My angel leaned on the window in front of his face, staring out into
the forest. He looked so long that I almost thought he saw me, though that
was impossible, of course. He would not even know to look. He had no idea
that I might be here. Why would I?
A good question. I hardly knew myself. And I could not expect him to. In fact, I had taken great pains to make sure he never would…
Great pains indeed. Once, twice a week for a year now. He was my addiction, my secret and deliciously guilty pleasure. He was so different from the rest, such a delight to speak with, to touch, to see again. One could hardly help but to love him. Not to fall in love with him. I do love him. But I am not in love with him.
Of course, I was once convinced that I did not love him. I denied it as a man denies alcoholism, or abuse, or perhaps homosexuality. Though that was not the problem, of course. I had no qualms about my sexuality, no misguided notions of false masculinity. No, I think it was more the idea of love itself. I've never been big on love. Sex, that I could deal with. I was very good at sex. But love? Love required tenderness, and commitment, and promises, and daily effort. I wasn't so good with love.
That's why this seemed like the perfect solution. The ultimate resolution. No worries about commitments and reassurances. Just get together for one night, and then erase the memory until only I had any recollection of the event. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it earlier.
It worked perfectly. We met one night in December. I saw the scene through his eyes, delighting in the rush of pure adrenaline he felt at the sight of me. I savored every stammered word, every bluffing attempt to make me believe that he had the upper hand. We talked for hours that night, bandying word for word like Shakespearian lovers, exchanging barbs and taunts, me in barely controlled amusement, he in a state of nervous frenzy, fearing for his life. And I subdued him finally, tiring of the wordplay. I tweaked a few tendrils of his mind and made him trust me, made him forget that I was Schwarz and he was Weiss. I kissed him then, and was instantly almost drunk on his taste. He tasted like violets, tasted the way a glass of water looks when it's hit by a stray ray of sunshine. He tasted like whipped cream, like caramel, and like something I could not describe then.
That was the first time we met, but it was by no means the last. It was infrequent at first, maybe once a month, maybe not. Each time, he fought as he first saw me. Sometimes I fought back, trading words and sweet blows with him for hours. Sometimes I subdued him from the beginning, ruthlessly breaking his memories of Weiss, only to repair them in a few short hours. Sometimes I kissed him softly, and sometimes I was not so gentle. We went to seedy motels and visited luxurious almost-palaces. We walked along the beach and through the crowded streets, never going close enough to see someone who might know him, who might speak to him about our journeys.
We roamed like the fabled vampires, the idealized creatures of silk and lace and velvet, wandering at our will through Tokyo at night, returning to our homes before dawn. I erased his memory after our every meeting, leaving him believing he was innocent, even a virgin.
He never suspected a thing, at least in the beginning. After a few months, though, it got harder to wipe away the memories. A few stubborn fragments remained, manifesting themselves only as bits of instantly forgotten dreams and a lingering sense of déjà vu. Still, nothing to worry about. He was hardly going to figure anything out from a few scraps of dreams and a "feeling".
I wasn't really sure why this was happening. I supposed that as the memories accumulated, they became more persistent. Perhaps his mind became more resistant to me, in the same way that the human body builds up an immunity to antibiotics. That's what I thought at the time, though I know now that I probably didn't even believe it then.
A few months after we met, April or May it must have been, I began to have the insidious feeling that I was becoming too attached. I didn't want to leave immediately anymore. I started to watch him even during the daytime, following him as he delivered flowers to mansions and apartments. I even watched him sleep once. I moved through the house silently, like a common cat burglar, and stole into his room. My plan had been to wake him up, to bring him into the world with me and take him to some bar or lounge somewhere. Something stopped me, though, and instead of moving to wake him, I just sat and watched him sleep, watched the moon make its silent path across the heavens and bring stray patches of light to illuminate his face. I looked at his skin, at the way his long and feminine eyelashes fluttered a bit as he dreamed. Saw the silvery moonlight filter through sleep-mussed hair, casting sharp shadows over his face.
I sat there in a chair by his bed for the entire night, just watching him breathe. I dipped gently into the star-soaked lake of his dreams a few times; following what was already there as though I was walking along the path the moon leaves on water. I didn't leave until I heard the first tiny sounds of Fujimiya making coffee in the little kitchen.
I left then, slipping with silent grace through the hallway, making Fujimiya very interested in the toaster slot long enough for me to get away, then just walking through the streets for awhile, sipping a coffee and watching the sun rise. Utterly and completely peaceful.
I suppose I admitted it that day. I realized that I loved him as I walked for hours, my feet unconsciously tracing our old familiar route. The route that was familiar only to me. I guess that was also the day when I realized that Omi had been remembering more because I wanted him to. I didn't want him to forget me anymore. How utterly… trite.
That was also the last day I'd talked to him. I'd convinced myself that it was too dangerous for me to be around him. That I might lose control of my emotions. So I didn't visit him any more. Not even once.
We had a few battles with Weiss during those months after I left. They passed fairly uneventfully. I always managed to fight someone else, and I never looked into his eyes. Nobody ever killed anyone. Honestly, I don't think anyone ever expected to. It was all just a very elaborate and elegant game.
Because really, there's no difference between us. We kill people. We're trained to. Maybe we kill different people, but that doesn't really matter when you get down to it. They're all going to die in a few years anyway.
So we fought, but we never killed. And I never looked into his eyes. And time passed, and soon it was almost December again. I toyed with the idea of visiting him once more, seeing if his presence was as intoxicating as I remembered. But I wasn't going to, because I didn't want to lose control. I didn't want to love him.
Then in November, we met again in battle, and this time I had to fight with him. I fought decently at first, moving languidly for me but still lightning-quick for most people. Still, I avoided his eyes. I wasn't really sure why, maybe some fear that he would recognize me, remember all that had happened between us. Maybe I was just afraid that I wouldn't be able to resist his gaze, sultry in its innocence. His eyes that promised everything, if I would only accept.
Something happened, though, as we fought. Suddenly I needed to know what would happen, needed to prove to myself that I could look at him without fear. The next time he turned his gaze towards me, I looked him squarely in the eye, searching for the slightest flicker of recognition.
There was none. I had done my job well. And I had not fallen under any spell. I was not under his power. I returned home that night, tasting a bittersweet mixture of relief and disappointment in my mouth. I felt cheated somehow, disillusioned. I'd always thought love was more lasting than that. Apparently what I'd felt for Omi had been nothing but a passing fancy. Well, then it was just as I'd planned. Love him and leave him, and he'd never be the wiser. It was like a prostitute, but with less expense and no risk of nasty diseases.
Right. Sure. Go to sleep now, Schuldich.
But I couldn't sleep, and after a few nights of this, I gave up. Which is why I'm standing in a cold dark forest right now, staring at the vision of perfect beauty outlined in the window of an unassuming cabin. It's why I'm tasting, yet again, the blend of relief and disappointment. Nothing has changed. I still love him, still want to swoop down, a dramatic angel or demon, or perhaps something entirely different, and take him away to spend an evening with me.
I know that I cannot give in to this dark and delicious temptation, that I should not even be here tonight. I promised to myself that I would only look at him; only feast on his intoxicating aura from far away, from a safe distance.
I dip into his mind, skimming over the surface of his thoughts to find out what has happened to him recently. He's in a pensive mood, pondering the fate of the snow falling past his eyes, using it as a thinly veiled metaphor for the futility of human life.
Ah, my Omi, how I have missed you. This is delicious, skimming through his crystalline thoughts. His mind is pure clover honey, sweet and light. Even when my angel is at his most brooding, he is still beautiful compared to those who surround him, trying to mask his brilliant life- light.
I promised not to speak with him. I never was very good with promises. I slip softly into his stream of consciousness, letting his thoughts wash over me in a cleansing stream. He thinks about snow still, and he considers himself a common murderer.
Omi, my angel, my beautiful dark-light fallen angel, you have no idea what a true murderer is. I have told you before, told you a thousand times, and each time it was new to you. Shall I show you again?
My promise is already broken. I move slowly at first, then more quickly. He glimpses me out of the corner of his eye, struggling for a moment to retrieve a scrap of long-forgotten information. I send a thought to him, something that is clichéd and yet true, something that will no doubt appeal to his romantic sensibilities.
Like one in a dream, he opens the window and leans out to speak with me. Before he can, I reach up and over the sill, pulling him out gently and bringing him onto my arms. I inhale his scent, breathing deeply, savoring the faint odors of soap, and sweat, and flowers. And odd combination for some, but perfect for my angel.
He trembles, struggling with two sets of memories. As though I had planned it before, as perhaps I had, I released his mental barriers and opened the gate for a flood of memories to pour through. Omi gasped, confused and exhilarated by the sudden rush of information.
I pulled his face towards mine gently, leaning in for a kiss. Our lips met, and I sighed softly into his mouth. He tasted exactly as I remembered, that intoxicating blend of violets and caramel and rainbows and cream, and something else, something indefinable, something irresistible. Delicious.
I was drunk on the taste of him, drunk as I had been the first night I met him. Reluctantly, I released him, giving him the chance to leave if he wished.
He simply looked into my eyes, gazing deeply as though I held the secret to unlocking the mysteries of the world.
I opened my mouth to speak, ready to open myself to the usual cascade of delicious talking, the stream of wit and charm. Nothing. The endless fountain of ready revelations was gone.
If this had been a little more trite, there would have been a haze of tears refracting the light and making diamond-patterns across the world as I reached out and pulled him towards me, and there would have been no words necessary.
But then, we would have been in love, too. And that wasn't happening. He stayed an arms length away, and he just kept looking at me like I was going to say something to make it all better.
He just stared at me, waiting. And then he opened his mouth. I guess I expected him to ask a question. You know, "why did you leave?" or " what really happened?". Something like that. I didn't really expect what he did say.
"Why are you here?"
And then it was my turn to stare at him. I said the first thing that popped into my head.
"I don't know".
Well, I guess it made as much sense as anything. It WAS true, after all.
"Well, then you're pretty damn stupid, aren't you?"
I blinked. Well, that wasn't what I'd been expecting… my shock must have registered on my features, because he laughed bitterly and stared me straight in the eyes.
"What did you expect? That you could just come and fuck with my mind and erase the memories every time and then come back to me and I'd be totally willing to fall into your arms and run away with you?"
I didn't say anything. Because I guess I had thought that somehow. God, I was an idiot. How could I expect that? I was Schuldich, for god's sake. Schwarz. And he was Weiß. What did I expect, some kind of Romeo and Juliet love story?
"You started this because you wanted some kind of fucking toy, Schuldich. Well, you had your fun. I hope you enjoyed it. But you can't expect your toys to fall in love with you. If you're going to manipulate me and force me to act like your lover, you better be able to accept having a toy. Did you really think that I'd just jump into your arms and not care that I never chose to love you in the first place? Because if you did, then you're an even bigger dumbass than I thought."
He broke off the bitter torrent of words and looked at me. I guess I should have been reacting somehow. But I just stood there.
Omi looked at me for a moment, and for a brief instant there in the silence, I fell into the past, and we were lovers again. He had never awoken from that euphoric dream we lived together.
It really was a dream, wasn't it? It was me the whole time. And I'd never released him from those chains. It was like a human video game. I was controlling everything, feeling like the master of the situation. And then I thought I'd lost control. Thought I'd fallen in love with him. But even then, I'd been playing with myself.
I'd never even talked to him. The realization hit me suddenly. I'd been talking to myself. Kissing myself. The angel who had swooped down to capture my senses and ensnare me in a beautiful web had never existed.
And then he looked away. The moment was over, the clarity gone. He turned to go back to the house. I watched him go as if he were a character in the movie. Even his walk was different now.
Time seemed to slow down. I saw every nuance of his movement. He didn't move with the catlike grace I remembered. The fluid silkiness was just… gone. He moved exactly like any of the other nameless and faceless people you see every day. He reached the window and clambered back into the house. He turned to shut the window, and his eyes met mine once more. I stared at him.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I don't know about that, but I always have thought they were pretty expressive. You actually can tell quite a lot about people by looking into their eyes.
So I looked into his eyes. I guess I still expected somehow that there would be something irresistible at the bottom of them. But there was nothing. He was just… Omi. Rather pretty, of course, I couldn't change his outer appearance. But his eyes no longer promised everything.
I chuckled a little at my own foolishness. I'd never loved him at all. I'd never even known him. It was just my own influence on him that made him so irresistible. Quickly, almost as an afterthought, I wiped cool and soothing fingers across his memory. Better not to leave a trace… but no. A devious smirk spread across my face, and I left just the slightest hint of a lost love to drive him crazy. He'd be haunted by the nagging sensation of déjà vu for quite awhile. After all, he had been very bitchy towards me.
I walked around to the other side of the cabin, taking care not to get mud on my shoes. Still grinning, I peered into the window closest to me. Ran Fujimiya sat on an impeccably clean bed, reading a copy of Macbeth. Interesting… apparently our swordsman was a fan of great literature.
As though he felt my eyes on him, he straightened suddenly, his muscles tense as adrenaline coursed through his brain. I could almost see the blood flow increase…
He rose from the bed and took his katana off the low table, unsheathing it as he moved gracefully towards the window.
Ah, yes, this was beautiful. He peered out the window, amethyst eyes brittle as he scanned the shadows. He didn't know why, but he had the strangest feeling that he was being watched…
I stepped out of the shadows. His eyes locked immediately on mine, and he was overcome by a wave of anger tinged deliciously by fear.
"Schwarz…"
His voice was exquisite, low and sensuous. Something like maple syrup, or maybe chocolate dipped strawberries.
I smiled and sent my voice directly into his mind.
/Why don't you just come out, and we'll talk things over?/
And, like one in a dream, he did.
A good question. I hardly knew myself. And I could not expect him to. In fact, I had taken great pains to make sure he never would…
Great pains indeed. Once, twice a week for a year now. He was my addiction, my secret and deliciously guilty pleasure. He was so different from the rest, such a delight to speak with, to touch, to see again. One could hardly help but to love him. Not to fall in love with him. I do love him. But I am not in love with him.
Of course, I was once convinced that I did not love him. I denied it as a man denies alcoholism, or abuse, or perhaps homosexuality. Though that was not the problem, of course. I had no qualms about my sexuality, no misguided notions of false masculinity. No, I think it was more the idea of love itself. I've never been big on love. Sex, that I could deal with. I was very good at sex. But love? Love required tenderness, and commitment, and promises, and daily effort. I wasn't so good with love.
That's why this seemed like the perfect solution. The ultimate resolution. No worries about commitments and reassurances. Just get together for one night, and then erase the memory until only I had any recollection of the event. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it earlier.
It worked perfectly. We met one night in December. I saw the scene through his eyes, delighting in the rush of pure adrenaline he felt at the sight of me. I savored every stammered word, every bluffing attempt to make me believe that he had the upper hand. We talked for hours that night, bandying word for word like Shakespearian lovers, exchanging barbs and taunts, me in barely controlled amusement, he in a state of nervous frenzy, fearing for his life. And I subdued him finally, tiring of the wordplay. I tweaked a few tendrils of his mind and made him trust me, made him forget that I was Schwarz and he was Weiss. I kissed him then, and was instantly almost drunk on his taste. He tasted like violets, tasted the way a glass of water looks when it's hit by a stray ray of sunshine. He tasted like whipped cream, like caramel, and like something I could not describe then.
That was the first time we met, but it was by no means the last. It was infrequent at first, maybe once a month, maybe not. Each time, he fought as he first saw me. Sometimes I fought back, trading words and sweet blows with him for hours. Sometimes I subdued him from the beginning, ruthlessly breaking his memories of Weiss, only to repair them in a few short hours. Sometimes I kissed him softly, and sometimes I was not so gentle. We went to seedy motels and visited luxurious almost-palaces. We walked along the beach and through the crowded streets, never going close enough to see someone who might know him, who might speak to him about our journeys.
We roamed like the fabled vampires, the idealized creatures of silk and lace and velvet, wandering at our will through Tokyo at night, returning to our homes before dawn. I erased his memory after our every meeting, leaving him believing he was innocent, even a virgin.
He never suspected a thing, at least in the beginning. After a few months, though, it got harder to wipe away the memories. A few stubborn fragments remained, manifesting themselves only as bits of instantly forgotten dreams and a lingering sense of déjà vu. Still, nothing to worry about. He was hardly going to figure anything out from a few scraps of dreams and a "feeling".
I wasn't really sure why this was happening. I supposed that as the memories accumulated, they became more persistent. Perhaps his mind became more resistant to me, in the same way that the human body builds up an immunity to antibiotics. That's what I thought at the time, though I know now that I probably didn't even believe it then.
A few months after we met, April or May it must have been, I began to have the insidious feeling that I was becoming too attached. I didn't want to leave immediately anymore. I started to watch him even during the daytime, following him as he delivered flowers to mansions and apartments. I even watched him sleep once. I moved through the house silently, like a common cat burglar, and stole into his room. My plan had been to wake him up, to bring him into the world with me and take him to some bar or lounge somewhere. Something stopped me, though, and instead of moving to wake him, I just sat and watched him sleep, watched the moon make its silent path across the heavens and bring stray patches of light to illuminate his face. I looked at his skin, at the way his long and feminine eyelashes fluttered a bit as he dreamed. Saw the silvery moonlight filter through sleep-mussed hair, casting sharp shadows over his face.
I sat there in a chair by his bed for the entire night, just watching him breathe. I dipped gently into the star-soaked lake of his dreams a few times; following what was already there as though I was walking along the path the moon leaves on water. I didn't leave until I heard the first tiny sounds of Fujimiya making coffee in the little kitchen.
I left then, slipping with silent grace through the hallway, making Fujimiya very interested in the toaster slot long enough for me to get away, then just walking through the streets for awhile, sipping a coffee and watching the sun rise. Utterly and completely peaceful.
I suppose I admitted it that day. I realized that I loved him as I walked for hours, my feet unconsciously tracing our old familiar route. The route that was familiar only to me. I guess that was also the day when I realized that Omi had been remembering more because I wanted him to. I didn't want him to forget me anymore. How utterly… trite.
That was also the last day I'd talked to him. I'd convinced myself that it was too dangerous for me to be around him. That I might lose control of my emotions. So I didn't visit him any more. Not even once.
We had a few battles with Weiss during those months after I left. They passed fairly uneventfully. I always managed to fight someone else, and I never looked into his eyes. Nobody ever killed anyone. Honestly, I don't think anyone ever expected to. It was all just a very elaborate and elegant game.
Because really, there's no difference between us. We kill people. We're trained to. Maybe we kill different people, but that doesn't really matter when you get down to it. They're all going to die in a few years anyway.
So we fought, but we never killed. And I never looked into his eyes. And time passed, and soon it was almost December again. I toyed with the idea of visiting him once more, seeing if his presence was as intoxicating as I remembered. But I wasn't going to, because I didn't want to lose control. I didn't want to love him.
Then in November, we met again in battle, and this time I had to fight with him. I fought decently at first, moving languidly for me but still lightning-quick for most people. Still, I avoided his eyes. I wasn't really sure why, maybe some fear that he would recognize me, remember all that had happened between us. Maybe I was just afraid that I wouldn't be able to resist his gaze, sultry in its innocence. His eyes that promised everything, if I would only accept.
Something happened, though, as we fought. Suddenly I needed to know what would happen, needed to prove to myself that I could look at him without fear. The next time he turned his gaze towards me, I looked him squarely in the eye, searching for the slightest flicker of recognition.
There was none. I had done my job well. And I had not fallen under any spell. I was not under his power. I returned home that night, tasting a bittersweet mixture of relief and disappointment in my mouth. I felt cheated somehow, disillusioned. I'd always thought love was more lasting than that. Apparently what I'd felt for Omi had been nothing but a passing fancy. Well, then it was just as I'd planned. Love him and leave him, and he'd never be the wiser. It was like a prostitute, but with less expense and no risk of nasty diseases.
Right. Sure. Go to sleep now, Schuldich.
But I couldn't sleep, and after a few nights of this, I gave up. Which is why I'm standing in a cold dark forest right now, staring at the vision of perfect beauty outlined in the window of an unassuming cabin. It's why I'm tasting, yet again, the blend of relief and disappointment. Nothing has changed. I still love him, still want to swoop down, a dramatic angel or demon, or perhaps something entirely different, and take him away to spend an evening with me.
I know that I cannot give in to this dark and delicious temptation, that I should not even be here tonight. I promised to myself that I would only look at him; only feast on his intoxicating aura from far away, from a safe distance.
I dip into his mind, skimming over the surface of his thoughts to find out what has happened to him recently. He's in a pensive mood, pondering the fate of the snow falling past his eyes, using it as a thinly veiled metaphor for the futility of human life.
Ah, my Omi, how I have missed you. This is delicious, skimming through his crystalline thoughts. His mind is pure clover honey, sweet and light. Even when my angel is at his most brooding, he is still beautiful compared to those who surround him, trying to mask his brilliant life- light.
I promised not to speak with him. I never was very good with promises. I slip softly into his stream of consciousness, letting his thoughts wash over me in a cleansing stream. He thinks about snow still, and he considers himself a common murderer.
Omi, my angel, my beautiful dark-light fallen angel, you have no idea what a true murderer is. I have told you before, told you a thousand times, and each time it was new to you. Shall I show you again?
My promise is already broken. I move slowly at first, then more quickly. He glimpses me out of the corner of his eye, struggling for a moment to retrieve a scrap of long-forgotten information. I send a thought to him, something that is clichéd and yet true, something that will no doubt appeal to his romantic sensibilities.
Like one in a dream, he opens the window and leans out to speak with me. Before he can, I reach up and over the sill, pulling him out gently and bringing him onto my arms. I inhale his scent, breathing deeply, savoring the faint odors of soap, and sweat, and flowers. And odd combination for some, but perfect for my angel.
He trembles, struggling with two sets of memories. As though I had planned it before, as perhaps I had, I released his mental barriers and opened the gate for a flood of memories to pour through. Omi gasped, confused and exhilarated by the sudden rush of information.
I pulled his face towards mine gently, leaning in for a kiss. Our lips met, and I sighed softly into his mouth. He tasted exactly as I remembered, that intoxicating blend of violets and caramel and rainbows and cream, and something else, something indefinable, something irresistible. Delicious.
I was drunk on the taste of him, drunk as I had been the first night I met him. Reluctantly, I released him, giving him the chance to leave if he wished.
He simply looked into my eyes, gazing deeply as though I held the secret to unlocking the mysteries of the world.
I opened my mouth to speak, ready to open myself to the usual cascade of delicious talking, the stream of wit and charm. Nothing. The endless fountain of ready revelations was gone.
If this had been a little more trite, there would have been a haze of tears refracting the light and making diamond-patterns across the world as I reached out and pulled him towards me, and there would have been no words necessary.
But then, we would have been in love, too. And that wasn't happening. He stayed an arms length away, and he just kept looking at me like I was going to say something to make it all better.
He just stared at me, waiting. And then he opened his mouth. I guess I expected him to ask a question. You know, "why did you leave?" or " what really happened?". Something like that. I didn't really expect what he did say.
"Why are you here?"
And then it was my turn to stare at him. I said the first thing that popped into my head.
"I don't know".
Well, I guess it made as much sense as anything. It WAS true, after all.
"Well, then you're pretty damn stupid, aren't you?"
I blinked. Well, that wasn't what I'd been expecting… my shock must have registered on my features, because he laughed bitterly and stared me straight in the eyes.
"What did you expect? That you could just come and fuck with my mind and erase the memories every time and then come back to me and I'd be totally willing to fall into your arms and run away with you?"
I didn't say anything. Because I guess I had thought that somehow. God, I was an idiot. How could I expect that? I was Schuldich, for god's sake. Schwarz. And he was Weiß. What did I expect, some kind of Romeo and Juliet love story?
"You started this because you wanted some kind of fucking toy, Schuldich. Well, you had your fun. I hope you enjoyed it. But you can't expect your toys to fall in love with you. If you're going to manipulate me and force me to act like your lover, you better be able to accept having a toy. Did you really think that I'd just jump into your arms and not care that I never chose to love you in the first place? Because if you did, then you're an even bigger dumbass than I thought."
He broke off the bitter torrent of words and looked at me. I guess I should have been reacting somehow. But I just stood there.
Omi looked at me for a moment, and for a brief instant there in the silence, I fell into the past, and we were lovers again. He had never awoken from that euphoric dream we lived together.
It really was a dream, wasn't it? It was me the whole time. And I'd never released him from those chains. It was like a human video game. I was controlling everything, feeling like the master of the situation. And then I thought I'd lost control. Thought I'd fallen in love with him. But even then, I'd been playing with myself.
I'd never even talked to him. The realization hit me suddenly. I'd been talking to myself. Kissing myself. The angel who had swooped down to capture my senses and ensnare me in a beautiful web had never existed.
And then he looked away. The moment was over, the clarity gone. He turned to go back to the house. I watched him go as if he were a character in the movie. Even his walk was different now.
Time seemed to slow down. I saw every nuance of his movement. He didn't move with the catlike grace I remembered. The fluid silkiness was just… gone. He moved exactly like any of the other nameless and faceless people you see every day. He reached the window and clambered back into the house. He turned to shut the window, and his eyes met mine once more. I stared at him.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I don't know about that, but I always have thought they were pretty expressive. You actually can tell quite a lot about people by looking into their eyes.
So I looked into his eyes. I guess I still expected somehow that there would be something irresistible at the bottom of them. But there was nothing. He was just… Omi. Rather pretty, of course, I couldn't change his outer appearance. But his eyes no longer promised everything.
I chuckled a little at my own foolishness. I'd never loved him at all. I'd never even known him. It was just my own influence on him that made him so irresistible. Quickly, almost as an afterthought, I wiped cool and soothing fingers across his memory. Better not to leave a trace… but no. A devious smirk spread across my face, and I left just the slightest hint of a lost love to drive him crazy. He'd be haunted by the nagging sensation of déjà vu for quite awhile. After all, he had been very bitchy towards me.
I walked around to the other side of the cabin, taking care not to get mud on my shoes. Still grinning, I peered into the window closest to me. Ran Fujimiya sat on an impeccably clean bed, reading a copy of Macbeth. Interesting… apparently our swordsman was a fan of great literature.
As though he felt my eyes on him, he straightened suddenly, his muscles tense as adrenaline coursed through his brain. I could almost see the blood flow increase…
He rose from the bed and took his katana off the low table, unsheathing it as he moved gracefully towards the window.
Ah, yes, this was beautiful. He peered out the window, amethyst eyes brittle as he scanned the shadows. He didn't know why, but he had the strangest feeling that he was being watched…
I stepped out of the shadows. His eyes locked immediately on mine, and he was overcome by a wave of anger tinged deliciously by fear.
"Schwarz…"
His voice was exquisite, low and sensuous. Something like maple syrup, or maybe chocolate dipped strawberries.
I smiled and sent my voice directly into his mind.
/Why don't you just come out, and we'll talk things over?/
And, like one in a dream, he did.