Part III

After hanging up his apron, Youji went up to his room, flopped onto the couch, and wondered what there was to do. When was the last time he went bar hopping? He just felt no interest for it now. The change had been so gradual: after that encounter with Schwarz last year, he took months to recover, and even after that, his teammates noted his whereabouts protectively. It was only recently that it struck him how his former pursuits no longer interested him. Even the girls in the flower shop seemed to have noticed the change in him, although he still teased them—when he remembered to, anyway.

"Oi, Youji?" Someone knocked on the door.

"Come in. Door's not locked." He looked up to see Ken poke his head in, a soccer ball under his arm.

"The neighbourhood kids are having a match later. Do you want to come along to watch?"

He actually considered it—something that the playboy, now fading away, would surely have scoffed at. "No. Thanks anyway." He had little interest in the game.

The younger man took that good-naturedly. "Okay then. See you later."

"Bye—and good luck for the game."

After the soccer lover had left, he settled back onto the couch again, but the late afternoon sun had moved to his face, and he had to choose between putting on shades, drawing the curtains, or finding another position to laze in. As he sat up, a gentle wind stirred the curtains, reminding him that it was a lovely day out there.

"Going out, Youji-kun?" Omi called as he strolled downstairs. The blond boy was watering the flowers, while Aya did bookkeeping behind the counter, taking advantage of the momentary lull in business.

"For a walk. I won't be long."

They spared him the cautionary 'Take care' or 'Be careful', for which he was grateful, as he walked out into the sunlight.

He had not done this for a long time, he noted, turning down into a quieter street. Assassinations, bars, women... for all too long he had led the life of a night creature. Youji turned his face towards the sun's gentle rays and sighed in contentment as it bathed him in soft warmth. It had been so long that he forgot that he missed this.

"I find that hard to believe; you looked pretty tanned—used to, anyway." Schuldig remarked casually from the cool dark shade of a roadside tree. "And after hell knows how many months you've been cooped up indoors, Abyssinian is still paler than you are."

"It appears to be a common trait in redheads," he replied carefully. What was Schuldig doing here?


~~~

"I suppose you won't accept a 'just passing by'." His reply, though seemingly casual, was anything but that. He had long admitted that he was nothing if not an actor in real life.

What was he doing here? Good question, that, and one to which he had no answer.

He was conscious of the wary gaze from the Weiß assassin, although he detected no downright hostility. And that, Schuldig decided, would do for now.

"You read my mind?" The blond young man asked abruptly.

Not bloody likely. He was hard put to figure out how he himself was feeling right now—the last thing he needed was further confusion from another's thoughts. But then again, what was the point in denying it? Few ever believed it—he had made too fine an art of interpreting body language. "So what if I was?"

Youji shrugged. "Just asking."

"And you aren't following that up with a demand for me to stay out of your mind?" He leaned back against the tree trunk, his arms crossed.

"Would you have listened?"

He laughed dryly. "Unlikely. Where are you going?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere. I don't know."

"Mind if I join you?"


~~~

In the common-looking apartment that served as Schwarz's current abode, Crawford was putting away the last of his guns. He kept them fully loaded at all times, but he still checked them regularly. A self-acknowledged creature of routine, he had found that useful habits could save a man's life. Given the choice, he would leave nothing to chance. Control freak, Schuldig had labelled it.

At the thought of the German mindreader, Crawford paused momentarily. Was that a vision? No, nothing so complete or clear. It was just a vague feeling, gone almost before it was there, and he could not even be sure what feeling it was.

Crawford suppressed the urge to sigh—sure, there was no one to see him here, but cultivating the habit helped towards the omnipotent image he tried to present—and finished storing his firearms away. Sometimes he really hated his power. Telekinesis, or even mindreading, maybe, but precognition! The future was always vague, full of possibilities and apt to change at any moment in favour of any outcome due to any change, however minute, in any factor, from any number of random causes. He would much prefer something that was well-defined, not seeing glimpses of the possible future.

Then again, none of the precogs he encountered had ever really seemed to prefer their power to all other abilities had they a choice. Crawford smiled thinly at that thought. Precogs tended to be people whose minds were inherently organised enough to make some sense of what they perceive—and most of them tended to be control freaks, too.

But no power should ever be wasted in Crawford's dictionary, and so he had trained it, just as he trained his aim for firearms, his prowess in hand-to-hand combat, and everything else that would shift the odds in his favour. He always trained alone, too—while he usually left fighting to the other Schwarz members, direct confrontation was always a possibility, and if it came down to that, the less the opponent knew about him, the better. Underestimation could kill, and so could its opposite.

Blood. Knife. White hair.

The images flared up like a crazy kaleidoscope before they were whisked away into nothingness once more, leaving only the bittersweet tint of blood in his mind. Crawford grimaced inwardly. There was nothing unclear about this vision: Farfarello was getting bored again. He hurried down the corridor and snatched open the door, only to find—as he had guessed—the straitjacket discarded on the floor.

Damn.

He struck the wall out of sheer, long pent-up frustration, and for several moments did not even register the pain. How many times had he warned them not to attract undue attention? SS was still out there, and, to a less degree, Kritiker. Schwarz had few personal enemies, but it had no allies, either. Why could they not heed him for their own safety?

"Farfarello got away again?" Nagi slipped in, his face expressionless as always.

Crawford nodded curtly, slowly unclenching his fist. "Why..." He asked no one in particular.

"Not everyone views the world as rationally as you do, Crawford," Nagi said quietly before turning away, and his last words were heard from the other end of the corridor. "Sometimes, some people just don't care."

This time, he sighed out aloud. He did not understand people, especially Farfarello. There had been times when the Irish madman seemed to like staying in the straitjacket—but there was no predictable pattern. Schuldig used to take Farfarello out once in a while, which had kept the latter placid the rest of the time. These days... Schuldig no longer did that.

Again came that hazy hint of some feeling, leaving behind nothing more than a faint sense of unease. He could not fathom it.

But there had been something.

That meant trouble.


~~~

Through his shut eyelids, Youji could make out—faintly—threads of red against a background of mellow gold. Maybe the red came from the blood vessels in his eyelids, he decided, although he frankly did not care either way. There was nothing to do here, really—not that he minded.

Strangely—or perhaps not so strangely—he did not feel uncomfortable here, alone with one he had tried to kill before and who had likewise returned the courtesy. The past months had given him plenty of time to avoid the issue, and now that the man himself had shown up in flesh again, he wasn't really surprised to discover that he no longer instinctively beheld the man as an enemy.

"You aren't asleep, are you?" Schuldig's voice drifted by lazily from some distance away.

"Of course not."

"Just wondering; you haven't opened your eyes or stirred for a long time now."

"Try glaring back at the sun and see how much you like it."

"You have sunglasses with you."

"If I'm going to get tanned to the shade of a cooked lobster, I'd rather be completely that colour than look like an inverted panda with ridiculous white patches."

Schuldig responded with a light snort. "Oh, right. Then what are we doing here?"

"Beats me." There had been hardly any discussion—or conversation, for that matter—at all. The two of them simply strolled along, then hailed a cab and named a scenic spot nearby at random. The place was relatively deserted, this being neither holiday nor weekend, but it was not company that they sought in the first place.

Silence ensued for a while, a comfortable one. Youji stretched a little and then asked, "Where have you been?"

"Since Christmas, you mean?" Cracking open his eyelids, he noted that Schuldig's posture had changed subtly. Wary relaxation seemed to be dominant over the subconscious ease of a moment ago. "SS was nipping a little too close to our heels, and Crawford had to pull us out of Japan in a hurry." There was a pause. "Do you hate me?"

He sat up. "What?"

"You heard me."

He pondered on that, carefully avoiding eye contact and conscious of the fact that the Schwarz member was doing the same. The fight last year... the night he did not remember... the strained subsequent encounter... that now seemingly unreal Christmas Eve... Fighting was one matter, but conversations were another. "I don't think so."

"Thanks."


~~~

Ran had not been aware of how tense he had become over Youji's absence until the latter came back just before dinner and his shoulders sagged visibly in unconscious relaxation. The gesture only stayed for a moment before he noticed it and turned impassive once more, but he thought it more likely that Youji saw anyway. The former PI had an eye for details.

The next moment, Ran mentally checked his assessment. What was wrong? These normally alert eyes had a distracted look to them, one that Youji seldom exhibited.

"Yo, I'm back," the blond young man muttered absently, walking past the kitchen presumably to his own room down the corridor.

"Have you eaten?" Ran put a dish into the microwave and set the timer.

"No."

"Dinner's in ten minutes."

"Sure." Youji turned to leave.

Ran blocked him. He was, as a rule, averse to taking this kind of initiative, but Youji was too adroit when it came to sidestepping more subtle attempts if the latter wanted to. "What happened, Youji?"

For the first time since he stepped into Weiß's shared apartment, Youji actually seemed to see him. Ran held the gaze deliberately. A calm look, as he knew from experience, could be even more effective than any questioning one.

His friend shifted uncomfortably. "I don't want to talk about it, alright? I can handle it."

At times like this, Ran hated his own lack of conversation skills. Even people who wanted to talk found it difficult to open up to him, and when they did not want to... It was like slamming into a concrete wall. He could know very well that the other party was lying, but he would still have no idea how to get around the outright denial and offer his support. Ken had the same problem at times, but while that soccer lover tended to push on anyway when he was unsure of how to go on, Ran would generally clam up. Darn. "Are you sure?"

Youji sighed. "No offence meant, man, but leave me alone, okay? There are some things that I've to sort out myself."

Ran would have pressed further had he known how to, but he did not—and Youji was perfectly aware of that. "Sorry, Aya. Thanks." Before Ran could stop him again, the older assassin had slipped by him into his own room and shut the door.

Turning away, Ran brushed one hand through his hair wryly. An abrupt movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. "Ken?"

The younger man grinned as he stepped out from the back staircase. "That obvious, am I?"

"Omi would hardly leave his computer before you do," Ran shrugged. "How's the research?"

"Still too early to tell." Ken pulled on a mitt and began helping him ferry dishes to the dining table. "I want to get at them, damn it!"

"We all do." Ran kept an eye on the bowl of soup in his friend's hands. "Schwarz has a lot to answer for."

Ken nodded tersely, then changed the topic. "When are we going to tell him? Youji, I mean."

"I don't think we should yet."

"But eventually, we'll have to." Ken went over to the sink to rinse the chopsticks. "We simply can't do it on our own. It's his business, too—more than it's ours, actually." The chopsticks made a loud noise as he scrubbed them roughly. Ran did not have to ask to know that they were probably remembering the same thing.

"He will get back on his feet." That was one of the few things he felt sure about in this whole damned business. "We just have to make sure that we are ready when he is."

"And when is that?" Ken demanded, frustrated. "I hate this waiting!"

"Is there anything else for us to do?" Ran kept his voice quiet. Youji's room was not too far away, and while the blond usually valued his privacy enough not to eavesdrop on others, his behaviour of late had been unpredictable.

Ken shrugged tiredly, and turned off the tap. "I know, but knowing doesn't help, does it?"

"Seldom," he agreed, setting the table. "Can you call Omi up? I'll get Youji."

"I'm here." The youngest Weiß assassin appeared on cue at the doorway. The grin he gave was weary, but a spark of excitement danced in those blue eyes.

"You found something?" Ken brightened.

Omi gave a cautious nod. "This lead is nearly four months old, though, and in another country. I think it's them; closer than anything else dug up so far, at any rate."

"But not anywhere close by?" Ken pressed. It occurred to Ran that Siberian looked like a predator at that moment: tense, eager, eyes bright with excitement, body wound tightly, ready to pounce at a moment's notice— Then he shook the imagery aside; that was neither here nor there.

The younger boy grimaced. "It's the best lead I've had so far—and probably the only one I can depend upon, too. They cover their trail very well. I'm starting to believe that Kritiker's agent last sighted them out of sheer luck."

Though he had expected that, Ran still felt a twinge of disappointment at Omi's words. Sure, he should have known—after all, he knew enough of Omi's work habits to know that when the latter was closing in on what he sought, he could forgo food for days at one go. That the younger assassin remembered about dinner—in time—was enough to show that the trail was cold. All the same, like Ken, he disliked waiting a great deal. Waiting meant that the deed was being put off until the future, that things were still prone to change, that... Ran had had enough of suspense and surprises. He, too, wanted to get it over and done with.

He realised with a start that his fists had started clenching again, and relaxed the grip forcibly. "I'll get Youji." Saying so, he walked out of the kitchen.


~~~

Frustration. Annoyance. Rising anger on both sides.

"What the hell? I pull my weight in missions, don't I? And you guys haven't been stopping me from taking part for ages, why now?"

"Take part in missions, yes, but not as bait!"

"I can handle it! I have recovered, or haven't you noticed?"

"This isn't necessary! I've done decoy more often than you have, I've the experience!"

"So basically I'm still to be mothered around and kept away from anything risky? Do I have a handle-with-care sign somewhere?"

"Everything in our job has its risks."

"Yeah, but everyone takes the blunt of it some time, everyone except me. I don't need to be handled with kid gloves!"

"Youji-kun, Aya-kun—"

Schuldig tuned out. He would never have expected the icy Abyssinian to be engaged in a shouting match. Sure, that kid had a protective streak at least a mile wide, but Schuldig didn't expect it to be so loud.

Abruptly, the commotion inside Koneko died down. Curious, the German perked up his ears once more.

The quiet inside was punctured by a long, tired sigh. "Is that it? I can't be depended upon, can I?"

Schuldig grinned to himself. The thought had occurred to Youji—that much he could glimpse from the projected feelings alone—but now the Weiß assassin was simply using it as extra leverage on his teammates' guilt. Considering the blatant nurse-maiding Schuldig had seen for himself, he thought they deserved it.

The soft words practically echoed in the ensuing silence. With another drawn-out sigh, Youji turned away. "Sorry, guys; didn't mean to yell." Slow steps dragged up the stairs of the basement, leaving behind another awkward silence which the mindreader did not bother to eavesdrop on—he was already leaving, melting into the dark night and chuckling to himself as he went. The conclusion was foregone. Youji certainly laid it on thick.


~~~

The faint silver light rays descended between lazily undulating curtains to meet the single, intensely focused golden eye, and the madman smiled. He liked moonlight. Some would have assumed that killers felt comfortable only in darkness, but not for him. He wanted light to be able to see his handiwork, and daylight was too... bright. It dazzled and blinded—in contrast, moonlight was cold and apathetic, just what he wanted.

He had sought blood just now—the bloodstained daggers now lay where he had placed them lovingly, where they caught the moon's reflection best—and now he was happy. He was easily satisfied, actually; if only Crawford would see it that way. It was not as though he really endangered them, was it? Crawford worried too much. Even when Crawford did go for his kind of entertainment—and that happened only once—he took enough precautions to make Farfarello wonder if he was stalling before they got down to the fun.

Memories of that night surfaced, and Farfarello smiled again. Oh yes, that had been enjoyable. He would like to play with the Weiß kitten some time.

Soft footsteps outside—literally outside—informed him of his teammate's return. Schuldig, of course. No one else liked using the living room's window. This was Schwarz's own safe house, which explained why the mindreader had been lax about concealing his footsteps—maybe Farfarello could get Crawford's attention on that and off his own back.

Farfarello was about to go back to his own contemplation of the past when something fleeted across his mind, making him pause in curiosity. He never bothered shielding here since everybody else did, but it looked as though someone's mental shields were wavering. Crawford as a possibility he dismissed out of hand, and considered Nagi for a while before deciding against that, too. The mental pattern reminded him of nothing like the silent boy.

That left—the mindreader himself?

Farfarello was beginning to wonder if he had gone insane after all—like everyone else persisted in believing—when more random thoughts flared up, dismissing all doubt: that was Schuldig all right, letting thoughts through his cracking shields.

Schuldig, you're getting careless.

His own thoughts, Farfarello knew, were safe enough from Schuldig unless the latter really probed him, which was why he did not bother shielding while thinking that. The German had once tried to give some kind of explanation, about his mental pattern being so different from that of others that it was like being on a different wavelength altogether: it could be just there, but unless mindreaders tuned in specifically, they wouldn't hear it.

He might have considered telling the mindreader that the latter was slipping, if not for something, something he had glimpsed in the other's thoughts.

Farfarello chuckled. It seemed that although God never answered prayers, Satan certainly did.


~~~

Familiar adrenaline pumped through him as he crouched, waiting for the rest. This mission required Weiß to obtain some incriminating documents, and his job was to provide distraction while the rest get the stuff.

Yes, his job—after enough arguments and theatrics to make him wrinkle his nose just remembering it.

But he wanted it, or maybe it was need, he wasn't sure. The taste of danger, of actually doing something, of being a part of his team, instead of... never mind. He would not think about that afternoon. He had to prove that he was still Balinese, to himself.

"Balinese," the transmitter in his earring activated. "Bombay, in place."

"Gotcha. Out." A few minutes later Aya and then Ken added their own voices. They were all in place. Youji activated his speaker. "Balinese. Everyone ready?"

"Ready when you are." Ken.

"Yes." Omi.

There was a pause before Aya gave his reply, his voice obviously reluctant. "Yes."

That was all he had been waiting for. Without further ado, Youji set off the bombs he had scattered on this floor and the few above. As fire and smoke alarms began wailing, he moved, letting the security cameras catch mere glimpses of him—he wanted the guards here, but without letting them know for sure that he was alone.

Curt, tense snippets of conversation continued between his teammates in his ears as the three of them took advantage of the confusion to slip in or charge in—depending on the individual style—from their respective hiding places. Meanwhile, he waited, feeling more intensely alive than he had felt for months. The first wave of guards reached him just as Omi reported that they had located the office the documents were kept in. "There are still a few guards hanging around."

"And that's all you'll see. Out." He would keep the rest of them entertained. With as little killing as possible, he hoped.

When the second wave came—the first lay unconscious on the floor by then—he took off, thanking the reasonably narrow corridors that restricted the number of pursuers in direct line of sight of his bare back. He didn't come to massacre, after all; all he needed to do was to distract the majority of the security forces long enough for his friends to get what they were after.

Next corridor—left turn, now right—

A guard blocked his path up in front. Youji gritted his teeth. The man's head literally went rolling before the gun had even been lifted.

Another turn—just there—and he would be at the staircase to head downwards. He was getting a little winded, but he pressed on; he had pushed his body way further than this before.

Someone grabbed his arm just as he reached the stairs.

He twisted reflexively, elbowing behind and leaping forth the moment the attacker loosened his grip, putting at least two metres between them.

Intense blue eyes met his gaze, dark in the semi-gloom. "It's me."

"Schul—what are you doing here?" Running steps were approaching. They had no time to dally.

"Not here. Come."

But the German was leading the way up

"Quick!" Schuldig looked ready to bodily drag him up.

Youji made up his mind, although he wasn't sure why he would trust this man. "Lead on."

Five minutes later found them gazing at the night cityscape from the top floor, while cries of pain, gunshots, and shrieks of fear echoed faintly from opened windows some floors below.

Youji dug into his pocket for his cigarettes and offered one to the mindreader. "So, is that who I think it is?"

"If you mean Farfarello, you're right." Schuldig declined the coffin nail. "I'm not entirely sure how he found out about your mission tonight, but he did. Anyway, I only discovered that he's around when I got here—he was waiting for you two floors down."

"So you dragged me up here instead? What if the guards came up?" He held a cigarette, though he did not light it. Just doing something this familiar made him feel more anchored.

"One, I don't think they will—the lifts ceased function the moment alarms started, so the only way out is via the stairs, and naturally, who'd escape down a dead alley? Two, that's Farfarello down there. I honestly doubt if there's anyone in one piece still."

He grimaced, remembering past examples of Farfarello's entertainments that he had witnessed. "And why are you here?"

"I'm not sure," Schuldig replied slowly, then grinned. "Before you ask, yes, I was eavesdropping on your mission briefing last night. Nice act, by the way."

He was unsure whether that was a compliment, but decided to assume the best. What unsettled him more was Schuldig's presence here. "Why would you bother?"

The German held up his hands. "Whoa there, spare me that question, okay?"

Youji nodded, and decided that he really needed a smoke now. "Whatever." They were both sidestepping the same issue here, it seemed, but what was the issue? He wasn't any readier than Schuldig to answer that. "Thanks." He lit the cigarette and took a long drag.

"Leaving now? 'Cos I am." Schuldig flexed his fingers idly as he said so, and straightened his lanky frame. "Someone has to calm Farfarello down before he demolishes this side of the city. Ja." With that, the orange-haired young man launched himself out of the window.

Youji stared for a moment, then shrugged. The building was seventy-five storeys high, but this was Schuldig.

"Balinese?" Aya's voice spoke suddenly from his earpiece. "Reply."

Youji activated his speaker. "Balinese reporting. Alive and intact as promised, kids. Where are you? I'll meet you downstairs."

"Sure you don't want us to come up?" Omi's voice sounded concerned.

Youji made an effort to sound nonchalant. "Sure, chibi."

"Oi!" Omi protested exaggeratedly.

He laughed—but the laugh caught in his throat half way, and died even as he froze in his tracks.

"Balinese, are you okay?"

Youji privately thought that the direst danger he was in right now was that he might throw up all over his mission gear—he had been descending the stairs while talking, and right now he was staring at the floor where Farfarello had been waiting.

"Balinese?" Ken asked.

He continued staring. There was something fatally attractive about the scene of a catastrophe, that nailed his gaze even as every sensible fibre yelled at him to look away. The slowly dripping blood, the utter silence unbroken by the smallest sound that would show life, the stifling thick, all-enveloping smell, the forever open frightened dead eyes and mouths gaping in soundless screams... The very horror made it impossible for him to break his gaze.

"Youji!" Aya this time. "Reply!"

He wrenched himself away at last, and bolted down the stairs. Only when he had placed five floors of stairs between the massacre and himself could he bear to reply, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. "Sorry, guys. I was... distracted."

"Youji-kun, are you all right there?" Omi asked sharply.

"Yeah... give me a moment, okay? I'll meet you guys at the car."

"Are you sure? If you're being cornered—"

"I'd have enough sense to let you know." Despite—or perhaps because of—everything, he felt like laughing, hysterically. Being cornered by guards was simply the last thing he needed to worry about. "I'm coming down."

Climbing down seventy-plus floors was no joke, even for assassins, but it gave him enough time to calm down—or at least look it—before he finally pushed open the door at the bottom, and felt the blast of fresh night air.

Arms caught him. "What—"

"No, don't ask." He managed a grin, turning his head slightly to see that it was Ken. "Go now?"

"Just a moment; Aya-kun went to get the car." Omi replied, light fingers running down his body carefully. "He didn't trust you to be able to walk to where it's parked. Did you get injured?"

"Not really."

"Then why—" Ken began, then shut up. Youji did not need to look up to know that Omi had given the soccer lover a warning look.

It seemed like forever before Aya showed up with the car and they all climbed in, Omi in the front seat while Ken and himself took the back.

The brunet handed him a water bottle as the car started off. "Drink, will you? If you feel half as bad as you look, we should drive straight to the hospital."

He tried to laugh, but it came out like a croak, and a pathetic one at that. "That ghastly?"

"Afraid so."

"Hn." His stomach continued moving uneasily, warning him that he had better seek some sink or toilet—fast.

That ended the conversation.

When they finally got back to Koneko, he was out of the car and half way up the stairs almost before Aya even turned off the engines. He was conscious of three pairs of eyes on his back; he wasn't caring for now. His legs felt weak, though, and the dizziness in his skull was rapidly upgrading itself to nausea. Maybe Aya was right and he wasn't ready for this kind of mission yet. But to be honest, since when was running unexpectedly into supposed enemies part of the deal?

He made it to the toilet and promptly threw up everything he had eaten for the past two days, his stomach continued to heave long after it had been emptied.


~~~

Ran did not look up as Youji staggered out of the car; he could see the latter's retreating figure perfectly well in the review mirror—and besides, he did not want to see the latter's condition anyway. He should have stood firm when Youji wanted to go on this job.

"Aya-kun?" Omi asked tentatively, releasing the seatbelt.

"Go on first. I want to stay here for a while."

The two younger members of Weiß understood, it seemed, for they left quietly then without further questions. Ran let out a sigh as they disappeared into the shop, and leaned back into his seat tiredly.

Youji had sounded unsettled on the speaker just now, but the sight that greeted Ran when he drove the car up had been worse. The older assassin did not seem to be in much physical pain, but his expression... Almost empty, devoid of feelings—it unnerved him, that.

He should never have let Youji onto the mission.

What had taken place? All they knew was that the offices they stormed were hardly guarded when they got there, both their entrance and exit practically unnoticed by the security the place was famous for. Even at that time, it occurred to him that Youji might be doing his job as decoy too well—but there did not seem to be any serious injury anywhere—what happened?

It was his fault; he should have stopped Youji.

Ran realised that his thoughts were taking a downward spiral, and stopped the train with effort. Attractive as stewing in guilt might appear now, it got no one anywhere. He got out of the car and into Weiß's shared apartment via the back stairs. The stairs from the flower shop provided a more direct route, but he just did not want to use those. Somehow, if he never entered the site of his daytime profession in his assassin gear, he could keep the two separated in his mind. Pointless, of course—deep down, he knew that the flower shop was only a guise and he could never get away from the fact that he was an assassin—but it was one of the few indulgences he allowed himself.

Ken and Omi were both in the living room when he entered the apartment. The former pushed a mug of coffee across the low table. "He's still in the toilet."

Ran nodded. There was no need to ask whom Ken was referring to. He changed out of his assassin attire, then returned to the living room again. One of the two had switched on the television, currently showing some crap piece of soap opera—as though anything else could be expected at this hour. Ran sat down and glanced at the TV occasionally between long gazes in the toilet's direction as he nursed his coffee; Omi did not even bother with the pretence of watching the show.

After a while, when the toilet door showed no sign of being opened any time soon, Ken picked up the remote control and began flipping channels. "What the hell happened?"

No one had the answer, but something on the screen caught Ran's attention. Something that reminded him uncomfortably of any of the many deaths Weiß had caused. "Ken, back to the previous channel. No, further back. Yes."

"News channel? But why—" Ken trailed off as the reporter on screen faded away, replaced by a close-in shot of the place. "Wha—"

"Look at the caption, Ken-kun!" Omi cut him off.

Ran already had. This was the building they had been in just now. The particular floor in question had been in the general vicinity of their teammate.

The sight that graced the screen appeared to have taken more than a few pages from hell. Ran stifled an instinctive shudder as his eyes followed the camera almost helplessly, taking in every gory detail.

"Holy shit," he heard Ken mutter, his voice subdued in the sudden hush. "That's a goddamned slaughterhouse."

Ran could not help but agree. He said nothing.

Behind them, the door opened. None of them turned or looked up—they could not bear to. Ran knew himself well enough to know how his expression would be.

The oldest assassin of Weiß walked in and slouched into the sofa next to Ran. "If you aren't going to drink that, can I have it?" His voice was almost dead, the kind of emptiness that came after an emotional overload.

Ran put the untouched drink down. "Sure." He sounded unnatural, but so did everything else here. Couldn't someone break this deafening tension? Across, Ken looked ready to break something. But none of them spoke.

A pale hand—not as bloodless as his own, but far paler than he once would have imagined possible for Youji—picked up the remote control and switched off the TV. "Go ahead, guys. What do you want to ask?"

Still no one spoke.

Finally, it was Youji himself who picked up the reins of the conversation again. "I guess you'd want to know what happened."

"How, rather." Omi's words were restrained. "We saw the 'what' part on TV."

"I figured." Youji slouched forward as he spoke, meeting the coffee mug halfway almost idly. "But it didn't go the way you guys probably think it did."

"So what did happen?" Ken demanded with a hint of nervous impatience in his voice.

"Farfarello."

Ran started and Omi tensed, but it was Ken who exclaimed, leaping to his feet, "Schwarz?"

"How did he know we'd be there?" Omi muttered to no one in particular.

Youji apparently found the colour of coffee fascinating. "I saw him before he saw me; I... hid."

"Then?"

"I don't know how he left the place, but I stayed put long after the cries had died down. While getting downstairs, I saw the same things that you guys saw." Youji looked up with haunted eyes. "If he met me instead, all those guards wouldn't have..." He left it hanging.

"Hellfire, so that's why you looked that bad just now." Ken walked over and laid a hand awkwardly on Youji's shoulder. "Try not to dwell on it, okay? Maybe you're partially responsible, but it's not as though any of us haven't hurt any innocent bystanders before."

"Yeah, but the sheer number..." Youji sighed and shook his head slightly as though to dislodge the bloodstained memories from the forefront of his mind before looking up with a wan smile. "Thanks."

Ken looked even more awkward, and no surprise—for all his light-hearted act, Youji revealed his true feelings about as often as Ran himself did. "Ah, anytime." He looked up when the youngest member of Weiß got to his feet. "Where are you going, Omi? There's no school tomorrow, is there?"

"Mission report," Omi threw back over his shoulders, a fine crease marring his smooth forehead. "You guys had better rest too; who's on the first shift?"

"Me," Ken sighed. "Good night."

With the retreat of the two younger assassins, Ran found himself alone with Youji. "What do you want to know, Aya? Go ahead and ask."

"Were you telling the whole truth?"

"I wasn't lying."

The two were different; they both knew that. "You held something back."

Jaded green eyes met his own. "Please, Aya. Don't ask."

Ran hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"I hope so too."


~~~

In one of his more whimsical moods, Schuldig had decided that he hated sunsets. Beautiful, yes, but too brief. He did not need to be reminded that good things never last.

But he had strolled out late in the afternoon, so he might as well look at one.

Schuldig found himself arriving at the same spot where he had spent that strange afternoon with Youji over a week ago, and nearly groaned. He was growing obsessed, no doubt about that. Fool. Just what could he be thinkin—wait a moment.

Unless he was conjuring the image up for himself, a lanky young man stood a distance away, silhouetted against the setting sun, which made it impossible to make out his features.

"Youji?" he called tentatively.

The Weiß member turned, his face a mess of light and shadows. "I was wondering if you'd show up some time." His tone was almost casual.

"You come often?"

"When I'm free."

A thought struck Schuldig as they gazed across at each other. It had never occurred to him before, but for some reason, it did not surprise him, either.

But was it possible?

He had no answer to that. Then again, he had gotten rather good at avoiding this, hadn't he?

Youji sat down on the grass, face turned towards the sun. Schuldig strolled over slowly before dropping down to the ground as well, far enough to feel comfortable and close enough that he did not have to raise his voice. "I didn't think you'd be the kind to enjoy this."

The blond young man smiled wryly. "It's a little over-used in romantic scenes, yeah. I haven't really seen the sun set for ages, though, so why not?" From the corner of his eye, Schuldig could see Youji's hand plucking a blade of grass absently. "I haven't seen a real sunrise for ages, too. Asuka used to drag me up at unholy hours to catch it. She liked the morning's vibrancy."

Dawn did tend to have that energising effect on most people. And dusk? No one felt vitalised by looking at the sinking sun. The reddest glow in its last moment—just before it whisks out of sight. Were people not the same way? "Sunrise is for optimists."

"And sunsets?"

"Sentimental fools." It came out harsher than he expected.

Youji sighed. "All too true, I guess. What brought you here?"

"Not the view, I can assure you."

Emerald eyes gazed into his own directly. He nearly flinched, but stopped the instinctive gesture in time. "Really?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think you're the complete bastard you like to appear."

He tried to smirk, but the half quirk hardly qualified. "Maybe, but don't sprain your arm patting yourself on the back for noticing it—I usually put up a more convincing act than this."

"Why?" The former self-proclaimed playboy paused. "Not, I suppose, that I'm in a position to ask."

"You aren't," he agreed. "But who doesn't wear a mask?"

"Point taken." Youji lit a cigarette. "By the way, do you smoke?"

"Used to. Crawford got me to stop when I joined Schwarz." He almost smiled at that memory. Almost. Crawford probably had no other way to express his concern. Of course, that guy had to be a control freak about it. "I think I could have kicked the habit by myself, but he kept me in Farfarello's straitjacket for three weeks."

Youji blinked. "And you let him?"

Schuldig debated between a prosaic reply and something that came closer to why he actually gave way to his friend's disguised attention. He chose the sensible course. "He enlisted Nagi's help; enough said."

Youji nodded, then suddenly laughed out aloud.

Schuldig cocked an eyebrow at the other young man.

"Sorry." Youji was still chuckling. "I was trying to visualise you in a straitjacket."

He decided that he really did not want the details; Youji's sense of humour could be warped at times. "Didn't your teammates ever tell you to stop?"

"They gave up." The sun's dying rays lit upon Youji's blond hair, making it appear to be almost the same shade as his own. "I think that was when I told them that ten to one, I'd be killed long before smoking's detrimental effects really affect my performance anyway."

Schuldig nodded slowly. "That's the gist of the difference, isn't it? Schwarz expects to survive; Weiß doesn't."

Youji stared ahead almost dreamily. The glow of the sun had long mellowed enough to look at it directly. "We're Kritiker's pawns," he said softly. "We're like horses wearing blinkers, you know. They keep us in the dark so that we'd take risks without hesitation, without actually knowing what kind of cesspools we are getting into. Of course we don't expect to live to a ripe old age." A queer expression flitted across his face. "Had we known, I don't think we'd have gone out of our way to engage Schwarz. We had no idea what powers we'd be fighting."

"I guess I should be flattered." But all he could think of were the gruelling mental training sessions that pushed most of the potential mindreaders in his year group beyond their limits. Powers like his, more often than not, meant insanity or death for its possessor. He had survived, yes, but he belonged to the minority. Every power had a price, and not many could afford it. "By the way, what did your teammates say about your last mission?"

"Not much." All the same, Youji grimaced. "Does Farfarello like blood that much?"

Schuldig nearly started in surprise before he remembered that Youji had no recollections of his night with Schwarz. "Usually he does. So, how did your teammates react to that particular piece of news?"

"In one word? Predictably."

"They said nothing about me?" He found that improbable.

"I didn't tell them."

What? "Why?"

Youji turned to meet his gaze. "I didn't think that it concerned them." Shadows lurked in his eyes as the sun disappeared below the horizon. "All these between us... I thought it's private; just between us."

"Doesn't meeting your enemy constitute public concern?" He got to his feet, his muscles stiff from staying still for so long, and decided that it was time to leave. He didn't consciously know why he kept having these strange talks with the Weiß assassin, and he was not ready to ask himself that, either. He simply wanted to get out of there, now.

Youji's next words arrested him in his tracks. "Do we have to be?"

"Can we not?" He snorted derisively.

"That's between Weiß and Schwarz. Can we have a private truce?" The white hunter smiled slightly. "We're practically having that as it is."

Schuldig stared. Youji was holding out his hand—only a few inches out, to be sure, but the gesture's meaning was obvious.

Truce? They were practically having that, he admitted to himself, but to acknowledge it as such was another matter.

Still, if it was just between the two of them...

"Fine."


~~~

Omi woke to the placid beeping of the computer and the monotonous blinking of the monitor. He sat up straight, then made a grab for the blanket that had been draped over him and was now sliding off his shoulders. The digital clock read 0340h. It looked as though he had fallen asleep at the computer again.

He jumped when he heard the door leading down to the basement open, then relaxed—he recognised the footsteps. "Ken-kun?"

"You're awake? I thought you'd have been fast asleep long ago. You haven't been resting enough."

Omi shrugged—or tried to. He had yet to discover any sleeping position at the computer that did not cramp some muscles. "Have to keep up the research." He leaned back against the seat, shifting his shoulder blades tentatively to ease the tension.

Ken walked over to read the screen. "What's this for? Our mission or Schwarz?"

"Mission." Much as he wanted to pursue Schwarz's trail, accomplishing the mission had higher priority, and this mission was about seventy percent hacking-related. He had been pushing himself, but cracking these codes was not easy. He had been desperate enough—and tired enough—to leave a program running now, one that tried all possible code combinations in the trial and error fashion. Of course, that yielded nothing. What a fruitful day.

Ken glanced at him. "Want a massage?"

"Sure, thanks. Do you suppose you could get me some coffee?" He needed the caffeine.

"At this time? Are you going to pull an all-nighter again?" Calloused hands kneaded his aching muscles, paying special attention to those that he found hard to reach himself—physiotherapy had been a compulsory course in Ken's class back in his soccer days. "How about cocoa? Hot chocolate?"

"No, coffee." He wanted to hurry up and finish this mission fast. The formidable prowess of Kritiker's network was only available to Weiß for a limited period. "I've to get the mission out of the way before using the network for ourselves."

"Can't you just hack into Kritiker's database?"

Consequences for such wilful behaviour tended to be ugly. "I'm afraid not." Omi sighed as Ken worked out a knot in his still mostly tense muscles. "Thanks, Ken-kun."

"You're welcome," Ken muttered as he closed his tired eyes for a moment.

Somehow, he drifted off, and next woke to a display of 0947h. A glass of water stood handy on the computer table. So Ken didn't get him coffee; probably figured—correctly—that he would pass out before the drink arrived.

Omi thanked his old friend silently as he gulped down the water, then lurched up the stairs. He wanted breakfast.

Aya was hanging out the laundry when he walked in. The redhead, being his normal silent self, only gave him a brief nod. Omi looked around. "Aya-kun, do you know where Youji-kun and Ken-kun are?" The shop was closed today, so they could not be there.

"Soccer match. Ken's the referee."

"And Youji-kun?" He opened the fridge to rummage for something edible. They would have to shop for groceries again soon, it seemed.

"Ken dragged him along."

Omi stopped. "And Youji-kun actually went?" Now that he thought about it, Youji had been in relatively high spirits lately.

Aya finished his chore and joined him in the kitchen. "Ken was surprised too; Youji has never gone before."

He poured himself a mug of coffee from the coffee maker, making a note to himself to cut down on the habit unless the situation required it. Caffeine addiction was not something he wanted, and if he wanted to be able to stay up when he needed to, he could not afford to increase his tolerance.

He worried about Youji; they all did, especially now that Youji seemed all right. They had depended upon one another through countless situations, but for all that, Omi admitted that he did not really understand his old friend. How did Youji really feel? Looking okay did not automatically imply feeling okay, especially for introverts. The period immediately after that Schreiend mission had been unnerving precisely because Youji had been down enough to not even bother about pretending the way he usually did, but now that things had settled down, Omi found himself dealing with the same old problem. How was Youji faring? He could ask, sure, but he would not know if what his old friend would surely say was true. "Aya-kun."

"Yes?"

"Is Youji-kun okay?"

Cool violet eyes looked up. "Why would you ask me?"

"I think you know him better than I do. Is he?"

Aya closed his eyes for a moment. "I think so." His reply was slow, but it was not hesitant. Omi trusted that. Aya was observant, and sensitive to how others feel in an unobtrusive way. "How's the mission going?"

"Still hacking. Within a week is the most I can promise."

"How many of us?"

"Two would do, I think."

The conversation continued along familiar lines.


~~~

After the match was over, Youji excused himself from the gang of laughing children, waved at Ken—the latter was surrounded by yet more kids—and sauntered off. He wanted to visit their place again.

Yes, their place. He was already thinking of it as that.

Watching the soccer match had been fine, but rowdy excitement was not exactly his thing. He had watched with something akin to amused indulgence—Ken was never as happy as when he goofed off with kids.

Not in the mood to drive, he called a cab and spent most of the ride gazing outside at the passing scenery that was rapidly becoming familiar to him. He could learn to love this.

There were issues at hand, sure, but he did not want to think about them. The current feelings—whatever they might be—were intoxicating, and he did not want them or the strange ceasefire to end any time soon.

Schuldig was already there when he got off the cab, wearing a light grin that looked almost boyish. "Hi."

"Yo." He felt a grin tugging his own lips. There was a time when he thought that the only way the German could smile was to forcibly crack those cold thin lips, but this... Everything seemed so natural.

They sat down in the shade of an overhanging tree. Schuldig stretched somewhat gingerly. "Don't mind me. I'm having a sensory overload."

"Oh? What's that?"

"Aftermath of prolonged mindreading. I've erased most of it from my own head, but it's going to be a while before I can flush out all the residue." The orange-haired young man frowned. "It's not really a headache, but after this many years, the feeling is still disorientating."

"Shouldn't you rest then?"

"Who wants to be cooped up inside on a day like this? Besides, that doesn't help." Schuldig shrugged slightly, then winced. "Would you mind if I make myself more comfortable?"

Before Youji could reply, the other young man had shifted his position and leaned back, resting his head on Youji's thigh. Blue eyes looked up into his own with something that he would have called uncertainty in anyone else as he tensed unconsciously.

"You don't mind—do you?"

Did he? Was he supposed to?

He effectively separated the two questions in his own mind. "No. Go ahead."

"Thanks."

They stayed in companionable silence. Youji wondered, bemusedly, what was it that kept drawing them together. It definitely wasn't fate, he did not believe in that, but what was it?

"What are you thinking about?"

"Huh?"

"You're projecting. I'm not trying to read you, but it's a little hard to ignore when the thought is about me."

"Why do we keep meeting? Like this?"

There was a long pause. "I don't know," Schuldig said at last.

They fell silent again. He watched the clouds that drifted lazily across the sky. It wasn't often that reality matched postcards, but the clouds did surpass pictorial depictions today. Fluffy and abundant, they looked almost solidly white against the vivid azure backdrop.

Occasionally, two pieces of clouds would appear to meet and form a larger cloud—yet, more often than not, they would eventually drift apart again, having never merged in the first place but only appeared so because one had been above the other and thus looked like one entity to watchers below.

It was like taking a break from reality, this bizarre truce of theirs, but would it last? Or would it be like these clouds, to eventually separate, as though they had never met, because they truly had never been together?

Yet... Youji admitted to himself, he did not really want to ask that. Too often, bubbles burst the moment one tried to examine it more closely; he wanted this to last. As long as it could, anyway.

"By the way, are you hungry?" It suddenly occurred to him that it was past noon now.

"Sort of. Do you have to get back?"

He considered that question. Aya had asked him to call if he was coming back for lunch, not the other way round— "No. If you don't have to either, how about we grab a bite together?"

Schuldig pushed himself up by his elbows, his expression unreadable. "I'm free, yeah, but you're sure you don't want to go back?"

He would be lying if he said that he did not want to spend time with his friends, but... "What if I'd rather be here instead?"


~~~