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Scene: Burn
(Aya)
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Warnings: light rating of PG-14, light/implied shounen ai (AyaxKen, YoujixOmi), some humor, marginal cursing, probably OOC...

Notes: second installment of 'Scenes'... I probably should have mentioned that this is set... um... I haven't seen the whole series yet, so wherever or if it might fit. xD;
(Aya/Ran's POV; italics = thoughts...)

The lines of poetry are from 'Song: Love Armed', a poem by Aphra Behn.

Revised: 10/31/02
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'Love in fantastic triumph state, Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed, For whom fresh pains he did create, And strange tyrannic power he showed...'

Bleeding hearts.

It's more powerful on paper, I think.

I've gotten used to the bleeding. Blood is all the same color, after all. It always rushes out with the same panicked force. Quite boring, if you don't think about it too much.

It's beautiful, on paper. Blood. A romantic word if I've ever heard one.

"Good book?"

I ignored Youji. He was best left ignored, because if you noticed him he'd get ideas in his head; ideas like you wanted to talk. I did not want to talk to Youji. I didn't want to talk to anyone.

So Youji was ignored, and I left him with Omi in the kitchen. My book was very good, and my tea was hot, just as I liked it.

The rattling sound of a door opening alerted the entire building to Ken's return. As did a muffled curse, and thud when his shoe connected with the wall.

Why he has to throw them when he takes them off is beyond me. I frowned with the indignity of it.

I didn't frown because I was thinking about how often he threw his shoes-- although it was disturbing how I knew the exact number of times he'd done it this week (twelve). I deepened my frown, and continued down the hall. All that's left is to sit in room, stay in room, drink tea, and read book.

Sometimes thinking like a Neanderthal had its benefits; less complicated thoughts led to less stress on the mind.

No wonder Youji is partial to it.

I smiled grimly. My humor was a fleeting thing. I enjoyed it about as rarely as anyone else did.

Must have something to do with being a killer. They're masters of tragedy, not comedy.

I paused in the hall to test my drink: it was hot, and bitter. I'd forgotten cream. Now that was a tragedy.

I wanted my book and my tea in my room, and I wanted my cream to magically levitate from the kitchen into my tea. This would never happen. I sighed resignedly.

At least this will cool down by the time I get upstairs... I turned swiftly.

The sensation of having your skin drenched in very hot tea is not a pleasant one.

Neither is said hot tea, as it soaks into your sweater.

And it didn't help that Ken was on top of me, staring into my eyes with something akin to horror.

I'm being boiled alive-- by tea.

That would be a terrible way to die. No blood at all. Just burns.

"Aya," Ken whispered. He was out of breath, and as shocked as I was. He pushed himself off of me, but not away. His jaw was swinging.

He looked amusing.

Killers may not comedians, but they seem to have an understanding with humor. Just a fleeting relationship.

"Close your mouth," I growled. Ken's jaw snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. He remained poised above me, hands braced to my sides and legs straddling my hips.

This is a compromising position. And I am now dying a slow, agonizing, burning death. From tea.

My eyes narrowed.

Oh yes, it hurt.

Ken rocketed off of me, as if my sneer and rigid body were an indication to my imminent explosion. He scrambled up and placed a nervous hand to his head, ruffling his hair and looking mortified.

"I'm sorry! I was-- Youji, and Omi-- watching, didn't see..." His brain was malfunctioning, apparently.

I stood gingerly, feeling the skin on my hand and chest tingle in warning. I reluctantly released my mug to the floor (the carpet was remarkably free of tea; my sweater had absorbed it all). My book was at the other end of the hall, thankfully untouched. I liked that book.

I wrenched my sweater over my head, grimacing at the browned state of my undershirt, and the red portions of my skin.

"I'm really sorry--" Ken tried again. He craned his neck around to look back at the kitchen. "Youji was with Omi and--" He turned his face back to me, and didn't finish.

Why is he blushing?

And Ken's face was very red. He was pointing weakly to the kitchen, which was where I needed to head anyway. I needed some cold water, and a tub to soak my shirts in.

"Youji-- and Omi--"

What the hell turned his brain into mush?! I was pissed, and royally so. If Youji and Omi were the cause of this, and they were still in the kitchen, then I was wasting time. There were people to yell at. And burns to tend.

I skirted Ken, and stormed into the kitchen. Youji was in front of the sink, in my way.

Why-- ?

Omi was *in* the sink.

........

Youji had his hands all over Omi; pinning him to the counter top, running them along the boy's arms and thighs--

And there was the pint of cream, tipped to the floor and emptying languidly into puddle on the floor.

Neither of them felt my burning glare on Youji's back. They didn't feel Ken's boggling stare.

But I was going to make sure one of them, preferably Youji, felt my foot in his ass as he sailed out the door.

My skin burned.