To anyone who is curious: the title translates to "distorting mirror."
Enjoy.
~† † †~ Aya-chan . . .
Are you well?
Please don't make that face. I didn't want to leave.
I had to.
You will never be safe, around me . . .
Always in danger, simply because you know a heartless murderer . . .
But you're safe now.
And I am . . . happy.
Aren't I . . . ?
. . .
You don't know me, anymore . . .
Aya-chan . . .
With a vicious jerk of stiffened muscles, Aya's eyes snapped open wide, fists gathering large handfuls of the bedspread beneath him. His lips parted to let out a cry, but the pained sound died before it reached the air, becoming a simple exhale of quivering breath. For a moment, he simply stared at the ceiling, breathing hard and willing his body to relax. When he had more control over himself, he sat up, sheets pooling in his lap, hand moving to cradle his damp forehead in his palm.
". . .Aya-chan."
Those nightmares, again. He found it becoming more and more difficult to elude them. Before, they had merely been once, maybe twice a week; but now, nearly every evening plagued him with horrific images from deep within the inner reaches of his most paranoid area of soul. Aya-chan hurt, bleeding, dying on the floor. Hunted by those that once hunted him, driven by revenge. Aya-chan paying his penance in blood. Always his beloved sister, summer dress and plaited hair stained the faded crimson of a falling sunset. Sometimes with he himself holding the killing blade.
It was almost too much to bear, anymore.
Shaking his head slowly, the young redhead slipped from beneath the sheets, absently stretching his uncomfortably stiff muscles. His eyes darted to the side to fix a glare on the clock beside his bed, digital box-numbers glowing menacingly in the dim light of the bedroom. 5:42. Better than usual, at least. Three hours was better than nothing. He whisked slim fingers through his bangs and grimaced; God, but he needed a shower. Badly. With a muter of annoyance to himself, Aya pulled open the drawers of his dresser, haphazardly yanking out old black jeans and a sky-blue cardigan with a strip of white across the chest, the designer label of "Firetrap" embroidered into the upper left side of the chest. Draping the clothes over one arm, he slipped from his room with a cat's grace and silence, barely a sound from his loose pajamas as they ruffled a bit with the movement.
The bathroom was dark and unoccupied; a relief, as he was honestly not in the mood to put up with any of his fellow assassins this morning. Aya shut the door silently behind him as he entered, then stripped off his sweat-soaked sleepwear and tossed it thoughtlessly to the floor, moving to the shower. He turned the decorated knobs, testing the water until it was nearly scalding to the flesh, before moving under the water spray with a hiss of pain and relief. Leisurely scrubs soon cleaned his flesh of all the remains of his nightmare, working the pliable skin raw with a washcloth. His eyes remained closed throughout, lost in thought.
Had it really been a year since everything had come to such an abrupt end? It was still almost impossible for him to accept it and move on. They'd escaped the building as it collapsed, of course; how could they not? Pulling through by the skin of your teeth was all in a day's work, for the renegade assassin group known as WeiB. They'd packed up and left almost immediately without goodbyes to anyone, letting them believe they had met a quick end beneath falling rubble. Aya had had barely enough time to gather information about his sister… who was now awake, alive, and happily living in the states, in medical school.
He kept telling himself it was better this way. Somehow, he was never quite able to believe it.
They had moved themselves to a new providence, having more than enough money to take residence anywhere they wished. After a few months, they set up shop again; a month after that, they took up their old work for Kritiker, spending their restless night hunting the wicked and protecting the weak. Originally, each had planned to simply leave that path behind; a few months of restless irritation and flaring tempers had eventually pushed them all back to their calling. After all, what right had they to take on normal lives, after all that they had done?
The new place was a bit smaller, but still comfortable; instead of wasting time on several apartments, they simply agreed on a house right beside the corner shop, big enough to house all of them with plenty of room to spare. Their rooms had enough distance between them for privacy, and they split the floors between them for bathroom privileges: Omi and Ken upstairs, Aya and Youji downstairs.
Hence Aya sooner wishing death upon himself than having to deal with a hung-over Youji in the wee hours of the morning.
After washing his hair four times with his own shampoo – he'd had to physically abuse Youji on almost a nightly basis to get him to keep his damn hands off it – he turned off the water, taking a moment to relish the fading ache from his skin. He stepped from the shower, pulling a towel off the rack on the wall and drying his body first, then his hair. After reaching an acceptable degree of dryness, he dressed, pulling on jeans and zipping up his cardigan. Combing his fingers through his bangs, he stepped out from the bathroom, lidding his eyes as the cool air in the hallway hit him full-force. If it was like this indoors, it was going to be a cold, miserable walk next door.
Grabbing his leather jacket and keys on the way out the door, he locked it behind him, then made the trek down the street to the locked doors and gated windows of the Koneko, head bowed against the biting wind. Upon reaching the door, he fumbled for the right key with numbing fingers, cursing after dropping them twice in a row with his attempts. Eventually, the right key slid in with a click, and he turned it, pushing the door open with a frustrated growl of irritation.
Ran.
Aya stopped soon after entering the shop and frowned, tilting his head. He's heard… someone. It was hard to tell where it came from; in the shop? But the doors had all been locked…
Raaa-aaan…
A scowl crossed his features, and he grabbed a broom from beside the door, full prepared to use the makeshift weapon against whoever was sing-songing within the store. Though, it didn't seem to really come from anywhere.
You look so tired. Having nightmares? Poor little thing.
He listened a moment longer, then narrowed his eyes to slits, gripping hold of the broom handle. His voice came out not so much in spoken word, but in a vicious, hateful growl.
"Schuldig."
Deep, silvery laughter answered him in his mind, making him feel oddly lightheaded.
We've missed you, you know. All of you. I in particular have missed playing with you darling little boys.
"I'm not surprised you survived the blast," Aya muttered, eyes narrowed to slits as he found himself regretting not carrying his katana with him all the time. "You are Schwarz, after all. WeiB's equal."
Flatterty will get you everywhere, Ran. But, really, I'm not here to fight; simply on a social call, to be honest. Aya felt a strange sort of mental caress, and let out a hiss, muscles tensing.
"Then come out and show yourself, bastard, and I'll give you a fond welcome."
Sorry, I'm not partial to being swatted at with a broom like a housewife bats at a neighborhood dog.
Aya twitched at the analogy, obviously not partial to the "housewife" comment. "Coward!" he barked, gripping the broom tightly. "Show yourself!"
Oh, very well. "If you insist."
With a blink, Aya began to turn, but was suddenly launched backward by a powerful blow to his spine before he could turn even half-way. His body collided with one of the shelves of potted plants, knocking several to the ground to shatter and spray fertilized dirt across the floor, one pot from higher on the shelf breaking against Aya's left shoulder and causing a sharp piece of broken pottery to slice across his cheek. Gripping the shelf for support, the white assassin turned his head to glare hatefully over his shoulder at the telepath.
"You . . ."
Schuldig smirked broadly, standing in the doorway with one hand on his hip, hair pulled back into a ponytail high on the back of his head and dressed in black suit and leather jacket. "Hello, pet. Miss me?"
With a roar of anger, he spun and launched himself at the German; he was gone before Aya could even touch him, and the redhead was met instead by a heavy blow to the side of the head, sending him reeling into another shelf of plants.
"You've gotten rusty," Schuldig observed in a thoughtful tone, walking up behind the dazed assassin and yanking his head up by the hair, eliciting a pained yelp from him. "We'll have to work on that." He slammed his head down against the table, smirking at the spatter of blood left after the blow, then threw him across the room like a rag doll. Aya collided with the wall and slammed down into a display case, hissing as he felt his shoulder dislocate. The pain was enough to clear his head momentarily, and he struggled to his feet, only to be slammed up against the wall by the throat again.
"Listen close to me, pretty," the European purred into Aya's ear, tightening his hold on his throat enough to make him choke and struggle for air. "You won't remember that I did this; I'll make sure of that. But deep in that fucked-up little brain of yours, you'll know that things are going to happen. Big things, to you and your little crew. We've got our own jobs to do, and you're in the way . . . So think of this as a "long time no see" greeting. We'll be meeting again, Ran . . ." He leaned close enough that his lips brushed over the redhead's ear, speaking both verbally and telepathically to him.
And I'll enjoy seeing your face as I rip your little friends apart.
Aya's eyes widened just before a fist was thrust up into his ribcage, twisting, forcing all air from his lungs and making him retch; had his stomach not been empty, it would have been a messy sight. Schuldig released him and allowed him to slide to the floor as his eyes tried to focus, his vision beginning to give out on him.
"See you later, Ran. We'll be in touch."
Vaguely, Aya could hear the receding footsteps of the Schwarz member, as well as the swelling wail of police sirens. Hands gripped at his shoulders, shaking him desperately.
"Aya-kun! Aya-kun, what happened?! Aya-kun!"
Aya's head fell to the side, and the darkness finally dragged him into the depths of unconsciousness, granting him a dreamless black.
~† † †~
O ho ho . . . Everybody knows you can't have White without Black. We'll see where this goes . . . I need editors and betas, by the way. Anyone interested, get a hold of me through the info provided in the ff.net profile. And review, don't forget to review~!