Chapter Two

It was the fifth day. When he'd first gotten there, Dr. Kim had thought he was another bad guy. This town didn't see many of those, but there had been too many in the last couple month. She considered the blond a hero though for saving her life and the life of the girl, so the man that sat with him, slept on a sleeping bag on the floor by his bed, this man must be a good guy too. She felt she ought to have more complicated reasoning as a doctor, but she didn't. What she did have was a plate of pancakes with red, white, and blue syrup, in honor of the forth of July.

She knocked very lightly on the door, then peeked into the room where the town hero slept. Kinda like sleeping beauty, only male and maybe his prince had come and he didn't wake up. "I got pancakes," she whispered, voice trailing off.

The one calling himself Aya, even though Kwan swore that was a female name, though if they were gay, maybe that made sense, that one had gone for a run only an hour ago. Now he sat facing the bed, head laid down, bare feet hooked around the chair legs. Dr. Kim tapped her foot lightly, wondering how Youji's hand got onto the top of Aya's head. Aya didn't sleep enough, in her opinion anyway, so she wasn't about to wake him up and ask if he'd put Youji's hand on his head or if Youji were waking up.

If she thought that would be embarrassing, it's a good thing she didn't know what dreams were in Aya's head.

In his dream, it was Youji's birthday, the four months before. Aya had know it was his lover's birthday, the twenty-fifth, but Aya hadn't known what to do. The day before had ended with a fight that followed a mission. Youji had one black eye, and Aya had almost given him one to match, or at least almost wanted to, for the fear Aya had felt at not being able to reach him, to protect him. He wasn't sure he could work with Youji any more. In his dream, he could see the slender wire wielding man fall from the punch to his head.

Youji had been alright. The man who hit him had not, not after Aya pulled his katana free from the man's heart. Aya's face twitched in his dream and it jumped forward. Youji's birthday. Aya was too angry and confused to do anything for him, but he opened his door when Youji knocked.

And then he'd stood there. Even in his dream, months later, he still stood there, just looking. Youji's hair was pulled back and he wore one diamond earring. In all of Aya's dreams before that, and after, he'd never imagined Youji in a tuxedo, pants that fit so well, thin black cloth that reminded Aya of the shape of those legs underneath, the strength in them as they wrapped around him, when they did. White shirt, little black bow tie, satin lapels, and all Aya could think as he stood there in gray sweats was that Youji had such a beautiful body. Then he'd reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out two tickets, fanned them like a card shark as green eyes watched over the top of them.

"You like the symphony, right, Baby," Youji had said, voice this mix of Tokyo streets and melted caramel that made Aya want to taste his tongue. Aya had forgotten all about the black eye that took up a quarter of Youji's face. "I got good seats."

The dream skipped forward then, paused just briefly in the symphony for Youji holding out his hand and Aya slipping his into the waiting hand. Such a small, unimportant, non violent touch, and it still settled into Aya's dream like a jewel. This moment, holding Youji's hand in a crowded theater, Mozart playing like the heavens themselves could smile at him.

There are some moments that glow like an epiphany. It was the kind of moment that saints write stories about god and make other people believe. All the violence, blood, and rage lost their hold and value. Everyone needs something to use as an argument against self-hate, against the blows of the world and until that moment Aya's had been his need for revenge, his control of his katana, his anger, and then, as Youji's fingers closed around his, as those green eyes lit up in a smile, then Youji became Aya's argument against death and worthlessness. Aya had simply squeezed Youji's hand back and turned back to watching the orchestra.

The dream skipped forward again. In his dreams, this was the normal pattern, start, highlight, death, except in this dream, the death was always a different kind of death. They lay on Youji's bed. They always made love on Youji's bed, dirtied Youji's sheets. Youji tilted his head back, pressing it into the pillow and groaned as Aya breathed against his throat breathed a trail, then went back and painted it with his tongue. Always when they made love, Youji would ask, and Aya would tell him not to be stupid.

"Do you love me? Aya, keep me always?" Youji said, voice fuzzy, warm, an undefended voice.

Aya always dreamed this part so vividly, never skimming over it. He took hold of Youji's chin. Staring directly into those green eyes, so there would be no mistake in what he was about to say. "I love you. I will keep you forever."

Youji's purr vibrated through his body. "Aya. Let's run away together, go somewhere where there's just us and rice paddies and we can just be."

"Maybe," Aya whispered, it was still only a dream, lasting forever in Aya's mind, dancing together with Youji's close heat.

And then the dream changed. Aya knew he was there, sitting in a chair, head on Youji's bed, but Youji was leaning against him, draped over his back, kissing the back of his neck. "I knew you'd come find me, Baby, but I thought it was going to be different, you know?"

Dreaming Aya whispered, "Youji! I love you, Youji. You're going to wake up now, Youji?"

"Baby," Youji whispered, breath warm against Aya's ear and as real as the cigarette smoke that had lead him there in the first place, "You know I'll do anything for you, Aya Baby."

Aya could feel himself held in Youji's arms. "Youji!"

Just a faint, ghostly kiss touched his cheek and he woke, shaking, the first tears in years streaming down his cheeks. "Youji, wake up, Youji, please wake up Youji, please. I need you! I need you, Youji! You have to wake up."

His words were all in Japanese, and broken with sobs as he held Youji's limp hand pleaded.

Dr. Kim didn't speak Japanese, but she spoke heart and left them alone. If anything could wake someone from a coma, that pleading would do it.