Part III

Momoe-san hadn't seemed surprised to see them at all. Youji probably called and warned her too, Aya thought sourly. Gods be damned idiot doesn't know when to save his own sorry ass.

He settled himself in a deep armchair with a clear view of the front door. Momoe-san had greeted Aya and his sister and unceremoniously shown them to their rooms. After dropping his bags in 'his' room, Aya had gone to check on his sister. Aya-chan was fast asleep now, though she had made it a point to tell him she loved him. His expression unconsciously darkened.

What Aya knew Sakura believed about him, and what he knew himself to be were two very different things. She had misinterpreted her childish infatuation with him as love, and that rose-colored innocence had tinted everything she saw. She believed he was some kind of white knight, dispensing poetic justice and rescuing damsels in distress. Aya-chan's blasé reaction to his past only told him that Sakura had poisoned her mind with that girlish tripe as well. He had never been able to make Sakura understand who he really was, blind as she was to his detestable chosen profession.

He was a murderer. A killer. That was all.

He had experienced a temporary moment of weakness and a lapse in judgement when his sister had magically awakened. All he wanted was to believe that he could leave that life behind, and begin again. His hand reached up to tug at an earring that was no longer there. He twisted the small hoop that was its replacement reflectively. Aya's life since he had left Tokyo had been one long minute, waiting for the day when Aya-chan discovered the truth about him and rejected him. It still hadn't come.

A nagging pain finally acquired his attention. He pulled Youji's lighter out of his pocket, where it had been digging into his hip. Aya stared at it for a moment or two. Youji had carried this lighter ever since they had met. It was with the older man wherever he went, and his pants inevitably had small rectangular worn spots on the front right pocket. Youji was unusually protective of it as well. Aya caressed it with his thumb, feeling the ridges of the designs on the side. Like so many of the other things his former lover cherished, it was of the best quality. Youji had expensive taste.

Suddenly a craving he hadn't expected to feel again hit Aya forcefully. Leaning to the side, he dug through the desk nestled against the wall. Momoe-san usually was – ah, there they were. Youji's favorite brand even. Tapping the pack on his knee, he slid a cigarette out and set it back in the desk drawer, closing it with a soft shushing noise.

Sticking the cigarette between his lips and lighting it with Youji's lighter, Aya inhaled deeply, sitting back in the chair again. He tilted his head back as he exhaled, reveling in the taste of this sometimes habit he had denied himself for more than two years. In fact, if he thought about it, he hadn't smoked since the last time he and Youji had – his mind shied away from that subject. Closing his eyes instead, he savored his guilty pleasure.

He had been half hoping, half expecting Youji to already be here when he and Aya-chan had arrived. After all, Youji still had Super Seven, his roadster, and drove most of the time like a bat out of hell. Deep in his mind, however, Aya knew that this hope was an irrational one. Of course Youji would have to ditch his car. Unless he was prepared to take a chance and lead the killer right to Momoe-san's doorstep, he would have to find some other mode of transportation to Nagoya. But it was less than a hundred miles. It wouldn't take him that long, would it?

No, it would do him no good to worry about Youji. He could take care of himself. He was sitting out here instead of lying down in a nice, comfortable bed because he needed to plan. Aya started to mentally tick off all the questions he would have to ask Youji when he arrived. He absentmindedly checked his watch. Four in the morning already? Where was he?

His hands gripped the armrests of his chair, and he felt fear coiling deep in his stomach. He knew with a certainty now that something must have happened. No. Maybe the man was just being responsible for once and covering his tracks. Aya leaned forward, running his hands tiredly through his hair. His eyes felt like sandpaper. He knew he should try to sleep, but . . . He knew in his heart he wouldn't be able to until Youji showed up. To distract himself, he lit another cigarette.

Idly, Aya wondered what Youji was doing with his time in Tokyo now. Vaguely, he remembered Omi mentioning something about Youji reopening his private investigating business in one of his many chatty emails. It had to be going well, as it seemed Youji's habits hadn't changed.

Sighing, Aya leaned his head against the back of the armchair. Here, in the quiet before pre-dawn, in the space when time seemed to not move at all, or else move too quickly, while he was waiting with his heart in his throat, he could admit to himself that he missed Youji. He missed the way Youji kept a certain smile just for him, he missed the way the older man teased him, he even missed the smell of cigarette smoke in the morning. Aya knew, though, that things once lost were almost never found. A relationship with Youji now would be an impossibility.

He closed his eyes and resolved not to think about it.

------

A knock on the door jolted him out of the doze he had fallen into. With a glance at his watch – seven thirty! – he hurried to answer.

Youji was leaning tiredly against the door frame. He was smiling, but Aya could see the small lines of pain hidden behind it. His face seemed paler than usual. He was wearing his leather jacket, zipped all the way up, and holding his right side. "Yo," he said.

Aya clenched the door with his hand. "Where the hell have you been?" he hissed.

Sidling past him into the entryway, Youji gave him an incredulous look. "Why, Ran, I didn't know you cared," he said lightly.

I shouldn't. "I don't," Aya spat, slamming the door.

Youji started to shrug, then caught himself. Aya barely saw his wince of pain. He turned his back on Aya, unzipping his jacket and heading down the hall to the bathroom. "Whatever."

Aya followed him, unable to let it go. He wasn't quite sure why he was so angry. There was a thunking sound as something hit the floor, presumably Youji's jacket. Aya opened his mouth to say something, he didn't know what, but the words died on his lips when he saw the t-shirt covered in blood wrapped around Youji's waist. "You're hurt," he managed.

"Yeah, you think?" Youji asked sarcastically as he gingerly tried to peel the impromptu bandage away from his skin.

Brushing his hands aside, Aya took over. "You told me you were safe," he said accusingly.

Their eyes met in the mirror as Youji leaned forward to clutch the counter with both hands. "I lied."

"Idiot." Aya pulled the shirt sharply away from Youji's side.

Youji gave a surprised yelp. "Jesus fucking Christ, Aya! That fucking hurt!"

Impassively, Aya handed him a damp washcloth and began setting up the first aid kit. "You should have told me you were injured," he said. He lifted the washcloth aside for a moment and studied the wound. "You're lucky. The bullet just grazed your side." He shook some disinfectant onto a gauze pad. "You don't need stitches."

"Well thank God." Youji dabbed at the blood trickling down his side. "I don't think I could take you stabbing me with a needle after being pushed around for two fucking hours on the commuter train."

So that's why he was so late. "What happened?" Aya methodically began cleaning the wound.

Youji closed his eyes and placed his hands on the counter again. Aya could see small lines of pain radiating around them. He wasn't trying to be gentle. "After we . . . talked, I walked around a bit. I was in a park when it happened. He must have been behind me, the bastard." He took a shallow breath. "So I got the hell out of there and then I called you and Momoe-san. I drove to Kyoto, and then took the train here. I waited around in the station for a while. No one was following me by then." He hissed through his teeth as Aya pressed more gauze against the gash.

"Hold that," Aya commanded. He started carefully wrapping flexible bandages around Youji's middle. "You shouldn't have endangered yourself like that."

Youji didn't answer, his eyes still closed, concentrating on keeping his breathing even.

Aya bit his lip as his hands brushed Youji's skin. This warmth, this scene, it reminded him of a distant time. Of Youji gripping the counter with his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open as he gasped for air. His hands finished tying the bandages automatically. He unconsciously stepped closer to Youji, leaning his head against the taller man's back. "Don't do that again," he said.

Youji's shoulders stiffened. "Aya," he breathed.

Aya's head snapped up. What was he doing? This was not that place. This was not that time. It could never happen again. He had a responsibility to his sister to remember. "Don't call me that." He had to get away. He stepped into the hallway, out of the bathroom that suddenly seemed too small.

"Fine." Youji's voice sounded infinitely weary.

Turning, Aya said, "There are pain killers in the cabinet. Get some sleep, Youji." He dared not look at the other man's face.