anticipated. Asuka… he had wanted children with her. They both had planned, dreamed, loved. That had been before his world was washed away for the first time in a wave of crimson agony. Before Aya plunged into his life, dragging this red tide further into his mind and heart, and with it the fire and the pain of those memories. He had been unable, and later unwilling, to forget, believed himself strong enough to carry on. Living. Loving.

Omi watched, his small hand rubbing circles on Yohji's skin. "He's not worth it," he said coolly. "He doesn't understand what you're offering him. He'd kill you today if it would make him feel better."

"You never really liked him, did you?" Yohji murmured vaguely, staring at a damp patch on the wall, beneath the windowsill.

Omi pushed out his lower lip. "At the beginning, he scared the shit out of me." He reached over Yohji's shoulder and pushed the cigarette between his lips for a breath of smoke, then took it back to share. "Later, I realised he was just after one thing. Now he's had his revenge. He's empty. He's got nothing to give you."

Darkness. The darkness within Aya, beneath the layers of brilliance and colours, teflon and leather. It had risen and spread, beginning to fill him and swallow up the last shreds of light a long time ago, until nothing was left of Ran. Yohji shivered, and Omi's hand stilled. "I didn't want to tell the others," he said, returning the cigarette to Yohji who took it and finished it with a last, deep pull. "But Kritiker agreed to let me pick my new team, with very few restrictions."

"Excluding ex-Weiss members," Yohji remarked flatly and squashed the cigarette stub on the floor.

"Hai," Omi agreed, "with one exception. Look, if you wanna work for me, you're welcome."

Yohji remained silent, and Omi heaved a sigh. "As long as you cut your ties with him. It's what he wants anyway, Yotan. We can help him leave, set up elsewhere, start over and do whatever he likes. It's a chance. Ken took it."

"And is he happy, Omitchi?" Yohji asked softly over his shoulder.

The silence that followed grew long and thick, with Omi sitting motionless and Yohji not stirring. Finally, Omi cleared his throat and got up, groaning a bit as muscles unfolded from the uncomfortable crouch. He stretched, bones crackling softly, and bent to quickly muss Yohji's hair. "We all have to try to make the best of the situation. I cannot help anyone if I don't help myself first. Think about it, hm?" Sounding almost pleading.

"No need," Yohji replied, rolling to his back again so he could meet cool blue eyes with warm, bitter green ones. "It's not something I could consider. You shouldn't have offered."

"I… I didn't mean to insult you," Omi started, colour washing into his face until it glowed almost scarlet.

"Nah, chibi, I know that." Yohji propped himself up on one elbow, then scrambled to his feet, pressing his hand to the wall for balance as he unfolded his lanky frame. He wiped his face and managed a smile. "Just make your way and stop fretting 'bout us, huh? We'll manage."

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