DISCLAIMERS: Weiß Kreuz belongs to Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiß, Kyoko Tsuchiya, Bandai Music, Marine Entertainment and Animate Film. No copyright infringement intended.
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The fire slowly dies in the hearth as I finish reading the letter. As I rise to my feet, I quietly put it away, and it is then that I realize that my knees are shaking. No, not just my knees, but my whole body as well. It trembles, and suddenly, the whole room is cold, as though a window has been carelessly left open for the draft to come in. But all the windows are supposed to be shut tight—I'd made sure of that earlier, thinking of Ojiisan's health.
I take a deep breath; it does nothing to soothe me, and my shivering does not cease. There's a loud rushing sound in my ears, and almost desperately, I find myself stumbling into the bathroom across the hallway. The darkness away from the fading firelight is almost a relief, I discover, and I turn on the tap and splash water on my face. The water is cold, ice liquid on ice skin, yet I keep washing my face until the whole floor is splattered with water, and my clothes are damp. I look at my reflection in the mirror, and see through the darkness the distressing pallor of my face, the devastation in my eyes. Ashamed of what I see, I turn away.
Ojiisan is waiting outside. I did not anticipate his coming. Had I really been in the bathroom for that long? I stare at him on his wheelchair, and he stares at me with a sad, weary expression on his face. He looks so old, so terribly tired, and something inside me crumbles upon my taking notice.
"O-Ojiisan," I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself.
"You're wet," he says, almost dryly. His gaze does not leave me.
I say nothing. I look away; gazing at him is too painful. I don't know why, but the tears suddenly form at the corner of my eyes, and it takes extraordinary strength to just keep them there.
He seems to notice; he might be old, but he is still a Takatori, with the legendary sharp, eagle eyes. I feel shameful for having been caught in such an unmanly predicament.
"Because of this?" he queries softly, and my heart gives an extra hard beat when I turn and see the letter—Youji-kun's letter—in his palm.
I am too anguished to feel angry that he has read something private of mine. "Ojiisan…"
I am struck by a sudden, desperate decision. "Ojiisan, I must go back."
He sighs loudly, almost irritatedly, and it is a sad, forlorn sound. "Must you, now?" he murmurs, head falling back. "Oh, Mamoru."
"Ojiisan, please," I beg, my heart pounding. "You have to let me go, please, just this once. I can't—"
A sob erupts forth from my throat. I cannot help it. The tears start to overflow from my eyes, washing down my cheeks. And I turn my back on him, not wishing him to see these naked emotions taking tangible form. I am not used to people seeing what only I used to see.
I start when I feel the light weight of his hand on my shoulder. I draw in as much air as I can, and try to contain my sobs. I feel the whiskers on his wrinkled face nuzzle my nape, and the skin there tingles eerily. His hand finds mine, and something small, thin and hard presses into my palm. I look up, into his face, and see utter resignation written all over his ancient features.
"Go," he whispers in my ear, his voice sounding strangely like a suppressed sob. "But please, just come back."
His hand falls from my shoulder. It is so quiet, I can distinguish my own breathing from his loud, uneven struggling for breaths. I glance down at my hand and see the key to my motorcycle. I look over my shoulder, back at him, and I try vainly to smile, for his sake. But I cannot muster a smile, and I can barely see his face through moist, blurred eyes, and, hurriedly jerking my head away, I run from the room, unable to even say thank you. Suddenly, I can't stand to be here.
A few minutes later, I am racing against the wind, against time, against the near-invisible moon in the night. The helmet sits more heavily on my head, the wind's blades are sharper as they scrape my skin. My bike seems to be moving at a dragging pace, even though the speedometer says I'm breaking speed limits. The highway is deserted, the hour is late. And I cling desperately to my bike like I'm drowning, praying under my breath, heading toward what I fear will already be a graveyard when I get there.
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As soon as the island Yokosuka comes into view, I accelerate the speed of the motorboat. I don't have much experience manipulating the controls of water vehicles, but thankfully, the territorial waters are calm and cooperative tonight. Yet not even in that small relief can I find comfort—I'm so scared, it's a wonder I haven't completely lost it yet. I frantically kill the engine and jump off the boat even before its hull touches the shore. A cold, cramping ache crawls up my legs as my feet crash against the coarse sand beneath the dark waters off the bay, but I try to ignore it as I rush toward the land.
The sky is still very dark, and in my impulsiveness, I had forgotten to bring a flashlight. I curse softly as I run blindly upon the sand, desperate to find them. I listen closely for any indication of their presence, dying to cry out their names, but swallowing the urge, knowing I might only distract them. My prayers grow more feverish.
Maybe there is a God, because when I had all but sank to my knees in grieving surrender, it is that precise moment that I catch a glimpse of a tall, thin figure standing in the distance, silhouetted against the sky. My heart starts beating faster, and I dare to hope. My fingers clench in my pocket as I run, and I wish my legs could take me there faster. My eyes sting with tears. A great weakness comes over me, and I suddenly feel totally wasted, but I press on, a sob rising in my throat. Please… please…
I suddenly freeze in my steps when I am close enough. I did not notice earlier the bodies on the ground. I did not see that there was so much blood. A chilling dread touches my body, and I start trembling. It is almost like the first time I saw death in all its bare honesty. As I step closer, I recognize the two figures lying prostrate and unmoving on the sand. Youji-kun… Ken-kun… and another… Shion's corpse…
I do not realize that I've been crying. I do not realize I've been whispering, "No, no" all over again, until the lone figure still standing hears me and turns. I look up, sobbing, into Aya-kun's face. And I almost do not recognize it. His eyes are filled with a cold, stark hollowness, his expression one of utter devastation. This is clearly not the Aya-kun I know, our stoic, dispassionate Abyssinian who never let anything faze him.
"Aya-kun," I whisper, weeping. "Aya-kun, what happened? Why?"
He says something in a low voice, but I do not catch it. Suddenly, he collapses, and I rush forward to break his fall. All at once, he's in my arms, barely gripping consciousness. His skin is a chilling white, drenched with icy sweat and fresh blood. His face is pinched with pain, and by the looks of it, it is as though every tiny breath he takes causes him excruciating agony. It kills me, to see my teammate in such pain. But he can't… this can't be the end…
"Aya-kun," I sob, holding him close, but not too tight, I don't want to hurt him even more. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry! I should have been here… should have been here…"
He mumbles something, and I bend closer to hear it. My heart breaks at his words.
"Omi… it's over… it's all over, everything…"
"No," I reply desperately, "no, it can't—Aya-kun, please, hold on. Please, don't go, don't go." I cannot seem to stop crying. "Just a little longer, Aya-kun… okay? Just a little longer, please." I squeeze his hand, and hope he will listen. I'm being selfish again, I know—trying determinedly to keep him alive when death would give him the rest he has needed for a long, long time. But I don't want him to die having wasted his life!
Again, he mutters something I can't hear, then his eyes close. I hold my breath, afraid for him. But he still breathes in my embrace. He is unconscious, but still holding on. Gently, I lay him on the ground, careful not to cause any more damage.
Slowly, I rise to my feet. The air is less chilly, and the darkness of the sky seems to be receding. I'm overcome by a dizzying weariness, and there is nothing more I would like to do than lie down on the sand and sink into an endless sleep. But I can't. I look at my three friends motionless on the ground, and at the man who died in this last battle. I am suddenly filled with helplessness. There are three of them who need professional medical help, and we are stranded on an island. How can I possibly get them to a safe place all by myself, without causing graver injury or risking their safety? No—it is impossible, simply so. There is nothing more I can do for them.
Why did I still come?
I fall weakly to my knees and beat my palms on the sand, sobbing angrily. And then, a glaring light suddenly falls over me. I look up, surprised. I see two ambulances in the distance, and men with flashlights running. Stunned, and not understanding, I sit back on my heels and stare dumbly.
"You!" A finger is pointed at me, and I find myself looking at a man dressed like a coast guard, with steely gray eyes and a bushy mustache. "Are you Takatori Mamoru?"
"Yes, sir," I stammer.
"Come, then," he says, helping me up. "Your ojiisan telephoned me and sent the ambulances over to help you and your friends. We'll be taking you four to the local hospital." His tone becomes lighter, gentler. "You're safe now, kid."
The relief, the gratefulness, is so overwhelming that I drop unconscious on the spot.
~*~*~*~
The last thing I remembered was seeing Aya fall. The last thing I heard was Ken's voice, along with my own, crying out his name… and like always, he didn't seem to hear, or if he heard, he didn't listen. I had no idea if he got up after that. Not long after, I, too, had fallen, and I stayed down.
Next thing I knew, it was pure agony screeching like a car's tires in my nerves as I shifted very, very slightly. I'd awakened before opening my eyes, and damn, the pain came crashing down on me at that precise moment I'd regained consciousness. I inhaled sharply, only to feel a sharp burst of piercing anguish stab my lung area. Damn, I'd forgotten about that broken rib. Ohh, it hurt terribly. Maybe I shouldn't breathe at all. Good Youji-kun, just keep your eyes closed and let's don't move, don't breathe, don't say nothing and everything's gonna be peachy. Sound good?
I must be going nuts. To find humor in such… a situation. I was tempted to laugh, but I caught myself in time, remembering that I probably couldn't so much as let out a hiccup without having fire ravage my guts. Nope, not a good idea, not at all, nope.
Now. Where was I? I didn't know. Well, I wasn't lying down on sand, 'cause if I were, then I'd probably still be in la-la land. Coarse grains and open wounds are… well… you get the picture. You wouldn't want to stay awake. You couldn't, anyway. The terrible pain would put you to sleep quicker than, um, Muhammad Ali's punch. I still felt my injuries, but I couldn't really feel the blood anymore—it was as though they'd been washed and properly dressed. Whatever was beneath me was thankfully soft and almost comfortable; was that a pillow underneath my head? A thick sheet of cloth covered my bare chest—a blanket, most likely. My right hand seemed to be tied to something small and hard and flat: wood, from the feel of it. And I could tell there were some… long things attached to the back of my palm, because of the slight—though thankfully painless—pressure I felt on that hand.
My ancient P.I. instincts kicked in, and I didn't have to open my eyes to figure out that I was in a hospital room. I could already imagine the desk across the bed, the handy phone sitting on the bedside table, the blinding white light glaring down at me from the ceiling, all those tubes and stuff letting all sorts of intravenous liquids into my body through the needle in my vein. I hate hospitals. They made me feel like I belonged here, and it's a freaky feeling, sometimes.
I also didn't have to open my eyes to figure out that someone else was in the room. And I didn't have to open my eyes to be able to tell that that someone else was not a nurse, or a doctor.
The sniffles were what helped me pinpoint the Other Person's identity. It's funny, how you can identify somebody by the sniffles. Only works with people you know, though. And when I heard them, I knew, and my heart suddenly started beating faster.
I could hear his breathing—it suddenly made me feel helpless, vulnerable. Gods, the sound of his breathing—like the sobs of a huge, irresistible teddy bear—they made me want him. I had to be losing it, sweet Lord, I was practically dying here and I wanted him. Wanted, wanted, wanted. A cold trickle of sweat formed on my forehead, and I licked my lips nervously. I would have spoken, but I didn't know what to say. My throat was dry.
I heard him take a deep breath, I heard the rustle of his clothes while he moved, the movement of his feet across the tiles. There was the distinct sound of paper being clenched and unclenched in his restless fist. Dammit, he was killing me! I fought to keep my eyes shut, pretend I was asleep, pretend I didn't know he was there, and maybe he'd go away, maybe…
I knew I was a hopeless case when I heard his voice break the stillness. "Youji-kun?" he asked softly, his voice low, his tone almost confiding. There was the trace of tears in it, and I sighed inwardly. Irresistible teddy bear, indeed.
Yadayadayadayadayada…
"Youji-kun, are you awake?" he went on, not listening to my silent plea for him to stop tempting me like this. A hint of desperation crept into his voice, and I winced. "Please… you're awake, aren't you? Youji-kun?"
I felt him move closer, and I thanked whatever Gods may be that there were tubes and whatsoever contraptions about me, that at least I was restrained in some way. Shit. What was he doing to me? Didn't you read what I wrote, boy, isn't it obvious from the way I'm looking right now how I feel and what I can do? Damn stubborn kid!
Okay, fine, did he want an answer? Fine! I didn't have to look at him, did I? The letter had to be enough explanation.
"Yeah," I said, my voice sounding a little too loud as it came out. It surprised me, a little. "Yeah, I'm awake." I exhaled thickly, and it was the wrong thing to do, because my ribs felt as though they were being crunched again.
"Thank God," he gasped, and oh, I just had to look. But I forced myself not to. Not even a peek.
"I was…" He was fumbling for words. It was amusing, in a weird way, because back then, he forever seemed to be coming up with the snappy comebacks before I even finished what I was saying. Ah, the past, it seemed too long ago, too far away. To be thinking like this… I've got to be growing old. Feel me for whiskers. "I was so worried. Youji-kun."
Worried… about me?
"I read the letter." He was speaking again. But not to me, it seemed—it sounded more like he was talking to himself, like he were trying to put the pieces of some emotional puzzle together. "I… I…"
I listened intently. From the ragged sound of his breathing, it sounded as though he were trying passionately to hold back his sobs. And I suddenly wanted to hug him. Hug him like he'd never been hugged before, tell him he could say anything, everything, and all would be fine. But I held myself back from doing so.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, in a whisper, though it sounded to me like he was screaming at the top of his lungs. Distress filled his tone. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Tell him what?
"I never knew you were in love with me!"
My mouth hung open in shock, and before I could stop myself, I surrendered to the devil's mockery and opened my eyes.
He looked shocked, too, to see that I had finally given in and looked at him. My heart ached at what I saw. Oh, Jesus, he was beautiful, as always. He was dressed only in a thick, fluffy royal blue yukata, and I could see a tantalizing bit of his chest, pale and hairless. His fingers were clasped together almost prayerfully at his waist, wringing his fists with my letter clutched helplessly in his grasp. His ash blond hair was disheveled, as though he'd just gotten up from a long, restless sleep. His face was pale, weary, his blue eyes were wide and soft and full of suppressed tears. Our surprised gazes met, and those tears started to slip down his cheeks.
He was so close. I wanted to touch him, brush those tears away.
I chuckled quietly, bitterly, and oh, my poor ribs. "You didn't know?" I repeated, almost disbelievingly. "And here I was, afraid it was too damn obvious. Here I was thinking maybe you suspected and hated me for it—while you were oblivious to the truth all along! How could you miss it?"
He began to sob, and his rear fell gently on the bed for support. The slight disturbance sent throbbing shoots up my leg, but this time, I barely noticed. My heart was too loud in reminding me of his tantalizing presence. I wanted to tell it to shut up.
"Forgive me, Youji-kun," he begged, gazing at me pleadingly, making me melt and look away, afraid of what he might read in my eyes. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry! I've been so selfish…"
I didn't expect that. I grunted in surprise.
"All this time, I've been so selfish," he sobbed. "I was too busy with myself, it had to be all about me. I resented the people we protected with each nightly kill, resented them for being protected, while there was no one to protect me. Oh, I didn't show it, but the resentment was always there, the envy. To be able to go to sleep every night and dream sweet dreams, and not have to worry about filling up a mission file or meet the corpses of those who were murdered in nightmares, to have nothing to worry about each day save what to cook for breakfast and that school will be starting in two minutes, to not have to know what I know—I wanted that so badly, more than anything, and it was a stupid, foolish desire, because it was the one thing I could never have, but that didn't stop me from wanting it. I hated myself for not having the right the three of you had—the right to remember what it is it exactly that made us what we are… you all had your reasons, but I didn't even know mine, save that I've been doing it for as long as I can remember. All of you, how you must have wanted not to remember, while I wanted desperately to remember. And oh, how I kept thinking of tomorrow, dreaming about it, waiting for it because that was all I ever had to wait for, all I could ever hope to call mine. That was my dream, the future—I was so precoccupied with it that I forgot to give some attention to what's here, what's now." He cried harder. "Listen to me… I don't even know what I'm talking about!" His whole body was shaking now. "Youji-kun! Can you ever forgive me, please… please…"
I was stunned. I really didn't know what to say. But there was only one thing I wanted to know.
"Omi," I said softly, as gently as I could. "Do you love me?"
He paused; he shifted his gaze toward me. He looked so young, so vulnerable.
"Tell me the truth!" I added hastily. "Omi, don't lie to me. I wanted lies from Asuka, and I got them." I sighed deeply, and even though it hurt, I accepted the pain graciously, feeling I deserved it. "I didn't know if I could bear it if she told me anything other than that she loved me, and that she always wanted to be with me. I let myself be deceived. I don't want it to be that way between us, Omi. What you offer, or what you withold, I want it to be done freely. Please, answer me honestly. I was more honest than I'd ever been in my life when I told you I loved you."
As painful as it was, I forced myself to look him in the eye. I was trembling, too. The room was suddenly cold.
His face was stricken when he answered in a helpless tone:
"I don't know if I love you, Youji-kun."
I felt my heart shatter quietly.
"I—I see," I muttered, still stunned from the blow. I quickly looked away. I knew he was suffering, I didn't want to see the suffering on his face. I was suffering, too, but I knew I suffered alone. And I still wanted him. Terribly.
I wanted to die.
And then it hit me. Who was I trying to kid? The people I loved—I only loved them for as long as there was a chance they could love me back. And when the time for those chances ran out, so would my love for them. And I realized, how could I have called it love? That wasn't love! That was only obsession, a hopeless, tragic obsession—beautiful, but empty, and it wasn't love. Like a flame struggling to stay alive in the smothering darkness, this sick obsession was nothing more than a desperate pursuit to get something out of the object of desire, and when nothing more could be given, or when there was no longer any chance for anything to be taken, it would eventually burn out.
Love—I'm no expert in it or anything, but something in me told me it wasn't supposed to be like that. Love was supposed to be offered and taken freely—that was the painful part of it. You could love someone so dearly and passionately, and they might never recognize your feelings for them. It's obsession, too, in a way. The only difference, I realized at that moment, was that with love, you didn't care. You didn't care if they loved you back or not. You didn't care if it was "wrong" to be feeling this way. You loved them, and you'd continue to love them however way you can, and that's the only thing that really matters.
I gazed at the boy sitting on the bed before me, still weeping, and I didn't know whether he was crying for himself, or for me. And I learned that I really didn't care whom the tears were for. All I wanted was for him to stop suffering. Stop crying. Stop feeling sorry. Omi was too young to suffer like this, to cry this way. When I was seventeen, I don't think I ever cried.
I reached out and lightly touched his face. He gasped, and looked up at me, a slight doubt rising in his eyes. I smiled, telling him quietly he had nothing to fear. I wiped the tears away with my fingers, and combed his soft, golden hair away from his eyes.
"You've really got to stop crying, kid," I murmured, my hand still lingering on his face. I was still reluctant to let go. "You're gonna ruin your beautiful face that way, not to mention those beautiful eyes. Oh, and don't start again," I added, feeling his lower lip quiver beneath my fingertips.
And even though it hurt me to do so, I leaned forward—crunching ribs and all—to whisper in his ear. I felt him tremble as I leaned close, and oh, it was all I could do to resist the overwhelming urge to crush his slender body under mine and hold him forever. I could have kissed him then, his earlobe was scant inches from my lips. But all I did was reassure him, in a hushed voice:
"It's all right."
You needn't be sorry anymore.
I think he understood, and he nodded. He was staring at me, but I wasn't staring at him anymore. I didn't have to look at him to know what he was feeling. And I believed my own words, that it was all right.
Omi, you're a smart fellow, you'd understand. You know I still love you, you know I won't stop loving you just because you don't think you love me.
But you don't have to worry about a single thing. I'm not gonna try and make you love me. I'm not gonna peek on you when you're taking a bath, I'm not gonna try and steal a midnight kiss from you in your bedroom. I'm not gonna send you any more love letters to trouble you.
But I'll still continue to love you, in my own way. And if you ever feel alone or uncared for or unloved, if you ever feel the need to be loved by someone who finally understands what the word means, come to me. You know where to find me, and for you, always for you, I'll be there.
Tsukiyono Omi, I'll love you forever. Count on it.
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October 28th, 2000 – October 29th, 2000
Around 11:40 p.m.
Retouched: October 30th, 2000
Around 3:00 p.m.
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Somewhere I Have Never Travelled II: Whether or Not
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Thank you for reading! ^_^