-frowns- You guys suck! I have no reviews! Ooo, you poopy kids! If I didn't want to get on with the sequel, you meanies wouldn't get anything at all. -hugs Aya and Youji- Don't be sad, silly little stupid heads! I will write more about you! -cooes at her expressionless plushies- SQUEEEZE -glares at everyone else- Pooh!
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Intent on forcing my body back into it's old patterns, I somehow or another manage to stay awake until early evening, a major accomplishment for me at this point. It takes a massive effort, but the three of them eventually manage to chase me up to bed. Well, drag is more like it, but my dignity would rather not talk about that right now, thank you very much.
Things dissolve from that point on. Everytime I close my eyes, my surroundings fade into one horrendous nightmare after another. I haven't even thought up some of these possible deaths yet, and still they keep parading behind my eyes. Most of them involve water, some of them involve Aya, laughing and smiling. Hours later, I wouldn't be surprised if things started popping out of the walls.
It's time to give up, I decide, scrubbing at my sandpaper eyes. Gods, do you ever just need a hug sometimes? I sure do. Gods, do you ever feel like REALLY pathetic sometimes? Ditto the first answer.
He's not downstairs. He's not home. No one is. There's no note. It's easy after that, to work myself up into a frenzy, searching the house for any shadowy corner I may have missed, wondering if the prickling at the back of my neck isn't more than my imagination. I think I kind of panic for a while, because the next thing I know I'm huddled up in the corner of Aya's room, panting for breath, and my hands are bleeding. I don't know why. I close my eyes, and this time I do doze off.
"Youji?" The words carry a tinge of fear. I open my eyes, sleep bleared. Gleaming red with a corona of light gleaming off the top of his head like a halo. An angel? Am I finally going to get my ass kicked for being such a huge atheist?
The angel crouches over me, blocking out the light, black clad and unsmiling.
"Youji. What happened to your hands?" His eyebrows draw together.
"Mm. It's just you, Aya." I mumble sleepily, frowning, not quite awake yet. Why is he asking about my hands? They sort of throb; pulsing like the rush in my ears. I look down. A thin layer of crackled, drying blood covers the battered appendages, more is smeared on my shirt, my skin. Flickers of dreams return, tortured faces.
"No!" I rear up; my head connects with the windowsill. I sink back down, hands rubbing the top of my head. Rubbing blood into my hair. "Gods no. I didn't kill anyone!" I babble desperately, wanting to grab his coat, touch his face; make sure he's real, not just another nightmare taunting me. I can't though. I'm the murderer again, blood up to the elbows.
"It's okay." He takes my hands in his, making me stand. I look around, wondering where the body is, flashes of nightmares and dreams still whirling in my mind. "It's all okay." He repeats, leading me over to the mattress on his floor, making me sit down. I catch a glimpse of brown and blue eyes, watching me from the doorway. I wonder how many times they'll see this scene play out before we move on to a new home where they can conveniently lock me up in a padded room for the evenings. Aya motions them away. No words, no sounds.
He stands up again, leaves the room. Leaving me to drown. There's always blood on my hands. Every time I turn around. I don't mind. But I don't remember this time. I should remember. That's what scares me.
Aya returns. I didn't think he would. He has a bowl with him, steam rising from the top, a washcloth in his other hand. How cute; how symbolic. I mistook him for an angel, and now he's washing away my sin. I laugh. He smoothes the hair away from my face, brushing a kiss across my forehead. Of course. Everyone loves the beautiful madman. Even if he is me.
"You smashed the mirror in the bathroom." He tells me, expressionlessly. "With your hands."
I look at them again, turn my palm upwards and look at my knees, my bare feet. All cut, bleeding. "I didn't kill anyone. I'm not a murderer today." I shake my head. Nightmares can mimic reality all to well sometimes. I am a madman.
I watch blankly as Aya carefully picks slivers of glass out of my flesh, wetting the washcloth and wiping away the blood. "I didn't kill anyone." I announce again, unaccountably relieved. I didn't kill anyone. It's only my blood on my hands, not Aya's blood, like in my dream, not some poor schmuck's blood. Only Youji's blood.
He takes care of my bare feet next. I look over at the doorway, seeing the smudged footprints where I'd left tracks in my own blood. He doesn't even comment when he has to push my loose pant legs up above my knees to avoid ripping them up more, sponging off more crusted and drying blood.
He kneels next to me, solemn eyes fixed on my face. He looks almost child-like in his silent intensity for a moment. Innocent and pure as a chiseled figurine. Something available in any local Hallmark store.
"We got back and things were knocked around, tipped over. There was broken glass in the hallway, bloody footprints, a dent in the wall." He speaks so softly I can barely make out the words. "I thought someone had shown up, taken you away again. I thought maybe I'd come up here, see your blood all over my walls, maybe even your body, bleeding, dead in a corner. And then when I finally do make it up all those stairs, there you are. And you were covered with blood. I was so sure you were dead."
He doesn't even blink. Just those tired, wide eyes studying my face. I let out a pent up breath, finally acknowledging the fear I'd heard hiding under his level tone, echoing my earlier panic upon finding the house silent and barren.
"It's okay." I breathe, repeating his words back at him, wrapping my arms around him, feeling him do the same. It's scary, to know what he's thinking. To lose the place that's been your home for so long, to lose someone you care for, get them back again, only to come home and find that fate may have again stripped you of one more thing. Something else life chooses to take from you. Like the existence you knew before. Like everything that matters to you.
"Everything is fine. All okay." I whisper into his hair. I'm not sure if the words are more for me or for him. I rest my cheek on his shoulder, finally getting that long awaited hug.
"What happened?" Aya finally asks, forcibly distancing himself, releasing the clenched handfuls of my shirt. He absently readjusts the folds in the fabric, trying to erase the crumple marks. If he can't be twitching at his own clothes, apparently he feels no problems about moving onto mine. It's his shirt I'm wearing anyway.
"I'm not sure." I stare fixedly at the ground, trying to recall anything from after my first attempts at sleep. "I woke up. Had a bunch of dreams. Nightmares. I went downstairs and none of you were there. I thought you'd all run out on me in the night or something." I rub at the back of my neck. "It seemed like a logical assumption at the time. I don't remember much after that." I look at my knuckles. Crazy, crazy crazy; I chant to myself in my mind.
I look over again. He's gone all inverted, eyes down, hands tucked under his arms, inside his still present coat for warmth. His hands are always so damned cold. I can't say the same about the rest of him, but his hands... I reach out again, moving closer, bringing them up to rest against my neck, against my already warm skin. He sighs through barely parted lips, curling his fingers inward to thaw out the backs of his hands.
"Are you guys okay?" Omi somehow or another has managed to silently approach us from the side.
Aya's eyes flit over to Omi, to his hands, up to my face. I stay focused on his expression, my own hands rising to cover his. Omi's not brain dead. He knows what's going on. I could care less what he thinks when he sees us right now. Aya's opinion is the only one that matters.
"Everything is fine." I finally look away from Aya, studying Omi's slumping posture, the worried blue eyes. I gently curl Aya's hands shut in my grip, bringing them to rest on his lap. Pushing myself to my feet, I wonder again if this rustiness is what it feels like to be unbearably old.
Omi leans against me as I hug him, bones fragile beneath golden skin. His head barely comes up to my shoulder.
"Are you going to be okay?" He mumbles into my chest, eyes tightly closed. I wonder if I should ask him the same thing. He's older, thinner, more worn out than he used to be. We all are. I don't remember him being so small. He finally backs away, scrubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry." He whispers, hurrying back out, most likely to find Ken.
Aya stands behind me. "He's too young for all of this." I try to explain to him.
"He's been doing this for many more years than either you or I have. He didn't have a childhood. He grew up an assassin."
There's Aya reasoning for you. I close my eyes; the world seems to sway around me. "I'm still tired." I stumble back to the mattress, sitting on Aya's side of the bed, unable to go any further.
He sits next to me again, arm brushing mine. The desperation is still there. I could have been gone, could have been dead to him all over again. He rests against my side; his eyes oddly blank again. Too many strung out emotions all in one day for him, I guess. I brush wayward bangs away from his forehead again.
"Beautiful."
He refuses to meet my gaze, unable to acknowledge my simple statement. "No." He finally replies. "Not beautiful in the least. I am death, I am dead."
"No, you're not, Aya. You're not dead, and neither am I. And yes, you ARE beautiful. Even if you won't admit it." I smile against his shoulder before exhaustedly dragging myself across the bed to my half. Just looking at those inviting sheets and the thick layer of blankets is making me sleepy, much nicer than dozing on a pile of broken glass.
I curl up on my side, back to him. He's not one for social scenes in bed, and quite frankly, for once I'm only interested in the restive angle myself. I listen to him shucking off his coat and wandering about, setting things upright and turning off the light. A warm body presses up against my back, heat, smooth arms wrapping around me. I lean back.
One of his icy hands brushes my arm. "Gods!" I hiss between my teeth. "You're going to kill me with those ice blocks one of these days." I slip his hands up under my shirt, only jerking slightly as I tuck his painfully cold fingers up against my stomach. "I'm surprised you haven't lost your fingers to frostbite merely by sitting around the house. You should never go outside again during the winter." I'm not joking either.
He nuzzles the back of my neck. "Glad you're okay." He finally admits, the words I already knew but hadn't heard. He doesn't say anything else after that.
Tucking his fingers more securely against my warm sides, I wriggle back into his embrace, making myself comfortable. "Goodnight, Ran." I deliberately use his real name, tightening my grip on his hands.
"Tomorrow the real war starts." The words sound more like a promise of vengeance than a reassuring bedtime well wishing. How like him. How absolutely like him. A single train of thought running at all times, a fiercely protective nature if you're in on his good side, the most adorable smile you could ever hope to see. Beautiful.
The rest of the night passes as a hazy transfer from waking to sleep at random intervals. Aya's always awake when I turn to check, eyes fixed on some distant point in the darkness until he notices my movements. I haven't felt this safe at night for years. Not since her, well, since she... I block out the thoughts. That's all in the past. I don't dwell on the past; I forge ahead towards the future, useless as that may be.
Someone was nice enough to clean up the shattered mirror while I slept. I'm glad, because stumbling into the darkened bathroom first thing in the morning is NOT a nice time to suddenly find a shard of glass poking out of your heel. Especially when all you want is a quick shower and even more importantly a chance to relive your bladder. Oops. In this land of unreality, characters aren't supposed to possess bodily functions. I'll have to remind myself of that later.
I finally get a chance to scrape those old, somewhat shabby bandages off of my skin. As far as I'm concerned, anything underneath has had enough time to at least heal over on the surface, and if it hasn't... oh well! I'll contend with that problem if it ever arises. I spend a good half an hour obsessively scrubbing at my skin until certain patches actual radiate a dull pain. Gods, and in how many ways and languages can we say 'fucked-up', boys and girls?
Toweling off my hair as I go, I silently pad back down the hallway, easing Aya's door back open. I guess it's my door now too, seeing as I sleep here on a permanent basis. He's sprawled out in bed, covers pushed down to his waist. And I'll bet he wonders why it seems so much warmer sleeping next to me. I at least understand that blankets equal warmth, even in my sleep.
I worm my way back under the covers, cocooning them around us as I go. His eyes flutter open, not on guard enough to be startled. He twists to look at the time, grunts once, and then pulls the top coverlet up over his head, intent on returning to sleepyland. I must be a bad influence on him. I've never seen Aya sleep past dawn. It's like a prerequisite for life, Aya has to be up with the sun, or the world will end. Fuck the rooster.
"You feeling okay?" I duck under the covers with him, cupping his sleep-flushed cheeks in my hands. It's surreal, just being able to touch him whenever I want. Almost as bizarre as Aya still being asleep at this hour. I trail fingertips down along his jaw; kiss the corner of his mouth. He mumbles drowsily, turning towards my caress.
He's not taking a hint and waking up. I nuzzle his nose with my own, press his bare palms to my chest. Time to wake Sleepy Beauty here up with style. His eyes open mere seconds after my lips first brush his, sliding my tongue along his lower lip, pressing forward into his mouth, the slick, delicious texture of his tongue against mine. It's enough to send shivers up your spine. It certainly does that to me, I'll tell you what.
"G'morning." I finally manage to croak, breath coming much too fast for the nonchalant attitude I was planning on going for. Not quite awake yet, he tangles his legs with mine, slowly, languorously rubbing his morning erection against mine. He pulls my face back down for another kiss, unhurried as the slow pleasure of his body rocking against mine.
There doesn't seem to be any cause to rush in the pale light of the morning. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, just us. I arch my back as he lightly runs nails down my sides. "Mmmm. Like that." Whispered words, instructions, admissions. He's not quite coherent enough to protest, and I fully plan to take advantage of this phase while it lasts.
It's time for the slow seduction he never got the benefit of. Soft kisses, nothing but the play of tongue and lip, the barest touch of my mouth to the hollow of his throat. I whisper fingertips across his skin, treating him like blown glass, scattering kisses along his shoulders as I slow the motions of my pelvis.
"Please." A low noise in the back of his throat as he twists under me, my mouth fastening onto one of his nipples. He kindles even more to the gentle swirl of my tongue, the nibbling of my teeth, our eyes closed tight, tasting the salt and heat of his skin. I smooth the back of my hands down along his body, trying to spare him even the faint roughness of the calluses on my fingers, my palms. He deserves this. Not the frenzy of yesterday, when all I could think about was trying to remove their taint from my body, trying to lose myself in his body.
Murmured words against perfect porcelain skin, the only color his pale, pale nipples and his flushed, parted lips. Beautiful, and I can't get enough of him, not in this lifetime. I tangle my fingers in fabric.
"Do you even have to wear these to bed?" I ask him, already loosening the drawstring pants, sliding them down and out of my way. Gods, still every bit as perfect. I return to his torso, intent on touching, tasting every inch of his skin, tongue tracing a slick line from hipbone to hipbone. He twists his fingers into my hair, trying to push me down further. I know what he wants. He can wait. I'm doing this properly this time around.
My knees nudge apart his legs even as I move down his body, feathering kisses anywhere within reach. Carefully running my fingers over the contours of his foot, I bend to take one of his toes into my mouth, rolling my tongue around it, moving to the next. He trembles, head thrown back, fists clenching covers.
"Tickles." He gasps out, not making any move to get away. It does tickle, I know that for a fact, but it also feels good, almost indescribable with its mixed intensities.
I move up to those fine boned ankles, kissing the smooth line of his calves, finally reaching his inhumanly silky-skinned thighs. My tongue laves the flawless plane before me as I move on to the juncture of his thighs, where I'm sure he'd much rather I be. I slide my palms along the velvet skin of his erection, marveling all the more that someone as outwardly rugged and invulnerable could wind up being so touchably soft, so desperately in need of human contact and affection beneath it all.
I lower myself onto my elbows, hovering just slightly above him, letting his member slide into the warmth of my mouth. It would be so easy to form so many different obsessions about him. Even in my mouth, he feels like silk, pure ambrosia against my tongue. Still going with the theme of this bout, I keep my strokes languid and relaxed. The door is locked and no sudden crisis is going to evolve. We have all the time in the world to ourselves.
Hot and desperate, he arches up into my mouth, doing his best to remove large handfuls of my hair as I do my best to make him come gasping my name. I hold his hips down, determined to draw this out as long as I possibly can. I don't know how many people he's been with before, but I'm going to leave a good impression on him this time no matter what he's been up against in the past. I didn't earn my reputation as a playboy by being a bad fuck, don't you know.
The claw of his blunt nails into my scalp is almost a pleasurable sensation, effectively adding to the heat between my own legs. I bring my hands into the mix, pinning him down with my elbows still. He doesn't stand a chance of holding out. When I finally move to the cadence his steadily flexing muscles have been demanding, it's only seconds before he tenses up, wire taut, flooding my mouth with liquid heat.
I brush the over-sensitized skin of his stomach as I move back up to his face, he shivers under my touch. Vivid indigo eyes blink open as I watch his face. Emotions crowd together in the depths of his eyes.
"What was that for?" He's flustered again.
"Because you're beautiful, and you deserve nothing but good things. Mostly just because I felt like it." I smile at him, feeling sickening sentimental and capricious. Someone just shoot me now before I start reciting crap poetry and declaring my undying devotion.
He glides a still unsteady hand down my stomach. "You didn't-" He bites his lower lip. He's cute when he's playing coy.
"It's not important." I glibly lie through my teeth. I'm going to be a good little Youji now. I'm going to leave it up to him, though if his decision is unfavorable I may need to run off for a few moments of private time, if you know what I mean.
His fingers tentatively wrap around my unfulfilled need. "Nnn. Ran, like that." I breathe against his mouth, more than ready to encourage him if that's what it takes to keep him going.
"Thought I told you not to call me Ran." He mumbles back, eyes downcast as he concentrates, realizing that I respond to the same things he does.
"Unless I'm fucking you." I finish his sentence. "And this is pretty damn-Mmm." I lose my train of thought as his hand speeds, tightening. "Is this how you do it?" My fingers spasmodically tighten on his shoulders as he slicks his tongue across an already gleaming lower lip. "Mmm. How much money would I pay to see you doing this to yourself." That idea in itself is pushing me as close to the edge of climax as his skilled hands are.
I stifle the urge to give into my dirty-talk fetish, keeping the images splintering through my mind to myself. He leaves off worrying his own bottom lip, transferring his attentions to mine, intent on drawing me down into the slick, hot delirium of his mouth. I finally give in, hips rocking in synchrony with his fevered ministrations. "Don't stop, Unn! Don't stop, please, Uhn gods, Raannn Nnn." I come, painting streaks across both our abdomens, heartbeat pounding in my ears, body shuddering with pleasure.
Our skin sticks together as I collapse partway on top of Aya, muffling my harsh breathing against his neck. Soothing hands rub slow circles on my equally sweat-slicked back, careful to avoid the newly revealed wounds, as I come down from the temporary high.
"You never stop talking, do you?" He murmurs in my ear, shifting my weight to the side a bit. I let him reposition me like a rag doll, still limp and unresisting.
"That was nothing." I laugh weakly against his damp, cool skin. "That was nothing at all. One of these day you'll wind up with a real earful." I let my face muscles go as lax as the rest of my body, just sleepy and content. My internal Magic Eight Ball tells me that all signs point towards a pleasant day.
He watches me out the corner of my eye, pretending he isn't. "Like what you see?" That quirky little grin of mine springs into place without my mind even willing it. I hope he likes what he sees; I'm more charm than actual substantial good looks. Most people don't realize that until I've thoroughly managed to brainwash them into worshipping the ground I walk on, and by then they don't care. Hehe. Riiiiiiight, go on talking Youji. We belive your bullshit, don't we?
After a few moments pass, after we have time to slow our hearts and breathing, he pushes me to the side, kicking covers left and right.
"I need a shower now." He frowns at me, not really meaning it. He runs a finger disdainfully through the come splattered across his stomach, looks at me. He picks up the towel that was left to dry across the back of his chair.
"I'm not invited then?" I pout, watching him. He considers wrapping the towel around his waist, realizes he'll get the towel dirty that way, digs up a pair of already soiled pants to pull on.
His eyes slide my way for a moment, bounce away, determined not to make eye contact. "Do whatever you wish." He intones, forcibly nonchalant. "You usually do just what you want no matter what anyone else may say." He picks up my towel and drops it on my legs followed by a pair of my boxers. I guess that means "Yes" in AyaSpeak.
I struggle into the boxers, legs still a tad shaky, pad down the hallway after him, towel draped over my arm. Ken and Omi are downstairs, voices bubbling up the stairs. I don't resent them their inane joy for once. Being endlessly happy isn't all it's cut up to be. I'd prefer sex and a shower with a beautiful person to endless glee any day. Aya catches me grinning at him and chooses to ignore me.
Steam swirls around the room, instantly infusing the air around me with extra warmth. Aya adjusts the temperature before pushing in the little button that switches the water from the faucet to the showerhead. I'd have figured he took cold showers. Something parsimonious and "energy saving" all at the same time. That provokes a mental shiver. The thought of purposefully immersing myself in cold water... not in this lifetime, thank you.
Aya steps under the stream first, unwilling to move very far after I climb in myself. We jostle for space under the blissfully heated water. Nothing better during the winter than a lovely scalding shower. When he manages to manipulate himself in front of me, hogging all of the spray, I attack him with the soap.
I'm not sure how we wind up lying down. All I know is one second we're mock-fighting over the soap, the next my knees are bruised and I've got Aya's full weight in my arms, the only thing that kept him from cracking his head on the porcelain.
I loosen my grip on him, setting him down into his unexpected sprawl on the bottom of the tub. He tilts his face up, eyelashes spiked, hair clinging to his cheeks. Gods, I could fall in love. Maybe I already am. How would I know?
Warm, wet arms link around my neck, pulling me down for a kiss.
----
"They're a globe spanning corporation with a division in every imaginable nation. Up until a few months ago, things were run by a man known as Reisho, Satoma." Omi looks up, expectantly. No one comments. "He's one of the men we killed on the job right before Youji was taken. The warehouse hit. We had two missions in a row involving Meleeke Inc. as the target. It seems like everyone wants a piece of the action these days. After Reisho's demise, his position was filled by their Chief of Security. He's been with Meleeke longer than most of the top ranking executives. The new head of Japanese divisions, the security guy is known simply as "Ko-ishi". Some sort of nick name."
"Ko-ishi. Stone. What a fitting name." I spit out with a flat laugh. "I know who he is." Aya looks over, startled by my reaction. I haven't told him about Stone-Face. How bizarre, that his name really should be so similar. I'm sure he'll go to his grave with my wire around his throat, still thinking about how wonderful an epithet he's picked out for himself. And I will kill him, no question about that.
The rest of Weiss watches me from around the kitchen table, waiting for me to elaborate. I gesture for Omi to continue. No comments from me right now.
"Most of what I read was nothing but internal politics. It seems Meleeke Inc. is run by two separate parties, balancing out the other's aims. Ko-ishi is head of the more forcefully minded party. He appears to be their driving force, and if we took him out, all the illegal trades they've been involved in that I've been reading about would come to a halt. They wouldn't have so much ill-gained information, and we probably won't be asked to tangle with them again. Meanwhile, Ko-ishi, who I'm assuming was responsible for the destruction of our home-" He stops again.
"I had basic building plans." Ken tries to fill the pained silence, every-ready to protect our golden boy. "I don't know how you managed to get hold of those Aya. I'd be willing to bet large sums of money that most of those didn't come from any public access records. They're complete though. I don't think we'll need anything more. Maybe just some work schedules and security system billings, so we'll know who to expect to be where at what time."
Calmly, Aya flips a sheaf of papers towards the center of the table. "Print outs of the past two weeks, and the next two upcoming weeks. They seem to follow a fairly regular pattern, no changing schedules." He looks almost smug. I don't blame him. In a few hours he managed to get sufficient information to pull off a smoothly run hit, and none of it involved incriminating hacking or dangerous spying. I hope.
"Ko-ishi has an office on the top floor. A different building than the one we infiltrated last time. They have several main offices for their many divisions. If we just-"
I tune him out, catching Omi's eyes. He nods. He'll fill me in later on the important details. He usually does. I go back to Aya watching. I could do this all day, quite honestly. He's frowning in concentration. It won't be long until he has a permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows, from scrunching them together like that.
"There's something else we need to take care of." Aya speaks up when Ken finally finishes. "There is going to be a very elaborate memorial service for us in two days."
Two pairs of shocked eyes stare incredulously at him. I laugh until I feel faint.
"Why is that funny?" Ken demands, visibly unsettled.
I stop laughing. "I don't know. It seemed funny at the time."
"That's one of those tell-tale signs that you may have borderline personality disorder." Ken frowns at me. "An inappropriate reaction to something, laughing at a sad situation, crying during a comedy themed movie." He sounds as if he'd quoting from something or another. I decide not to ask.
"Youji doesn't have a borderline personality disorder." Aya pins him with an almost frightening look. How sweet. He's defending my honor. I put an arm around his neck and bare my teeth at Ken.
"That's right Ken. I don't have a borderline personality disorder." The overly wide grimace turns into a smile. I can't help it. Ken's actually always cute when he's in "clueless" mode. I laugh. "I don't even know what a borderline personality is. Don't tell me." I hold my hand up to halt any repeated explanation. It would be most displeasing if he were right. If I am crazy, I'd prefer no revel in my own ignorance. You know what they say, about bliss and ignorance and all.
No one comments on the arm I leave slung comfortably around his neck. Not even Aya "don't call me Ran unless you're fucking me" Fujimiya. Name has a nice ring to it, I must admit.
"Speaking of Youji, it's your turn to dish." Omi points at me. The finger of doom. "You know Ko-ishi?"
"I'd be willing to bet large sums of money that I know who he is. We weren't ever exactly formally introduced." I stop speaking, trying to put out "don't want to talk about it" vibes.
"If I showed you a picture, could you identify him?" Aya starts flipping through papers unbidden.
I don't want to see him. Don't want to see that waxen face, those polished stones where his eyes should be. I don't want to look at his face until it's detached from his body, sliced from his neck, preferably by my hands. Then he's there, looking out of a black and white photocopy, face made less artificial by the high contrast settings of the copying machine.
My legs react for me, pushing up, away from the table, the chair behind me falling over with a crash. "That son of a fucking bitch!" I grit out, unable to look away. "Son of a mother-fucking bitch!" Still in control, my body backs away, almost tumbling over the chair, continuing until I'm in the doorway.
"Put it away." My throat aches from the unexpected harsh yell. "Put the fucking picture away!" My back hits a wall, the kitchen doorway next to me.
"Youji?" Concern from Omi. If he's so fucking concerned, why doesn't he put the goddamned picture away? I don't want him looking at me like that again. I'm going to kill him.
Ken starts around the table towards me, thinking to calm me down no doubt. I ignore him.
"Ken, stop." Aya, calm, cool. He halts the thoughts in my head, just with his voice, with two words not even directed at me. His hands intercept my vision, crumpling up the copied photograph, tossing it into the kitchen trashcan. I close my eyes, shaky breaths expelled from somewhere deep down in my chest.
A calloused, warm hand closes over my upper arm. Ken, no doubt. I jerk out of his grasp.
"Just leave me alone for a moment."
He steps back from what he sees in my expression, his own brown eyes wide and uncertain. I close my eyes again; cover my face. I'm not crazy. Even if Ken was just talking about that, even if I just fucking flipped out over a piece of paper. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. Everything is okay. It's gone now, and I'm not crazy.
Cold fingers now, on mine. His hands are always cold. I let him pull my hands away from my face. Icy fingers brush my cheek, a welcome touch for all that it makes me shiver.
"Would you two leave for a moment?" Quiet and controlled. You'd never know from the flat tone that anything beyond the norm was going on. They leave. I sag forward without a word, crumpling against his body. No words, that's what's best for him, and for once I won't argue.
"I'm sorry." I murmur against his neck.
"For what?" Tentative fingers stroke my hair, an uncharacteristic gesture.
I let a few more breaths shudder in and out of my body, reassuring myself of his presence. Time to make the effort and pull away. I lean back against the wall, unsure whether or not my feet will hold me up on their own. It's time to stop being weak. No one ever got somewhere by being pathetic. Bad things happen to good people. I'm not even a good person and bad things still happened to me. Time to just get over it. I'm tired of running to Aya every time something goes wrong, every time I start flipping out. I'm not fucking crazy. I'm not pathetic, useless. I wasn't before.
He waits while I sort my thoughts out, the silence between us as comfortable as it will probably ever get. "I'm not crazy." I finally announce, feeling that to be an important fact to establish.
"No," he agrees stoically.
"I depend on other people too much sometimes. I didn't used to do this as much before." Neither of us need to clarify which "before" I'm talking about. "But I'm not crazy. I just need a bit of time." Gods, but I'm bungling this. I don't even know what I want to say anymore. Aya and I can trade titles now, and I can be Mr. Articulate for the day.
"We're hitting Meeleke Inc. in two days." Aya tells me.
"In two days. Gods, this isn't much of a warning. I'm not still fully functional in a lot of ways. No time for me to heal up?" Now I'm confused. Not that this is a new sensation for me.
"We talked about that." Purple eyes flit around the room, examine his shoes, my shoes, the wall, anything but my face.
"And what did WE decide?" Dread tightens in my stomach. Gods, more conspiracies. This is just like last time. He wants me off the team. Useless. I am useless to him.
"You're not healthy enough to do anything strenuous yet. I don't know how steady you'd be around anyone you had grievances against. Your reaction just a few minutes ago clarifies things. I don't want you involved in anything for a while."
For a moment the old belligerent urges come back. I should argue with him, get into a physical fight with him, say horrible things to him, hate him. I close my eyes. I don't depend on anyone. I'm not crazy, and it's okay.
"I wish you trusted me enough to tell me at the same you told them." The words are as even as I can make them. "I wouldn't have wasted my time listening to you guys blabbing about details that don't concern me."
"You're still part of the team." Omi, from the doorway. I reach over and scruffle his hair, let the whole thing go. It's not worth it right now.
"I hope so." I reply as Ken peeps around Omi, two eavesdroppers not even bothering to look guilty.
"We thought you'd flip out again." Ken explains in that blatantly honest way of his. "This needs to be done soon. They'll be expecting us to either regroup and get ready to go at them much further into the future, or to be frightened off. The sooner we attack, the less they'll be expecting it." Tactical sense from Ken. He couldn't have made that up himself. Someone else must have explained it to him.
"It doesn't matter to me." I lift one shoulder, an idea already forming in my mind. Not an original idea, I rarely have truly original ideas, but a workable one. I smile, making it look more forced than it really is, manipulating them into sympathy and respect for me. 'Poor Youji, see how well he's taking it all.' I mentally mimic them in my mind, just for a brief flicker of amusement. I'm going with them, whether they know it or not, whether or not we leave at the same time. All that matters is getting them to be unwary with good behavior. With Youji behavior.
"Well, as of the fact that I won't really be needed any time in the future, how 'bout busting out the alcohol for Uncle Youji?" I flash them all my most winning smile, successfully recapturing the cocky old attitude.
Ken and Omi groan and flap their hands at me in mock disappointment. Aya watches me with barely masked suspicion.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Well, not that I'm one to toot my own horn, but I do dearly love this chapter. I'm not sure why it's boosted up so much in my esteem, it's certainly not one of the better written things I've got out there, but I do likes it all the same! Well, here we go, required e-mail plug:
WRITE ME E-MAILS 'N' STUFF!
darkhunter@ijustdontcare.com
or
akainobaka@mchsi.com
If you are mean and do not respond, I shall not update, poop heads! I am in the middle of moving to another state, and I require great incentive to do anything!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Intent on forcing my body back into it's old patterns, I somehow or another manage to stay awake until early evening, a major accomplishment for me at this point. It takes a massive effort, but the three of them eventually manage to chase me up to bed. Well, drag is more like it, but my dignity would rather not talk about that right now, thank you very much.
Things dissolve from that point on. Everytime I close my eyes, my surroundings fade into one horrendous nightmare after another. I haven't even thought up some of these possible deaths yet, and still they keep parading behind my eyes. Most of them involve water, some of them involve Aya, laughing and smiling. Hours later, I wouldn't be surprised if things started popping out of the walls.
It's time to give up, I decide, scrubbing at my sandpaper eyes. Gods, do you ever just need a hug sometimes? I sure do. Gods, do you ever feel like REALLY pathetic sometimes? Ditto the first answer.
He's not downstairs. He's not home. No one is. There's no note. It's easy after that, to work myself up into a frenzy, searching the house for any shadowy corner I may have missed, wondering if the prickling at the back of my neck isn't more than my imagination. I think I kind of panic for a while, because the next thing I know I'm huddled up in the corner of Aya's room, panting for breath, and my hands are bleeding. I don't know why. I close my eyes, and this time I do doze off.
"Youji?" The words carry a tinge of fear. I open my eyes, sleep bleared. Gleaming red with a corona of light gleaming off the top of his head like a halo. An angel? Am I finally going to get my ass kicked for being such a huge atheist?
The angel crouches over me, blocking out the light, black clad and unsmiling.
"Youji. What happened to your hands?" His eyebrows draw together.
"Mm. It's just you, Aya." I mumble sleepily, frowning, not quite awake yet. Why is he asking about my hands? They sort of throb; pulsing like the rush in my ears. I look down. A thin layer of crackled, drying blood covers the battered appendages, more is smeared on my shirt, my skin. Flickers of dreams return, tortured faces.
"No!" I rear up; my head connects with the windowsill. I sink back down, hands rubbing the top of my head. Rubbing blood into my hair. "Gods no. I didn't kill anyone!" I babble desperately, wanting to grab his coat, touch his face; make sure he's real, not just another nightmare taunting me. I can't though. I'm the murderer again, blood up to the elbows.
"It's okay." He takes my hands in his, making me stand. I look around, wondering where the body is, flashes of nightmares and dreams still whirling in my mind. "It's all okay." He repeats, leading me over to the mattress on his floor, making me sit down. I catch a glimpse of brown and blue eyes, watching me from the doorway. I wonder how many times they'll see this scene play out before we move on to a new home where they can conveniently lock me up in a padded room for the evenings. Aya motions them away. No words, no sounds.
He stands up again, leaves the room. Leaving me to drown. There's always blood on my hands. Every time I turn around. I don't mind. But I don't remember this time. I should remember. That's what scares me.
Aya returns. I didn't think he would. He has a bowl with him, steam rising from the top, a washcloth in his other hand. How cute; how symbolic. I mistook him for an angel, and now he's washing away my sin. I laugh. He smoothes the hair away from my face, brushing a kiss across my forehead. Of course. Everyone loves the beautiful madman. Even if he is me.
"You smashed the mirror in the bathroom." He tells me, expressionlessly. "With your hands."
I look at them again, turn my palm upwards and look at my knees, my bare feet. All cut, bleeding. "I didn't kill anyone. I'm not a murderer today." I shake my head. Nightmares can mimic reality all to well sometimes. I am a madman.
I watch blankly as Aya carefully picks slivers of glass out of my flesh, wetting the washcloth and wiping away the blood. "I didn't kill anyone." I announce again, unaccountably relieved. I didn't kill anyone. It's only my blood on my hands, not Aya's blood, like in my dream, not some poor schmuck's blood. Only Youji's blood.
He takes care of my bare feet next. I look over at the doorway, seeing the smudged footprints where I'd left tracks in my own blood. He doesn't even comment when he has to push my loose pant legs up above my knees to avoid ripping them up more, sponging off more crusted and drying blood.
He kneels next to me, solemn eyes fixed on my face. He looks almost child-like in his silent intensity for a moment. Innocent and pure as a chiseled figurine. Something available in any local Hallmark store.
"We got back and things were knocked around, tipped over. There was broken glass in the hallway, bloody footprints, a dent in the wall." He speaks so softly I can barely make out the words. "I thought someone had shown up, taken you away again. I thought maybe I'd come up here, see your blood all over my walls, maybe even your body, bleeding, dead in a corner. And then when I finally do make it up all those stairs, there you are. And you were covered with blood. I was so sure you were dead."
He doesn't even blink. Just those tired, wide eyes studying my face. I let out a pent up breath, finally acknowledging the fear I'd heard hiding under his level tone, echoing my earlier panic upon finding the house silent and barren.
"It's okay." I breathe, repeating his words back at him, wrapping my arms around him, feeling him do the same. It's scary, to know what he's thinking. To lose the place that's been your home for so long, to lose someone you care for, get them back again, only to come home and find that fate may have again stripped you of one more thing. Something else life chooses to take from you. Like the existence you knew before. Like everything that matters to you.
"Everything is fine. All okay." I whisper into his hair. I'm not sure if the words are more for me or for him. I rest my cheek on his shoulder, finally getting that long awaited hug.
"What happened?" Aya finally asks, forcibly distancing himself, releasing the clenched handfuls of my shirt. He absently readjusts the folds in the fabric, trying to erase the crumple marks. If he can't be twitching at his own clothes, apparently he feels no problems about moving onto mine. It's his shirt I'm wearing anyway.
"I'm not sure." I stare fixedly at the ground, trying to recall anything from after my first attempts at sleep. "I woke up. Had a bunch of dreams. Nightmares. I went downstairs and none of you were there. I thought you'd all run out on me in the night or something." I rub at the back of my neck. "It seemed like a logical assumption at the time. I don't remember much after that." I look at my knuckles. Crazy, crazy crazy; I chant to myself in my mind.
I look over again. He's gone all inverted, eyes down, hands tucked under his arms, inside his still present coat for warmth. His hands are always so damned cold. I can't say the same about the rest of him, but his hands... I reach out again, moving closer, bringing them up to rest against my neck, against my already warm skin. He sighs through barely parted lips, curling his fingers inward to thaw out the backs of his hands.
"Are you guys okay?" Omi somehow or another has managed to silently approach us from the side.
Aya's eyes flit over to Omi, to his hands, up to my face. I stay focused on his expression, my own hands rising to cover his. Omi's not brain dead. He knows what's going on. I could care less what he thinks when he sees us right now. Aya's opinion is the only one that matters.
"Everything is fine." I finally look away from Aya, studying Omi's slumping posture, the worried blue eyes. I gently curl Aya's hands shut in my grip, bringing them to rest on his lap. Pushing myself to my feet, I wonder again if this rustiness is what it feels like to be unbearably old.
Omi leans against me as I hug him, bones fragile beneath golden skin. His head barely comes up to my shoulder.
"Are you going to be okay?" He mumbles into my chest, eyes tightly closed. I wonder if I should ask him the same thing. He's older, thinner, more worn out than he used to be. We all are. I don't remember him being so small. He finally backs away, scrubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry." He whispers, hurrying back out, most likely to find Ken.
Aya stands behind me. "He's too young for all of this." I try to explain to him.
"He's been doing this for many more years than either you or I have. He didn't have a childhood. He grew up an assassin."
There's Aya reasoning for you. I close my eyes; the world seems to sway around me. "I'm still tired." I stumble back to the mattress, sitting on Aya's side of the bed, unable to go any further.
He sits next to me again, arm brushing mine. The desperation is still there. I could have been gone, could have been dead to him all over again. He rests against my side; his eyes oddly blank again. Too many strung out emotions all in one day for him, I guess. I brush wayward bangs away from his forehead again.
"Beautiful."
He refuses to meet my gaze, unable to acknowledge my simple statement. "No." He finally replies. "Not beautiful in the least. I am death, I am dead."
"No, you're not, Aya. You're not dead, and neither am I. And yes, you ARE beautiful. Even if you won't admit it." I smile against his shoulder before exhaustedly dragging myself across the bed to my half. Just looking at those inviting sheets and the thick layer of blankets is making me sleepy, much nicer than dozing on a pile of broken glass.
I curl up on my side, back to him. He's not one for social scenes in bed, and quite frankly, for once I'm only interested in the restive angle myself. I listen to him shucking off his coat and wandering about, setting things upright and turning off the light. A warm body presses up against my back, heat, smooth arms wrapping around me. I lean back.
One of his icy hands brushes my arm. "Gods!" I hiss between my teeth. "You're going to kill me with those ice blocks one of these days." I slip his hands up under my shirt, only jerking slightly as I tuck his painfully cold fingers up against my stomach. "I'm surprised you haven't lost your fingers to frostbite merely by sitting around the house. You should never go outside again during the winter." I'm not joking either.
He nuzzles the back of my neck. "Glad you're okay." He finally admits, the words I already knew but hadn't heard. He doesn't say anything else after that.
Tucking his fingers more securely against my warm sides, I wriggle back into his embrace, making myself comfortable. "Goodnight, Ran." I deliberately use his real name, tightening my grip on his hands.
"Tomorrow the real war starts." The words sound more like a promise of vengeance than a reassuring bedtime well wishing. How like him. How absolutely like him. A single train of thought running at all times, a fiercely protective nature if you're in on his good side, the most adorable smile you could ever hope to see. Beautiful.
The rest of the night passes as a hazy transfer from waking to sleep at random intervals. Aya's always awake when I turn to check, eyes fixed on some distant point in the darkness until he notices my movements. I haven't felt this safe at night for years. Not since her, well, since she... I block out the thoughts. That's all in the past. I don't dwell on the past; I forge ahead towards the future, useless as that may be.
Someone was nice enough to clean up the shattered mirror while I slept. I'm glad, because stumbling into the darkened bathroom first thing in the morning is NOT a nice time to suddenly find a shard of glass poking out of your heel. Especially when all you want is a quick shower and even more importantly a chance to relive your bladder. Oops. In this land of unreality, characters aren't supposed to possess bodily functions. I'll have to remind myself of that later.
I finally get a chance to scrape those old, somewhat shabby bandages off of my skin. As far as I'm concerned, anything underneath has had enough time to at least heal over on the surface, and if it hasn't... oh well! I'll contend with that problem if it ever arises. I spend a good half an hour obsessively scrubbing at my skin until certain patches actual radiate a dull pain. Gods, and in how many ways and languages can we say 'fucked-up', boys and girls?
Toweling off my hair as I go, I silently pad back down the hallway, easing Aya's door back open. I guess it's my door now too, seeing as I sleep here on a permanent basis. He's sprawled out in bed, covers pushed down to his waist. And I'll bet he wonders why it seems so much warmer sleeping next to me. I at least understand that blankets equal warmth, even in my sleep.
I worm my way back under the covers, cocooning them around us as I go. His eyes flutter open, not on guard enough to be startled. He twists to look at the time, grunts once, and then pulls the top coverlet up over his head, intent on returning to sleepyland. I must be a bad influence on him. I've never seen Aya sleep past dawn. It's like a prerequisite for life, Aya has to be up with the sun, or the world will end. Fuck the rooster.
"You feeling okay?" I duck under the covers with him, cupping his sleep-flushed cheeks in my hands. It's surreal, just being able to touch him whenever I want. Almost as bizarre as Aya still being asleep at this hour. I trail fingertips down along his jaw; kiss the corner of his mouth. He mumbles drowsily, turning towards my caress.
He's not taking a hint and waking up. I nuzzle his nose with my own, press his bare palms to my chest. Time to wake Sleepy Beauty here up with style. His eyes open mere seconds after my lips first brush his, sliding my tongue along his lower lip, pressing forward into his mouth, the slick, delicious texture of his tongue against mine. It's enough to send shivers up your spine. It certainly does that to me, I'll tell you what.
"G'morning." I finally manage to croak, breath coming much too fast for the nonchalant attitude I was planning on going for. Not quite awake yet, he tangles his legs with mine, slowly, languorously rubbing his morning erection against mine. He pulls my face back down for another kiss, unhurried as the slow pleasure of his body rocking against mine.
There doesn't seem to be any cause to rush in the pale light of the morning. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, just us. I arch my back as he lightly runs nails down my sides. "Mmmm. Like that." Whispered words, instructions, admissions. He's not quite coherent enough to protest, and I fully plan to take advantage of this phase while it lasts.
It's time for the slow seduction he never got the benefit of. Soft kisses, nothing but the play of tongue and lip, the barest touch of my mouth to the hollow of his throat. I whisper fingertips across his skin, treating him like blown glass, scattering kisses along his shoulders as I slow the motions of my pelvis.
"Please." A low noise in the back of his throat as he twists under me, my mouth fastening onto one of his nipples. He kindles even more to the gentle swirl of my tongue, the nibbling of my teeth, our eyes closed tight, tasting the salt and heat of his skin. I smooth the back of my hands down along his body, trying to spare him even the faint roughness of the calluses on my fingers, my palms. He deserves this. Not the frenzy of yesterday, when all I could think about was trying to remove their taint from my body, trying to lose myself in his body.
Murmured words against perfect porcelain skin, the only color his pale, pale nipples and his flushed, parted lips. Beautiful, and I can't get enough of him, not in this lifetime. I tangle my fingers in fabric.
"Do you even have to wear these to bed?" I ask him, already loosening the drawstring pants, sliding them down and out of my way. Gods, still every bit as perfect. I return to his torso, intent on touching, tasting every inch of his skin, tongue tracing a slick line from hipbone to hipbone. He twists his fingers into my hair, trying to push me down further. I know what he wants. He can wait. I'm doing this properly this time around.
My knees nudge apart his legs even as I move down his body, feathering kisses anywhere within reach. Carefully running my fingers over the contours of his foot, I bend to take one of his toes into my mouth, rolling my tongue around it, moving to the next. He trembles, head thrown back, fists clenching covers.
"Tickles." He gasps out, not making any move to get away. It does tickle, I know that for a fact, but it also feels good, almost indescribable with its mixed intensities.
I move up to those fine boned ankles, kissing the smooth line of his calves, finally reaching his inhumanly silky-skinned thighs. My tongue laves the flawless plane before me as I move on to the juncture of his thighs, where I'm sure he'd much rather I be. I slide my palms along the velvet skin of his erection, marveling all the more that someone as outwardly rugged and invulnerable could wind up being so touchably soft, so desperately in need of human contact and affection beneath it all.
I lower myself onto my elbows, hovering just slightly above him, letting his member slide into the warmth of my mouth. It would be so easy to form so many different obsessions about him. Even in my mouth, he feels like silk, pure ambrosia against my tongue. Still going with the theme of this bout, I keep my strokes languid and relaxed. The door is locked and no sudden crisis is going to evolve. We have all the time in the world to ourselves.
Hot and desperate, he arches up into my mouth, doing his best to remove large handfuls of my hair as I do my best to make him come gasping my name. I hold his hips down, determined to draw this out as long as I possibly can. I don't know how many people he's been with before, but I'm going to leave a good impression on him this time no matter what he's been up against in the past. I didn't earn my reputation as a playboy by being a bad fuck, don't you know.
The claw of his blunt nails into my scalp is almost a pleasurable sensation, effectively adding to the heat between my own legs. I bring my hands into the mix, pinning him down with my elbows still. He doesn't stand a chance of holding out. When I finally move to the cadence his steadily flexing muscles have been demanding, it's only seconds before he tenses up, wire taut, flooding my mouth with liquid heat.
I brush the over-sensitized skin of his stomach as I move back up to his face, he shivers under my touch. Vivid indigo eyes blink open as I watch his face. Emotions crowd together in the depths of his eyes.
"What was that for?" He's flustered again.
"Because you're beautiful, and you deserve nothing but good things. Mostly just because I felt like it." I smile at him, feeling sickening sentimental and capricious. Someone just shoot me now before I start reciting crap poetry and declaring my undying devotion.
He glides a still unsteady hand down my stomach. "You didn't-" He bites his lower lip. He's cute when he's playing coy.
"It's not important." I glibly lie through my teeth. I'm going to be a good little Youji now. I'm going to leave it up to him, though if his decision is unfavorable I may need to run off for a few moments of private time, if you know what I mean.
His fingers tentatively wrap around my unfulfilled need. "Nnn. Ran, like that." I breathe against his mouth, more than ready to encourage him if that's what it takes to keep him going.
"Thought I told you not to call me Ran." He mumbles back, eyes downcast as he concentrates, realizing that I respond to the same things he does.
"Unless I'm fucking you." I finish his sentence. "And this is pretty damn-Mmm." I lose my train of thought as his hand speeds, tightening. "Is this how you do it?" My fingers spasmodically tighten on his shoulders as he slicks his tongue across an already gleaming lower lip. "Mmm. How much money would I pay to see you doing this to yourself." That idea in itself is pushing me as close to the edge of climax as his skilled hands are.
I stifle the urge to give into my dirty-talk fetish, keeping the images splintering through my mind to myself. He leaves off worrying his own bottom lip, transferring his attentions to mine, intent on drawing me down into the slick, hot delirium of his mouth. I finally give in, hips rocking in synchrony with his fevered ministrations. "Don't stop, Unn! Don't stop, please, Uhn gods, Raannn Nnn." I come, painting streaks across both our abdomens, heartbeat pounding in my ears, body shuddering with pleasure.
Our skin sticks together as I collapse partway on top of Aya, muffling my harsh breathing against his neck. Soothing hands rub slow circles on my equally sweat-slicked back, careful to avoid the newly revealed wounds, as I come down from the temporary high.
"You never stop talking, do you?" He murmurs in my ear, shifting my weight to the side a bit. I let him reposition me like a rag doll, still limp and unresisting.
"That was nothing." I laugh weakly against his damp, cool skin. "That was nothing at all. One of these day you'll wind up with a real earful." I let my face muscles go as lax as the rest of my body, just sleepy and content. My internal Magic Eight Ball tells me that all signs point towards a pleasant day.
He watches me out the corner of my eye, pretending he isn't. "Like what you see?" That quirky little grin of mine springs into place without my mind even willing it. I hope he likes what he sees; I'm more charm than actual substantial good looks. Most people don't realize that until I've thoroughly managed to brainwash them into worshipping the ground I walk on, and by then they don't care. Hehe. Riiiiiiight, go on talking Youji. We belive your bullshit, don't we?
After a few moments pass, after we have time to slow our hearts and breathing, he pushes me to the side, kicking covers left and right.
"I need a shower now." He frowns at me, not really meaning it. He runs a finger disdainfully through the come splattered across his stomach, looks at me. He picks up the towel that was left to dry across the back of his chair.
"I'm not invited then?" I pout, watching him. He considers wrapping the towel around his waist, realizes he'll get the towel dirty that way, digs up a pair of already soiled pants to pull on.
His eyes slide my way for a moment, bounce away, determined not to make eye contact. "Do whatever you wish." He intones, forcibly nonchalant. "You usually do just what you want no matter what anyone else may say." He picks up my towel and drops it on my legs followed by a pair of my boxers. I guess that means "Yes" in AyaSpeak.
I struggle into the boxers, legs still a tad shaky, pad down the hallway after him, towel draped over my arm. Ken and Omi are downstairs, voices bubbling up the stairs. I don't resent them their inane joy for once. Being endlessly happy isn't all it's cut up to be. I'd prefer sex and a shower with a beautiful person to endless glee any day. Aya catches me grinning at him and chooses to ignore me.
Steam swirls around the room, instantly infusing the air around me with extra warmth. Aya adjusts the temperature before pushing in the little button that switches the water from the faucet to the showerhead. I'd have figured he took cold showers. Something parsimonious and "energy saving" all at the same time. That provokes a mental shiver. The thought of purposefully immersing myself in cold water... not in this lifetime, thank you.
Aya steps under the stream first, unwilling to move very far after I climb in myself. We jostle for space under the blissfully heated water. Nothing better during the winter than a lovely scalding shower. When he manages to manipulate himself in front of me, hogging all of the spray, I attack him with the soap.
I'm not sure how we wind up lying down. All I know is one second we're mock-fighting over the soap, the next my knees are bruised and I've got Aya's full weight in my arms, the only thing that kept him from cracking his head on the porcelain.
I loosen my grip on him, setting him down into his unexpected sprawl on the bottom of the tub. He tilts his face up, eyelashes spiked, hair clinging to his cheeks. Gods, I could fall in love. Maybe I already am. How would I know?
Warm, wet arms link around my neck, pulling me down for a kiss.
----
"They're a globe spanning corporation with a division in every imaginable nation. Up until a few months ago, things were run by a man known as Reisho, Satoma." Omi looks up, expectantly. No one comments. "He's one of the men we killed on the job right before Youji was taken. The warehouse hit. We had two missions in a row involving Meleeke Inc. as the target. It seems like everyone wants a piece of the action these days. After Reisho's demise, his position was filled by their Chief of Security. He's been with Meleeke longer than most of the top ranking executives. The new head of Japanese divisions, the security guy is known simply as "Ko-ishi". Some sort of nick name."
"Ko-ishi. Stone. What a fitting name." I spit out with a flat laugh. "I know who he is." Aya looks over, startled by my reaction. I haven't told him about Stone-Face. How bizarre, that his name really should be so similar. I'm sure he'll go to his grave with my wire around his throat, still thinking about how wonderful an epithet he's picked out for himself. And I will kill him, no question about that.
The rest of Weiss watches me from around the kitchen table, waiting for me to elaborate. I gesture for Omi to continue. No comments from me right now.
"Most of what I read was nothing but internal politics. It seems Meleeke Inc. is run by two separate parties, balancing out the other's aims. Ko-ishi is head of the more forcefully minded party. He appears to be their driving force, and if we took him out, all the illegal trades they've been involved in that I've been reading about would come to a halt. They wouldn't have so much ill-gained information, and we probably won't be asked to tangle with them again. Meanwhile, Ko-ishi, who I'm assuming was responsible for the destruction of our home-" He stops again.
"I had basic building plans." Ken tries to fill the pained silence, every-ready to protect our golden boy. "I don't know how you managed to get hold of those Aya. I'd be willing to bet large sums of money that most of those didn't come from any public access records. They're complete though. I don't think we'll need anything more. Maybe just some work schedules and security system billings, so we'll know who to expect to be where at what time."
Calmly, Aya flips a sheaf of papers towards the center of the table. "Print outs of the past two weeks, and the next two upcoming weeks. They seem to follow a fairly regular pattern, no changing schedules." He looks almost smug. I don't blame him. In a few hours he managed to get sufficient information to pull off a smoothly run hit, and none of it involved incriminating hacking or dangerous spying. I hope.
"Ko-ishi has an office on the top floor. A different building than the one we infiltrated last time. They have several main offices for their many divisions. If we just-"
I tune him out, catching Omi's eyes. He nods. He'll fill me in later on the important details. He usually does. I go back to Aya watching. I could do this all day, quite honestly. He's frowning in concentration. It won't be long until he has a permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows, from scrunching them together like that.
"There's something else we need to take care of." Aya speaks up when Ken finally finishes. "There is going to be a very elaborate memorial service for us in two days."
Two pairs of shocked eyes stare incredulously at him. I laugh until I feel faint.
"Why is that funny?" Ken demands, visibly unsettled.
I stop laughing. "I don't know. It seemed funny at the time."
"That's one of those tell-tale signs that you may have borderline personality disorder." Ken frowns at me. "An inappropriate reaction to something, laughing at a sad situation, crying during a comedy themed movie." He sounds as if he'd quoting from something or another. I decide not to ask.
"Youji doesn't have a borderline personality disorder." Aya pins him with an almost frightening look. How sweet. He's defending my honor. I put an arm around his neck and bare my teeth at Ken.
"That's right Ken. I don't have a borderline personality disorder." The overly wide grimace turns into a smile. I can't help it. Ken's actually always cute when he's in "clueless" mode. I laugh. "I don't even know what a borderline personality is. Don't tell me." I hold my hand up to halt any repeated explanation. It would be most displeasing if he were right. If I am crazy, I'd prefer no revel in my own ignorance. You know what they say, about bliss and ignorance and all.
No one comments on the arm I leave slung comfortably around his neck. Not even Aya "don't call me Ran unless you're fucking me" Fujimiya. Name has a nice ring to it, I must admit.
"Speaking of Youji, it's your turn to dish." Omi points at me. The finger of doom. "You know Ko-ishi?"
"I'd be willing to bet large sums of money that I know who he is. We weren't ever exactly formally introduced." I stop speaking, trying to put out "don't want to talk about it" vibes.
"If I showed you a picture, could you identify him?" Aya starts flipping through papers unbidden.
I don't want to see him. Don't want to see that waxen face, those polished stones where his eyes should be. I don't want to look at his face until it's detached from his body, sliced from his neck, preferably by my hands. Then he's there, looking out of a black and white photocopy, face made less artificial by the high contrast settings of the copying machine.
My legs react for me, pushing up, away from the table, the chair behind me falling over with a crash. "That son of a fucking bitch!" I grit out, unable to look away. "Son of a mother-fucking bitch!" Still in control, my body backs away, almost tumbling over the chair, continuing until I'm in the doorway.
"Put it away." My throat aches from the unexpected harsh yell. "Put the fucking picture away!" My back hits a wall, the kitchen doorway next to me.
"Youji?" Concern from Omi. If he's so fucking concerned, why doesn't he put the goddamned picture away? I don't want him looking at me like that again. I'm going to kill him.
Ken starts around the table towards me, thinking to calm me down no doubt. I ignore him.
"Ken, stop." Aya, calm, cool. He halts the thoughts in my head, just with his voice, with two words not even directed at me. His hands intercept my vision, crumpling up the copied photograph, tossing it into the kitchen trashcan. I close my eyes, shaky breaths expelled from somewhere deep down in my chest.
A calloused, warm hand closes over my upper arm. Ken, no doubt. I jerk out of his grasp.
"Just leave me alone for a moment."
He steps back from what he sees in my expression, his own brown eyes wide and uncertain. I close my eyes again; cover my face. I'm not crazy. Even if Ken was just talking about that, even if I just fucking flipped out over a piece of paper. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. Everything is okay. It's gone now, and I'm not crazy.
Cold fingers now, on mine. His hands are always cold. I let him pull my hands away from my face. Icy fingers brush my cheek, a welcome touch for all that it makes me shiver.
"Would you two leave for a moment?" Quiet and controlled. You'd never know from the flat tone that anything beyond the norm was going on. They leave. I sag forward without a word, crumpling against his body. No words, that's what's best for him, and for once I won't argue.
"I'm sorry." I murmur against his neck.
"For what?" Tentative fingers stroke my hair, an uncharacteristic gesture.
I let a few more breaths shudder in and out of my body, reassuring myself of his presence. Time to make the effort and pull away. I lean back against the wall, unsure whether or not my feet will hold me up on their own. It's time to stop being weak. No one ever got somewhere by being pathetic. Bad things happen to good people. I'm not even a good person and bad things still happened to me. Time to just get over it. I'm tired of running to Aya every time something goes wrong, every time I start flipping out. I'm not fucking crazy. I'm not pathetic, useless. I wasn't before.
He waits while I sort my thoughts out, the silence between us as comfortable as it will probably ever get. "I'm not crazy." I finally announce, feeling that to be an important fact to establish.
"No," he agrees stoically.
"I depend on other people too much sometimes. I didn't used to do this as much before." Neither of us need to clarify which "before" I'm talking about. "But I'm not crazy. I just need a bit of time." Gods, but I'm bungling this. I don't even know what I want to say anymore. Aya and I can trade titles now, and I can be Mr. Articulate for the day.
"We're hitting Meeleke Inc. in two days." Aya tells me.
"In two days. Gods, this isn't much of a warning. I'm not still fully functional in a lot of ways. No time for me to heal up?" Now I'm confused. Not that this is a new sensation for me.
"We talked about that." Purple eyes flit around the room, examine his shoes, my shoes, the wall, anything but my face.
"And what did WE decide?" Dread tightens in my stomach. Gods, more conspiracies. This is just like last time. He wants me off the team. Useless. I am useless to him.
"You're not healthy enough to do anything strenuous yet. I don't know how steady you'd be around anyone you had grievances against. Your reaction just a few minutes ago clarifies things. I don't want you involved in anything for a while."
For a moment the old belligerent urges come back. I should argue with him, get into a physical fight with him, say horrible things to him, hate him. I close my eyes. I don't depend on anyone. I'm not crazy, and it's okay.
"I wish you trusted me enough to tell me at the same you told them." The words are as even as I can make them. "I wouldn't have wasted my time listening to you guys blabbing about details that don't concern me."
"You're still part of the team." Omi, from the doorway. I reach over and scruffle his hair, let the whole thing go. It's not worth it right now.
"I hope so." I reply as Ken peeps around Omi, two eavesdroppers not even bothering to look guilty.
"We thought you'd flip out again." Ken explains in that blatantly honest way of his. "This needs to be done soon. They'll be expecting us to either regroup and get ready to go at them much further into the future, or to be frightened off. The sooner we attack, the less they'll be expecting it." Tactical sense from Ken. He couldn't have made that up himself. Someone else must have explained it to him.
"It doesn't matter to me." I lift one shoulder, an idea already forming in my mind. Not an original idea, I rarely have truly original ideas, but a workable one. I smile, making it look more forced than it really is, manipulating them into sympathy and respect for me. 'Poor Youji, see how well he's taking it all.' I mentally mimic them in my mind, just for a brief flicker of amusement. I'm going with them, whether they know it or not, whether or not we leave at the same time. All that matters is getting them to be unwary with good behavior. With Youji behavior.
"Well, as of the fact that I won't really be needed any time in the future, how 'bout busting out the alcohol for Uncle Youji?" I flash them all my most winning smile, successfully recapturing the cocky old attitude.
Ken and Omi groan and flap their hands at me in mock disappointment. Aya watches me with barely masked suspicion.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Well, not that I'm one to toot my own horn, but I do dearly love this chapter. I'm not sure why it's boosted up so much in my esteem, it's certainly not one of the better written things I've got out there, but I do likes it all the same! Well, here we go, required e-mail plug:
WRITE ME E-MAILS 'N' STUFF!
darkhunter@ijustdontcare.com
or
akainobaka@mchsi.com
If you are mean and do not respond, I shall not update, poop heads! I am in the middle of moving to another state, and I require great incentive to do anything!
