Sixteen
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Youji lay spread eagle on his bed, cigarette loosely grasped between his index and middle finger, arm draped over the side of this bed. Soft classical music drifted out of the speakers of his stereo, the room dark save for the light of the moon and street lamps outside peeking through the curtains he hadn't bothered to pull all the way closed . An open bottle of Scotch sat on his dresser, a glass, empty save ice cubes and a splash of amber in the bottom, sitting next to it. Youji had only poured himself one so far, letting it mellow in his stomach while he thought and considered another.
The scene from earlier that day kept replaying in his mind. He hadn't meant to drop the pot – but he was still stiff and sore, and a spasm of pain shooting through his lower back had caught him off guard. The pot had slipped from his hands before he could stop it. Instantly, Aya had been in his face. And Youji had felt himself flinch and try to pull away when the redhead had raised his fist.
Youji took a drag on his cig. He had been so sure Aya was going to hit him. But he hadn't. Youji had watched Aya take a step back, an odd expression on his face before he muttered something about inventory and turned toward the stock room. He had reappeared later, after Omi turned up and the hordes of giggling school girls arrived for their daily gawking session. The rest of the afternoon had passed without incident, Aya vanishing as soon as the metal grate dropped over the door.
Youji stubbed out his cigarette and poured himself another splash but didn't drink it as he lay back down, sighing as his weight was distributed over more of his body than his abused tailbone. It hurt less than it had a week ago, but some positions were still uncomfortable.
"Come in," he drawled, turning his head toward the knock at the door, but otherwise not moving. He blinked a few times when it swung open revealing Aya, still dressed as he had been earlier in the day. Youji had expected Omi, coming to drag him off to watch a movie or play video games. Not Aya.
"Come to kick my ass again, Fujimiya?" he asked as he pulled himself so he was sitting against the headboard – ready to defend himself if Aya launched himself from the door way. But Aya didn't look angry; he looked, well, tired, if Youji thought that description could ever fit his teammate. Aya never looked tired. He always looked angry, or cool and calm, but rarely let his expression show what he was feeling.
If anything, Aya looked even more tired at that statement. "No," he said, standing in the doorway almost hesitantly, arms dangling loosely at his sides.
"Well." Youji paused, unsure what was happening. Nothing had ever made Aya approach him this way before. "What do you want, then?"
"About today," Aya began, then looked down at his feet and clenched his hands. "I -- I'm sorry."
Youji felt like his jaw was hanging around somewhere by his knees. He shut his mouth with a snap. Aya was apologizing? Aya never apologized. The closest he had ever come was telling Omi he wasn't a Takatori.
"It won't happen again," Aya said, and turned to go.
"Hey," Youji broke through his astonishment and found his voice. "Hey. Stay a while." He nodded to the bottle on the dresser, beads of condensation slowly trickling down the sides. Youji wasn't sure what prompted the invitation, but it sounded like a good idea, sharing this space with someone, anyone, and honestly, Aya looked like he could use a drink.
Aya paused, one hand on the door, glancing back over his shoulder at Youji. His eyes were in shadow. Youji had no idea what he was thinking. Aya was as inscrutable as always. He finally nodded once and, shutting the door behind him, walked through the entire room to the window, as if completely committing himself.
Youji watched Aya stare out the window, the silence between them growing heavy, but not uncomfortable, the gaps filled by the soft music still piped through the blonde's stereo. After several minutes, Youji shifted, still unable to stay in one position for long, moving to the edge of the bed where he could retrieve another glass from the drawer. He stood, crossing to his small fridge and after withdrawing a tray of ice, popped a few cubes into the glass with a soft rattle. He filled the glass with just enough scotch to set the cubes shifting and twirling in the glass, about two fingers worth. He set the glass on the padded window sill next to Aya's elbow.
He turned back to his dresser and heard a soft clink; when he turned back toward his teammate, the glass was empty and Aya was perched in the window seat that Youji often occupied, smoking out the window when he couldn't be bothered to go outside. His own glass and bottle in hand, Youji settled into the chair near the window, placing the bottle within easy reach of both of them, letting Aya refill his own glass, if he wanted to.
Youji sipped at his second drink, not entirely comfortable with the situation and wanting to be able to stay in control. He didn't say a word as Aya reached for the bottle, pouring himself another glass. Youji didn't know why Aya was there, why he had stayed, why he was sitting in the window seat, staring at the street below, drinking his liquor. But he knew that to talk first would be a mistake; something within him told him to wait, to enjoy the quiet moment, to savor it, because it was always possible that it wouldn't happen again.
It wasn't long after Aya's second glass was empty that Youji noticed the faint flush across the man's cheeks. Unless he'd eaten on his own, he hadn't had dinner. Or lunch, Youji remembered. He had offered to fix something for them both, but Aya had ignored him.
When Aya moved to fill his glass again, Youji held his out as well, and he found it neatly topped off before the swordsman's attention was once again turned to the world outside, where nothing was happening and Youji knew from long experience that the most interesting thing to see was the patterns in the cracks of the building next door.
"My sister," Aya said suddenly, breaking the silence that had settled in after the cd had stopped.
"What?" asked Youji, confused.
"The girl is my sister."
Aya was answering a question, Youji realized, asked days ago. He made an encouraging noise.
Leaning his head against the window, Aya closed his eyes. "Her name is Aya. Growing up, she was my best friend." He fingered the long gold earring dangling from his ear. "I bought these for her, on her birthday."
Youji watched as the normally expressionless face shifted, hints of sorrow appearing on Aya's face for the first time Youji could remember since he'd met the man.
"I took her to the festival, and she absolutely begged me for them. I told her she was too young to wear them, but she insisted." Aya's eyes were still closed, but his mouth smiled a little. "She was always so cheerful and outgoing. Precious," he whispered.
"My parents were murdered. We came home from the festival and I-I found them. I didn't wand Aya to see all the blood; I wanted to cover her eyes, but there was a bomb. I made Aya run, screamed at her to go, and she went, and she was safe...
"I saw him in the car, after the flash of explosion faded. Takatori. He waited, watched, to make sure it was done. And then - "
Aya paused. Youji held his breath, not daring to breathe lest he break the spell and the story not continue.
"She went flying, he was going so fast. Like -- a doll. And she lay so still." Aya pressed his fist to his mouth, as if he was trying not to cry, and maybe he was, Youji couldn't tell in the dim light. "When I woke up," he continued, "I was in the hospital, and Aya was in a coma."
That explained the Takatori rages, Youji thought, but didn't say anything out loud. He didn't know what he could say, what he should say. Anything he could say would only sound trite or unsympathetic. The man they had hunted had taken Aya's family, and he'd never said a word about it to any of them. It hurt Youji to think that Aya couldn't trust them, but the look on Aya's face was enough to make him understand why. The man carried so much pain and hadn't found a way to excise it.
Flexing his fingers, Aya said softly, "I'm glad he's dead."
Youji really didn't know what to say to that. They'd all had missions that they felt better about, people that they didn't mind killing, but people were still dead, no matter how much they deserved it. He supposed he could understand; Takatori had killed Aya's family, and Aya had killed Takatori, bringing himself some closure, Youji was sure. But at what cost? he thought, seeing the desolate look on Aya's face, eyes hidden.
The silence returned, and Youji didn't mind it, turning Aya's words over in his head. He wasn't sure what to do with this knowledge, now that he had it. How miserable Aya must have been, alone in every sense of the word, no one to go to, no one to comfort him. It was no wonder then, that it had been so easy to get Aya to come upstairs with him, that night so long ago. Who knew how long it had been since anyone had offered the redhead any kind of comfort.
"I should go," Aya said suddenly, sliding off the bench. His mask was back, unreadable as usual, but his eyes held something now that Youji thought he could understand, something he hadn't seen before. Pain and loss, etched into the only feature that was likely beyond Aya's control. He could school his expression, but the eyes always revealed more then their owner thought, if someone knew what to look for. "Thanks for the drink," he murmured, slipping through the dark room toward the door.
"Wait," Youji breathed when Aya opened the door. Aya paused, hand on the knob. "If Aya is your sister's name," he hesitated for a brief instant, wondering if he should continue before plunging ahead. "What's yours?"
Aya turned back toward Youji, expression blank. Youji met his eyes, seeing the immense sadness there, the longing for the life he had just spoken of. Youji's heart sank when Aya turned back to the door. He didn't expect an answer, but Aya had been talkative up to that point, for Aya.
"Ran," Aya said softly as he opened the door. "My name is Ran."
Youji didn't say anything as Aya, Ran, he corrected himself mentally, closed the door quietly behind him. Ran, he thought, unwilling to try the name on his tongue. It wasn't his place. He had named him, after a fashion, after all. But it wasn't for him to decide to change it. It was Aya's, Ran's, whomever's. He should ask, Youji decided. Because Ran had trusted him enough to tell him his real name, and if he wanted the rest of the team to know, he would tell them in time.
Youji slumped in his chair, holding his sweating glass in his hand, inexplicably drained. He winced as he shifted, wondering when he'd be able to sit without pain. Aspirin took care of most of the aches, but the last dose had worn off and he couldn't get motivated enough to go find some more.
Part of him was still trying to process what had just happened. Ran had talked to him, answered his questions. Yes, it was a couple days after the fact, but he'd talked. Not only talked but apologized and thanked, all within an hour or so.
Suddenly he couldn't find it within himself to stay angry with the redhead any longer. Since the first couple days after Ran had first walked out, Youji had felt it slip farther and farther away, leaving him clutching at it so he could feel anything at all. It hadn't been hard, at first; all he had to do was take one look at Omi or pass the hole in the wall that Ken had left in his own rage and Youji felt his own boil back up to the surface.
He had been holding onto that anger to replace the growing void he'd felt inside him since Ran had left. He was still hurt that Ran had skipped out without a word, and a little angry about the beating, but mostly he had been clinging to the remnants of that anger to stop from feeling hurt. Youji wanted Ran in his life, not just as the occasional fuck to make him forget everything else, but totally. He wanted more nights like they had just shared, not necessarily with the revelations of old ghosts, but quiet companionship over a drink, soft music and silence, lazy sex without being kicked out and the hope of doing it again when the sun rose.
But Youji knew he was a romantic. And he knew that he had no chance of getting what he wanted.
Quite sober, Youji capped the bottle of scotch and tucked it back inside the fridge. He left his glass sitting on the window ledge next to the one Ran had abandoned. With a sigh he lowered himself onto his bed, flopping back and landing spread eagle. For a long time he stared up at the blank ceiling before sleep claimed him.