------
Five
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Ran started out of a light doze at the sound of a knock on his door. He lay blinking muzzily at the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to think of who would be knocking at this time of night.
Not Youji. Youji never knocked.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair to tame it. Briefly, he considered a shirt, but it was too much trouble. His dresser was all the way in the back of his room, by the window. Unlike Youji, he didn't leave clothes on the floor. He liked his room to be clean. It helped him relax, as much as he ever could.
"What?" he snapped, opening the door a crack and squinting at the bright light from the hallway.
"Um." Youji shifted from foot to foot, not meeting Ran's eyes. His hair was hanging down around his face, leaving it in shadow. He was playing with his lighter with one hand, flipping it through his clever fingers like a coin.
Silently, Ran let the door swing open wider, turning abruptly and going back to sit on the edge of the bed. Youji hesitated for only a minute before slipping through the open door, closing it softly behind him. He padded across the room to the window on bare feet, the loose legs of his pants swirling around his ankles. Wrapping his arms around himself, he stared out the window, absently tugging on the short sleeves of his t-shirt, as if he wished they were longer.
"I don't want to do anything," Youji said. "I just," he paused, his mouth twisting, his eyes closing, "I just can't be alone right now."
Ran shifted his gaze to his hands, clenched in his lap. He wasn't prepared for this. If Youji didn't want to do anything, he came looking for comfort, and comfort was one of the many things Ran was unable to give. He couldn't even console himself, resign himself to his own fate. How could he be close to anyone when he didn't feel connected to his own self?
Youji cracked the window and lit up a cigarette, bonelessly flopping into the chair Ran kept by the window. He stared out, blowing smoke onto the street below, hanging his hand out the window to keep the majority of the smoke outside. Ran didn't make any protests about the cigarette. Let Youji have his small indulgence. It would do more to console him than Ran ever could.
"Every time I look in a mirror," Youji started softly, almost like he was talking to himself, "I see a line of people over my shoulder, faces of people I've killed, or have died because of me. Her face usually looms largest, sometimes accusing, sometimes pitying. I added one more face to that line tonight, and I will never forget that face."
Leaning back against the wall, Ran carefully kept his eyes fixed in front of him. He knew. Only it wasn't when he looked into a mirror. It was in his dreams, when he looked into his sister's eyes.
Youji took a long drag, slowly exhaling the smoke out the window. "It's starting to wear on me," he admitted. "I drink now to forget, to sleep without dreams. The alcohol helps keep the ghosts at bay. There's nothing else I can do. They're my ghosts, I made them, and I don't know how to get rid of them. They haunt me," he whispered.
Ran shuddered. Ghosts ... Kikyo stirred in the back of his mind, lips curled into a sneer, eyes cold and hard, voice sinuously weaving his spell of guilt guilt guilt.
"How do you deal with it, Aya?" Youji asked, startling Ran out of his memory. "How do you kill every week and not let the weight of the blood on your hands crush you? My soul is stained; I knew what I was getting into when Kritiker found me, but I didn't expect this. I didn't expect to have the weight of so many treading across my conscience. We are told it's done for justice, but where was the justice in what I had to do tonight? I gave a target a blow job, and then strangled him with his dick still hanging out of his pants."
Youji had moved from being quietly introspective to being angry with what he had had to do. And as quickly as he angered he slumped back into the chair, defeated.
"It was part of the job, I know." Youji shook another cigarette out of the crumpled pack and lit it with hands that trembled faintly. "It had to be done, for the good of the team, for the mission, for justice," he fairly spat the word. "But I will never get that man's face out of my head, or what Ken said."
Closing his eyes, Ran ground his teeth. He wanted to strangle Ken. He didn't want to be hearing this. He didn't want these feelings of ... protectiveness. His only real obligation was to his sister. He didn't need anyone else.
"I'm not a whore," Youji whispered. "I'm not a slut. It's all a facade."
Ran felt like clapping his hands over his ears like a child. Youji was dropping his mask, using him as a confessor. Would he expect the same in return? In the eyes of his teammates, he was Aya. That coldness he had pulled over his head like a blanket was his only protection against ...
"The women, the dates, it's not true. No men either, not for a long time," Youji continued. "I go out to drink, I drink to forget. It's not about sex, or women, no matter what Ken or Omi or fucking Kritiker thinks."
Youji sucked on his almost forgotten cigarette for a moment. "Don't you ever feel alone, Aya? Like you're cut off from the rest of the world, lost and adrift, and no matter how many people are around you're still the only one there? Technically we don't exist. Our IDs are fakes, our records missing from public databases. Are we going to die as part of Kritiker, our bodies "disposed of" since we're theoretically already dead? I've seen my marker. Can we ever escape this hell we've created for ourselves? Will there be anything for us on the other side if we do?"
Yes, Ran felt like saying. Of course I feel alone. You see, I am alone. Everyone left me. Ran is dead, and when Aya-chan wakes up, Aya will be gone too. And then what will happen to me? Who will I be then? Just a killer, that's all.
"You three are all I have left, Aya."
Ran could feel Youji's eyes on him, heavy with need. He turned his face away, staring at the door, twisting the soft cotton of his pants in his hands. He wanted to say, Don't count on me, don't rely on me to be there. I'm nothing, I don't exist, I'm just a worn out, angry man whose only reason for surviving has already been completed. (He could still taste the smoke and the coppery tang of Takatori's blood in the air, feel the shuddering resistance of bone and flesh, the dry crackling heat of the flames.) Don't need me, because I won't need you.
They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Ran could feel the weight of Youji's expectations pressing down on him. He waited until he almost couldn't stand the pressure and then, finally, turned his face toward his teammate. "I –"
But Youji was asleep, sprawled in the chair, cigarette still smouldering in his loose grip. Ran got up, standing over him indecisively. He didn't want –
He didn't want to be so close, to acknowledge that this night had happened. Youji's face looked tired, even in his sleep, his lips murmuring restlessly. Ran gently extricated the butt from Youji's hand, crushing it against the windowsill and flicking it outside, closing the window all but a crack. He dragged a blanket off his bed, draping it over the still form in his only chair.
He wasn't being kind. He didn't care. It was just that if Youji woke up, Ran would have to look into those wounded green eyes, and he would have to be reminded of his own deep wounds, wounds that had never healed because he had never let them have any air. Instead, he had smothered them, like he had smothered his memories, his heart, his soul. He had thought there was nothing left in him that could feel, but Youji had ripped that Pandora's box open for him again, and hope had fled long before.
Five
------
Ran started out of a light doze at the sound of a knock on his door. He lay blinking muzzily at the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to think of who would be knocking at this time of night.
Not Youji. Youji never knocked.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair to tame it. Briefly, he considered a shirt, but it was too much trouble. His dresser was all the way in the back of his room, by the window. Unlike Youji, he didn't leave clothes on the floor. He liked his room to be clean. It helped him relax, as much as he ever could.
"What?" he snapped, opening the door a crack and squinting at the bright light from the hallway.
"Um." Youji shifted from foot to foot, not meeting Ran's eyes. His hair was hanging down around his face, leaving it in shadow. He was playing with his lighter with one hand, flipping it through his clever fingers like a coin.
Silently, Ran let the door swing open wider, turning abruptly and going back to sit on the edge of the bed. Youji hesitated for only a minute before slipping through the open door, closing it softly behind him. He padded across the room to the window on bare feet, the loose legs of his pants swirling around his ankles. Wrapping his arms around himself, he stared out the window, absently tugging on the short sleeves of his t-shirt, as if he wished they were longer.
"I don't want to do anything," Youji said. "I just," he paused, his mouth twisting, his eyes closing, "I just can't be alone right now."
Ran shifted his gaze to his hands, clenched in his lap. He wasn't prepared for this. If Youji didn't want to do anything, he came looking for comfort, and comfort was one of the many things Ran was unable to give. He couldn't even console himself, resign himself to his own fate. How could he be close to anyone when he didn't feel connected to his own self?
Youji cracked the window and lit up a cigarette, bonelessly flopping into the chair Ran kept by the window. He stared out, blowing smoke onto the street below, hanging his hand out the window to keep the majority of the smoke outside. Ran didn't make any protests about the cigarette. Let Youji have his small indulgence. It would do more to console him than Ran ever could.
"Every time I look in a mirror," Youji started softly, almost like he was talking to himself, "I see a line of people over my shoulder, faces of people I've killed, or have died because of me. Her face usually looms largest, sometimes accusing, sometimes pitying. I added one more face to that line tonight, and I will never forget that face."
Leaning back against the wall, Ran carefully kept his eyes fixed in front of him. He knew. Only it wasn't when he looked into a mirror. It was in his dreams, when he looked into his sister's eyes.
Youji took a long drag, slowly exhaling the smoke out the window. "It's starting to wear on me," he admitted. "I drink now to forget, to sleep without dreams. The alcohol helps keep the ghosts at bay. There's nothing else I can do. They're my ghosts, I made them, and I don't know how to get rid of them. They haunt me," he whispered.
Ran shuddered. Ghosts ... Kikyo stirred in the back of his mind, lips curled into a sneer, eyes cold and hard, voice sinuously weaving his spell of guilt guilt guilt.
"How do you deal with it, Aya?" Youji asked, startling Ran out of his memory. "How do you kill every week and not let the weight of the blood on your hands crush you? My soul is stained; I knew what I was getting into when Kritiker found me, but I didn't expect this. I didn't expect to have the weight of so many treading across my conscience. We are told it's done for justice, but where was the justice in what I had to do tonight? I gave a target a blow job, and then strangled him with his dick still hanging out of his pants."
Youji had moved from being quietly introspective to being angry with what he had had to do. And as quickly as he angered he slumped back into the chair, defeated.
"It was part of the job, I know." Youji shook another cigarette out of the crumpled pack and lit it with hands that trembled faintly. "It had to be done, for the good of the team, for the mission, for justice," he fairly spat the word. "But I will never get that man's face out of my head, or what Ken said."
Closing his eyes, Ran ground his teeth. He wanted to strangle Ken. He didn't want to be hearing this. He didn't want these feelings of ... protectiveness. His only real obligation was to his sister. He didn't need anyone else.
"I'm not a whore," Youji whispered. "I'm not a slut. It's all a facade."
Ran felt like clapping his hands over his ears like a child. Youji was dropping his mask, using him as a confessor. Would he expect the same in return? In the eyes of his teammates, he was Aya. That coldness he had pulled over his head like a blanket was his only protection against ...
"The women, the dates, it's not true. No men either, not for a long time," Youji continued. "I go out to drink, I drink to forget. It's not about sex, or women, no matter what Ken or Omi or fucking Kritiker thinks."
Youji sucked on his almost forgotten cigarette for a moment. "Don't you ever feel alone, Aya? Like you're cut off from the rest of the world, lost and adrift, and no matter how many people are around you're still the only one there? Technically we don't exist. Our IDs are fakes, our records missing from public databases. Are we going to die as part of Kritiker, our bodies "disposed of" since we're theoretically already dead? I've seen my marker. Can we ever escape this hell we've created for ourselves? Will there be anything for us on the other side if we do?"
Yes, Ran felt like saying. Of course I feel alone. You see, I am alone. Everyone left me. Ran is dead, and when Aya-chan wakes up, Aya will be gone too. And then what will happen to me? Who will I be then? Just a killer, that's all.
"You three are all I have left, Aya."
Ran could feel Youji's eyes on him, heavy with need. He turned his face away, staring at the door, twisting the soft cotton of his pants in his hands. He wanted to say, Don't count on me, don't rely on me to be there. I'm nothing, I don't exist, I'm just a worn out, angry man whose only reason for surviving has already been completed. (He could still taste the smoke and the coppery tang of Takatori's blood in the air, feel the shuddering resistance of bone and flesh, the dry crackling heat of the flames.) Don't need me, because I won't need you.
They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Ran could feel the weight of Youji's expectations pressing down on him. He waited until he almost couldn't stand the pressure and then, finally, turned his face toward his teammate. "I –"
But Youji was asleep, sprawled in the chair, cigarette still smouldering in his loose grip. Ran got up, standing over him indecisively. He didn't want –
He didn't want to be so close, to acknowledge that this night had happened. Youji's face looked tired, even in his sleep, his lips murmuring restlessly. Ran gently extricated the butt from Youji's hand, crushing it against the windowsill and flicking it outside, closing the window all but a crack. He dragged a blanket off his bed, draping it over the still form in his only chair.
He wasn't being kind. He didn't care. It was just that if Youji woke up, Ran would have to look into those wounded green eyes, and he would have to be reminded of his own deep wounds, wounds that had never healed because he had never let them have any air. Instead, he had smothered them, like he had smothered his memories, his heart, his soul. He had thought there was nothing left in him that could feel, but Youji had ripped that Pandora's box open for him again, and hope had fled long before.