Okay, a few things for new readers. This is a sequel. To understand most things, you really would need to have read my previous fanfiction "Falling to Pieces" For those who've managed to wade through "Falling to Pieces", and are now flocking for the promised continuation... well... here be monsters. -stops- Wait, that wasn't what I meant to say. Gah. Anyway: sequel, must read prequel first. YAY! Dark Hunter's back! Sorry I was so lazy! Chocolate covered thanks for Melissa and Tannim Tae for reading through this chapter beforehand to let me know whether or not it was as big a pile of crap as I thought it was. I've been informed it isn't, but if you-the readers-out there see anything you feel I should fix, feel free to rant at me!
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Ken had searched the bathroom at least five times before turning on the water, finally ready for the ten-minute shower that was all he was capable of coaxing from the decrepit water heater.
There shouldn't have been any insects around to climb into the tub with him, but when he felt something against his toe and looked down, there it was. Another one of those loathsome, glistening, disease carriers. Yet another one of the many roaches infesting his home. In his fucking shower. He vehemently washed it down the drain, watching its repeated attempts to climb back out again for the two minutes it took to drown. He finished the shower in a self-righteous mixture of rage and disgust, renewing a struggle to tamp down the unheralded emotions.
Having grown up in a fairly strict setting, Ken had learned to hide his ire at an early age, though he never mastered total dispersal. It was always the little things that set him off. A string of bad days culminating in a batch of burnt toast, a misinterpreted laugh. It was always that one tiny little pet peeve that would come crashing down on his defenseless patience. A cockroach in his shower.
As a precaution, it was customary for him to go into a self-imposed isolation when his blood began to boil, internalizing the anger until he burnt himself out beyond the point of caring. No one had noticed any of this yet, not even Omi. Poor Omi, waiting in the next room; doing a crossword puzzle, still in bed and wearing his pajamas.
He couldn't easily avoid Omi, right outside the door. Waiting with his big blue eyes and his unending cheer, an accident waiting to happen.
No other option presented itself to Ken, and he steeled his nerves, knowing a shut mouth was the only way to keep from blasting those who least deserved it.
Omi liked to talk. To Ken. All the time. About anything he could come up with. The weather, the state of household repairs, a new recipe he'd found, one more proclamation of his love for Ken. It was the latter, of course, which set off his temper. How could anyone willing look into those eyes, day after day and lie? Respond with the expected "I love you" that the fragile blonde child expected?
Before he could help himself, Ken was yelling about anything that readily came to mind: his hatred of this home, its unexpected infestation, their lying son of a bitch of a real estate agent, his inability to tolerate all the aspects of his life, his desire to leave them all behind to this hell house and to each other. And then he'd told Omi that he couldn't stand any more of the boy's pathetic clinging or his constant inability to cope without being reminded that he was cared for. Not in those words exactly. The version from his lips had involved a hell of a lot more profanity.
Then Ken shut his mouth, pulled on the rest of his clothes and left. It was the only way he could dam that callous, violent flow of words. Lacking any local escape, he sat on the front porch, envying Youji's old smoking addiction. At least with a cigarette in hand, one could truly appear to be brooding. It shouoldn't be long before Omi showed up, looking so unbearably sad and alone as he often did. Ken wasn't up to coping with that right now.
The whole house was nothing but a frustration. An entire month of repairs, redecorating, painting, rewiring and furnishing and it still needed more work, that and a fortune's worth of roach prevention merchandise. A poison bait trap for each room, each corner, underneath every still-standing object.
The water never stayed hot for long. None of the upstairs lights worked, faulty wiring that no one had been able to fix yet, even expensive professionals. He was afraid they'd burn everything down with their endless parade of candles and lanterns, but they couldn't very well stumble around in the dark, could they? The stove was gas and difficult to cook with. The heating was pathetic, coming out of ceiling vents and warming nothing but the overhead light fixtures. Youji suffered the most from the lack of heat, but that's not to say it didn't wear on them all.
No, he couldn't face Omi yet. Not with all these annoyances already running through his head. He prayed to the nameless, dark things that watched over kind-hearted assassins to keep Omi away. The deities of death-bringers didn't listen. They rarely did.
"Ken? You almost through skulking about out here?"
Well, they sort of listened, those faceless gods. It was only Youji, leaning against the other side of the rickety wooden porch, down jacketed and shoeless. Ken wondered how loud a fuss Youji would make when he finally got some splinters jabbed into his unwisely bare feet. Ken wondered if he himself had calmed down to the point where he wouldn't laugh when that happened to Youji.
Youji dropped down next to him, sitting hunched up on the top step. "You really should apologize to Omi."
"For what?" Ken kept the words as blank as he could.
"Hey, the walls are thin, if we can hear each other in the middle of the night making the wrong kinds of noises, then obviously your shouting wouldn't be an issue." Youji tapped his hands together, wishing for a cigarette. Evenings like this one were just made for a nice smoke out back while one watched the sun set. Granted, Aya would put his booted foot clear up Youji's ass if he ever caught him smoking again, but the thought still remained, untromped.
Ken sighed, snapping Youji back from his current, wistful train of thought. "I can't help it. I was in a horrible mood and then he just kept talking at me, saying he loved me, talking about pointless things. On and on. It gets a bit overwhelming after the first two minutes or so." Ken looked behind him, making sure no one else was around. "Youji, I can't keep this up much longer. It's too much like a real relationship. That's not what I signed on for. That's not what I ever thought this would turn into."
"So, you're planning on abandoning? Are you still going to stay in this house with the person you lied to and hurt for months running?" Youji spread his hands wide, unsure of what council to give his friend.
"I don't know." Ken ran a hand through his hair, sighed. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I can't keep doing this. Telling him I care even if I don't, not the way he wants me to. The way I've been telling him I do. I don't know how this could wind up as anything but a messy situation."
"Tell him that. Tell him you're not feeling so great about an uber-dependant relationship and you feel you should both back off on the strong feelings for a while longer. Something along those lines."
"It's a little too late for that, a year and four months into the issue. There's no way I can get out of this without hurting his feelings."
Youji smiled tightly. "I'm thinking you'd better formulate a harmless solution pretty damned fast. Both Aya and I would be more than willing to beat the crap out of you if you hurt the kid." He leaned over and placed a seemingly friendly hand on Ken's shoulder. "You're just as much a friend as he is, but you're more capable of taking care of yourself. And you're older and should have known better to begin with. Whatever you do, be careful." He smiled again, shaking out lanky limbs and padding back inside, his feet still free of splinters.
Ken remained, pulling his coat a little tighter around his body, hoping this new isolation would last. It wasn't three against one, as the odds were want to appear. Aya and Youji would be hostile for a while if he upset Omi, but he wouldn't lose them as friends, and he might not lose Omi. Without Omi, without even a distant friendship, things seemed a tiny bit bleaker.
The sky faded to denim shades, to a deeper, purer indigo, and then finally attained its true moonless ink. Ken's stomach had been rumbling for the past hour or so, maybe longer than that. As his body temperature dropped, his anger wore down, furious inner monologues hushing to occasional whispered thoughts. He wasn't angry any more, but he hadn't worked out the right apology and therefore lacked a reason to return to the comparatively warmer house.
Finally working out enough partially true responses/explanations to throw at Omi, Ken stumbled to his feet, muscles cramped up from sitting without moving for so long. It was common practice for assassins to exercise lengthy periods of stillness, but the painlessness only lasted as long as the body remained unmoving. Then the blood came flowing back into extremities, tingling and pinpricking. That was his least favorite part, trying to stand on burning feet. He caught his hand on the railing; got a palmful of wooden slivers ground into his skin for his balancing troubles.
"Dammit! Why couldn't it have been Youji's feet?" Ken refrained from smacking a hand to his forehead, figuring he'd transfer the splinters to his face as well. Time to go in and face the beast. Then he could hide in the bathroom while Omi made sad eyes at the door. There used to be a drug store first-aid kit under the sink, including a pair of tweezers. The wood slivers would be hard to get out by candlelight, but it had to be done.
Glaring at his hand, he stomped inside, past Youji and the blaring TV. "Aya wants to see you. He's in the kitchen!" Youji called helpfully after Ken's tensed back.
More threats of violence were all Ken was expecting. Instead he received a tray full of food: sandwiches and pasta. "He hasn't eaten and neither have you. Be nice or I'll break every bone in your body." Aya also gave Ken a friendly pat on the shoulder before disappearing through a darkened doorframe, his gait still awkward, unhealed, off to spend more time with his co-conspirator.
The box of tools left on the top step almost wound up sending Ken on a fast and painful trip back down the stairs, but he exercised his usual brand of unappreciated luck and grace and didn't even spill the pasta, letting out a sigh of relief as his feet planted themselves firmly on the hallway carpet. No lights, but he knew where their door was, down to a footstep count by this point.
Omi sat on the bed, fists clenched in the sheets, shoulders hunched. He didn't look up as the door opened. Who else would it be? Enough hours had gone by, Ken must be through wallowing in guilt. Now it was time for Ken to show up and act cheerful, pretending nothing had happened. A thoroughly established pattern. An infuriating selective-memory. There was a soft clink as something was presumably set down, then a flare of light in the darkness as Ken went around the room, lighting candles.
"Did you stay right here the whole time?" Ken finally asked awkwardly. He stopped at the foot of the bed, watching Omi's fists clench and unclench.
"Sometimes you get like that and can't stand to be around people, especially me," the younger boy started. "Why don't you try telling me ahead of time instead of blowing up at me? I'd never do anything like that, take out my anger on the nearest people. Now really isn't the time for you to pretend everything is okay between us and that you haven't done anything even the slightest bit wrong. Go sleep on the couch; leave me alone until tomorrow. I don't feel much like talking to you."
"Omi, I'm sorry! What else am I supposed to say or do?" Ken lost track of all his originally planned apologies and rationales. Only nine sentences into the discussion and already things weren't going according to his planning. Omi never went on the offensive. He certainly wasn't supposed to start now. Ken perched on the side of the bed, trying to herd things back to his original plan.
"Sometimes I do lose my temper. I don't get a warning either, so how could I give you one? I don't mean to. I don't mean anything I say at times like that, I'm just ranting, blowing off some steam."
"Then why would you say shit like that at all, if you don't mean it?!" Omi exploded, throwing in uncharacteristic profanity, a further sign of how upset he was; slamming a fist down on the mattress. "You're so blunt it's downright painful to watch most of the time. You never say things you don't think or mean at least on some levels. Everything you said to me, none of it was calculated; that's not how you work. You'd never sit down and make lists of the things you knew would hurt me the next time you get angry; you just say whatever comes to mind without a second of hesitation. You're even more likely to speak without thinking when you're mad. You'd never say something you hadn't already felt or thought."
"Sounds like you've already got a nice little speech plotted out, should I just wait while you get it off your chest?" Ken couldn't help the flare of resentment. Yes, he was blunt, that was a well-known fact. A lot of people considered it to be one of his redeeming features. It was one thing to be the evil, accused one in a situation, it was quite another to be the evil, accused one, spitting out flustered, clumsy words while his opponent had entire dialogues lined up for his usage.
Omi's lower lip trembled and he looked down. "If you don't want to hear it, you don't have to."
"Now you're putting words in my mouth. I just want a chance to try to explain things to you, and then you can tell me what a horrible jerk I am until the sun comes up again. Just because I say something that may reflect my thoughts at the time, that doesn't mean I'm thinking anything even remotely similar five minutes later. I was mad and I was thinking a lot of angry, irrational things that I normally wouldn't even have crossing my mind. Obviously, if my tongue is as overwhelmingly influenced by strong emotions as you'd like to believe, then wouldn't it make sense for me to have brought up any number of those topics at an earlier date."
"You're always influenced by strong emotions. The things you won't come out and say to my face; you express them all with your eyes and your reactions. I know you're tired of me, of being chained to me like some sort of dead weight bent on slowing your progress and making your life miserable. And I know-" Omi stops, his jaw clenching. For a moment Ken thought Omi was finally going to give up and cry, but then blue eyes closed tightly and pale lips pressed themselves into a tight line.
Ken took a chance and put his hand on one of Omi's slumped shoulders. "I was really only in a bad mood. Things have been building up on me. It's not exactly easy living here without lights or heating or reliable hot water. It's enough to make anyone cranky after a while. I guess I just resent how well you seem to be coping with everything. It's enough to push anyone over the edge, and you were blithely unaffected by it all." He shrugged. "I've never laid claims to rational sensibilities or thought-out plans of action."
"You are tired of me. That's the heart of the issue. Even Aya has noticed how you've been acting. I'm sorry if I'm not what you want anymore, but if you'll just tell me, I'll change. I can be what you want." Omi transferred his hands to Ken's forearm, trying to hold on in the only way he knew. "I wouldn't mind. I could change, for you I could change."
Ken ran a shaky hand through his hair. Omi had brought up the topic himself. This was his chance. He could find some way to begin a gentle letdown, free himself of any obligations. End the relationship and make it seem to be less his fault.
"Omi, sometimes you can be too perceptive." He stated, having a vague idea of where he could lead everything.
"I'll stop then." Omi looked up, mouth still drawn, eyes full of unbearable hope. "Anything you want me to change; just tell me and I will." He clasped Ken's hand in his.
Ken wet his lower lip and tried to recalibrate things. Omi wasn't cooperating, in fact was doing the opposite and refusing to see any sort of doomed inevitability. 'I can change', he'd said. You can't change your entire personality on a whim. What the fucking hell was he supposed to say to that? What do you tell someone who has just offered to sacrifice their individuality for you? Ken tried to reform his thoughts, made the mistake of looking at those miserable, too-old eyes. Nobody deserves to be alone.
"It-it's not you. This damned house is just getting me down, eating up so much of my time and sanity. I need some change. You were partially right. I am getting tired of things, my surroundings. Not you. I miss our old work; I miss being an assassin, having an outlet for all this pent up energy. I even miss being a florist, with all the annoying teenaged girls that came with it. I need something to do other than endless house repairs."
Omi shifted a bit closer. "We can't do anything as a team until-"
"I know we can't fucking do anything until Aya's fucking leg has healed up." Ken forced himself to stop talking while he regrouped yet again. Still hadn't worn the anger down yet, it appeared.
"I know how it has to be. Aya would feel useless if we went off without him, even if he were masterminding operations behind the scenes. If he suffers, we all suffer. That's how it goes."
Ken looked over, "What's wrong now?" Omi glanced away, wringing his hands.
"Nothing. I'm sorry." He hunched his shoulders up again.
A slow exhalation of breath. Time for a decision. Should he stay or should he let the inevitable take control and be an asshole. Omi shivered next to him. Ken sighed again, put an arm around Omi.
"Don't be sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. Don't try to change for me. You're fine the way you are. Be yourself; I love you as you are." There was no going back now; Ken understood that. As the saying went, you win some, you lose some. Ken couldn't ever remember winning any.
"Are you sure?" Omi tucked his head under Ken's chin, huddled against the outside chill of his body.
"Yes." He wasn't sure at all. Lying never lead to anything good.
"Oh! You've got splinters in your hand. Sit here, let me get the tweezers." Omi leaped off the bed, hastily rubbing his eyes. Ken closed his and wondered when he'd next be alone to berate himself for being an idiot.
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Okay, you guys can probably expect a few annoyingly angsty chapter endings while I'm getting things set up. Fear not, Youji and Aya fans, they're in the next chapter. I'm going to be dividing things fairly equally between the two "happy" little couples. -laughs- Anyway, I'm baaaaaack! Yay! E-mail me at darkhunter@ijustdontcare.com or akainobaka@mchsi.com , or even better, leave me some spiffy feedback! -gives candy to all-
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Ken had searched the bathroom at least five times before turning on the water, finally ready for the ten-minute shower that was all he was capable of coaxing from the decrepit water heater.
There shouldn't have been any insects around to climb into the tub with him, but when he felt something against his toe and looked down, there it was. Another one of those loathsome, glistening, disease carriers. Yet another one of the many roaches infesting his home. In his fucking shower. He vehemently washed it down the drain, watching its repeated attempts to climb back out again for the two minutes it took to drown. He finished the shower in a self-righteous mixture of rage and disgust, renewing a struggle to tamp down the unheralded emotions.
Having grown up in a fairly strict setting, Ken had learned to hide his ire at an early age, though he never mastered total dispersal. It was always the little things that set him off. A string of bad days culminating in a batch of burnt toast, a misinterpreted laugh. It was always that one tiny little pet peeve that would come crashing down on his defenseless patience. A cockroach in his shower.
As a precaution, it was customary for him to go into a self-imposed isolation when his blood began to boil, internalizing the anger until he burnt himself out beyond the point of caring. No one had noticed any of this yet, not even Omi. Poor Omi, waiting in the next room; doing a crossword puzzle, still in bed and wearing his pajamas.
He couldn't easily avoid Omi, right outside the door. Waiting with his big blue eyes and his unending cheer, an accident waiting to happen.
No other option presented itself to Ken, and he steeled his nerves, knowing a shut mouth was the only way to keep from blasting those who least deserved it.
Omi liked to talk. To Ken. All the time. About anything he could come up with. The weather, the state of household repairs, a new recipe he'd found, one more proclamation of his love for Ken. It was the latter, of course, which set off his temper. How could anyone willing look into those eyes, day after day and lie? Respond with the expected "I love you" that the fragile blonde child expected?
Before he could help himself, Ken was yelling about anything that readily came to mind: his hatred of this home, its unexpected infestation, their lying son of a bitch of a real estate agent, his inability to tolerate all the aspects of his life, his desire to leave them all behind to this hell house and to each other. And then he'd told Omi that he couldn't stand any more of the boy's pathetic clinging or his constant inability to cope without being reminded that he was cared for. Not in those words exactly. The version from his lips had involved a hell of a lot more profanity.
Then Ken shut his mouth, pulled on the rest of his clothes and left. It was the only way he could dam that callous, violent flow of words. Lacking any local escape, he sat on the front porch, envying Youji's old smoking addiction. At least with a cigarette in hand, one could truly appear to be brooding. It shouoldn't be long before Omi showed up, looking so unbearably sad and alone as he often did. Ken wasn't up to coping with that right now.
The whole house was nothing but a frustration. An entire month of repairs, redecorating, painting, rewiring and furnishing and it still needed more work, that and a fortune's worth of roach prevention merchandise. A poison bait trap for each room, each corner, underneath every still-standing object.
The water never stayed hot for long. None of the upstairs lights worked, faulty wiring that no one had been able to fix yet, even expensive professionals. He was afraid they'd burn everything down with their endless parade of candles and lanterns, but they couldn't very well stumble around in the dark, could they? The stove was gas and difficult to cook with. The heating was pathetic, coming out of ceiling vents and warming nothing but the overhead light fixtures. Youji suffered the most from the lack of heat, but that's not to say it didn't wear on them all.
No, he couldn't face Omi yet. Not with all these annoyances already running through his head. He prayed to the nameless, dark things that watched over kind-hearted assassins to keep Omi away. The deities of death-bringers didn't listen. They rarely did.
"Ken? You almost through skulking about out here?"
Well, they sort of listened, those faceless gods. It was only Youji, leaning against the other side of the rickety wooden porch, down jacketed and shoeless. Ken wondered how loud a fuss Youji would make when he finally got some splinters jabbed into his unwisely bare feet. Ken wondered if he himself had calmed down to the point where he wouldn't laugh when that happened to Youji.
Youji dropped down next to him, sitting hunched up on the top step. "You really should apologize to Omi."
"For what?" Ken kept the words as blank as he could.
"Hey, the walls are thin, if we can hear each other in the middle of the night making the wrong kinds of noises, then obviously your shouting wouldn't be an issue." Youji tapped his hands together, wishing for a cigarette. Evenings like this one were just made for a nice smoke out back while one watched the sun set. Granted, Aya would put his booted foot clear up Youji's ass if he ever caught him smoking again, but the thought still remained, untromped.
Ken sighed, snapping Youji back from his current, wistful train of thought. "I can't help it. I was in a horrible mood and then he just kept talking at me, saying he loved me, talking about pointless things. On and on. It gets a bit overwhelming after the first two minutes or so." Ken looked behind him, making sure no one else was around. "Youji, I can't keep this up much longer. It's too much like a real relationship. That's not what I signed on for. That's not what I ever thought this would turn into."
"So, you're planning on abandoning? Are you still going to stay in this house with the person you lied to and hurt for months running?" Youji spread his hands wide, unsure of what council to give his friend.
"I don't know." Ken ran a hand through his hair, sighed. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I can't keep doing this. Telling him I care even if I don't, not the way he wants me to. The way I've been telling him I do. I don't know how this could wind up as anything but a messy situation."
"Tell him that. Tell him you're not feeling so great about an uber-dependant relationship and you feel you should both back off on the strong feelings for a while longer. Something along those lines."
"It's a little too late for that, a year and four months into the issue. There's no way I can get out of this without hurting his feelings."
Youji smiled tightly. "I'm thinking you'd better formulate a harmless solution pretty damned fast. Both Aya and I would be more than willing to beat the crap out of you if you hurt the kid." He leaned over and placed a seemingly friendly hand on Ken's shoulder. "You're just as much a friend as he is, but you're more capable of taking care of yourself. And you're older and should have known better to begin with. Whatever you do, be careful." He smiled again, shaking out lanky limbs and padding back inside, his feet still free of splinters.
Ken remained, pulling his coat a little tighter around his body, hoping this new isolation would last. It wasn't three against one, as the odds were want to appear. Aya and Youji would be hostile for a while if he upset Omi, but he wouldn't lose them as friends, and he might not lose Omi. Without Omi, without even a distant friendship, things seemed a tiny bit bleaker.
The sky faded to denim shades, to a deeper, purer indigo, and then finally attained its true moonless ink. Ken's stomach had been rumbling for the past hour or so, maybe longer than that. As his body temperature dropped, his anger wore down, furious inner monologues hushing to occasional whispered thoughts. He wasn't angry any more, but he hadn't worked out the right apology and therefore lacked a reason to return to the comparatively warmer house.
Finally working out enough partially true responses/explanations to throw at Omi, Ken stumbled to his feet, muscles cramped up from sitting without moving for so long. It was common practice for assassins to exercise lengthy periods of stillness, but the painlessness only lasted as long as the body remained unmoving. Then the blood came flowing back into extremities, tingling and pinpricking. That was his least favorite part, trying to stand on burning feet. He caught his hand on the railing; got a palmful of wooden slivers ground into his skin for his balancing troubles.
"Dammit! Why couldn't it have been Youji's feet?" Ken refrained from smacking a hand to his forehead, figuring he'd transfer the splinters to his face as well. Time to go in and face the beast. Then he could hide in the bathroom while Omi made sad eyes at the door. There used to be a drug store first-aid kit under the sink, including a pair of tweezers. The wood slivers would be hard to get out by candlelight, but it had to be done.
Glaring at his hand, he stomped inside, past Youji and the blaring TV. "Aya wants to see you. He's in the kitchen!" Youji called helpfully after Ken's tensed back.
More threats of violence were all Ken was expecting. Instead he received a tray full of food: sandwiches and pasta. "He hasn't eaten and neither have you. Be nice or I'll break every bone in your body." Aya also gave Ken a friendly pat on the shoulder before disappearing through a darkened doorframe, his gait still awkward, unhealed, off to spend more time with his co-conspirator.
The box of tools left on the top step almost wound up sending Ken on a fast and painful trip back down the stairs, but he exercised his usual brand of unappreciated luck and grace and didn't even spill the pasta, letting out a sigh of relief as his feet planted themselves firmly on the hallway carpet. No lights, but he knew where their door was, down to a footstep count by this point.
Omi sat on the bed, fists clenched in the sheets, shoulders hunched. He didn't look up as the door opened. Who else would it be? Enough hours had gone by, Ken must be through wallowing in guilt. Now it was time for Ken to show up and act cheerful, pretending nothing had happened. A thoroughly established pattern. An infuriating selective-memory. There was a soft clink as something was presumably set down, then a flare of light in the darkness as Ken went around the room, lighting candles.
"Did you stay right here the whole time?" Ken finally asked awkwardly. He stopped at the foot of the bed, watching Omi's fists clench and unclench.
"Sometimes you get like that and can't stand to be around people, especially me," the younger boy started. "Why don't you try telling me ahead of time instead of blowing up at me? I'd never do anything like that, take out my anger on the nearest people. Now really isn't the time for you to pretend everything is okay between us and that you haven't done anything even the slightest bit wrong. Go sleep on the couch; leave me alone until tomorrow. I don't feel much like talking to you."
"Omi, I'm sorry! What else am I supposed to say or do?" Ken lost track of all his originally planned apologies and rationales. Only nine sentences into the discussion and already things weren't going according to his planning. Omi never went on the offensive. He certainly wasn't supposed to start now. Ken perched on the side of the bed, trying to herd things back to his original plan.
"Sometimes I do lose my temper. I don't get a warning either, so how could I give you one? I don't mean to. I don't mean anything I say at times like that, I'm just ranting, blowing off some steam."
"Then why would you say shit like that at all, if you don't mean it?!" Omi exploded, throwing in uncharacteristic profanity, a further sign of how upset he was; slamming a fist down on the mattress. "You're so blunt it's downright painful to watch most of the time. You never say things you don't think or mean at least on some levels. Everything you said to me, none of it was calculated; that's not how you work. You'd never sit down and make lists of the things you knew would hurt me the next time you get angry; you just say whatever comes to mind without a second of hesitation. You're even more likely to speak without thinking when you're mad. You'd never say something you hadn't already felt or thought."
"Sounds like you've already got a nice little speech plotted out, should I just wait while you get it off your chest?" Ken couldn't help the flare of resentment. Yes, he was blunt, that was a well-known fact. A lot of people considered it to be one of his redeeming features. It was one thing to be the evil, accused one in a situation, it was quite another to be the evil, accused one, spitting out flustered, clumsy words while his opponent had entire dialogues lined up for his usage.
Omi's lower lip trembled and he looked down. "If you don't want to hear it, you don't have to."
"Now you're putting words in my mouth. I just want a chance to try to explain things to you, and then you can tell me what a horrible jerk I am until the sun comes up again. Just because I say something that may reflect my thoughts at the time, that doesn't mean I'm thinking anything even remotely similar five minutes later. I was mad and I was thinking a lot of angry, irrational things that I normally wouldn't even have crossing my mind. Obviously, if my tongue is as overwhelmingly influenced by strong emotions as you'd like to believe, then wouldn't it make sense for me to have brought up any number of those topics at an earlier date."
"You're always influenced by strong emotions. The things you won't come out and say to my face; you express them all with your eyes and your reactions. I know you're tired of me, of being chained to me like some sort of dead weight bent on slowing your progress and making your life miserable. And I know-" Omi stops, his jaw clenching. For a moment Ken thought Omi was finally going to give up and cry, but then blue eyes closed tightly and pale lips pressed themselves into a tight line.
Ken took a chance and put his hand on one of Omi's slumped shoulders. "I was really only in a bad mood. Things have been building up on me. It's not exactly easy living here without lights or heating or reliable hot water. It's enough to make anyone cranky after a while. I guess I just resent how well you seem to be coping with everything. It's enough to push anyone over the edge, and you were blithely unaffected by it all." He shrugged. "I've never laid claims to rational sensibilities or thought-out plans of action."
"You are tired of me. That's the heart of the issue. Even Aya has noticed how you've been acting. I'm sorry if I'm not what you want anymore, but if you'll just tell me, I'll change. I can be what you want." Omi transferred his hands to Ken's forearm, trying to hold on in the only way he knew. "I wouldn't mind. I could change, for you I could change."
Ken ran a shaky hand through his hair. Omi had brought up the topic himself. This was his chance. He could find some way to begin a gentle letdown, free himself of any obligations. End the relationship and make it seem to be less his fault.
"Omi, sometimes you can be too perceptive." He stated, having a vague idea of where he could lead everything.
"I'll stop then." Omi looked up, mouth still drawn, eyes full of unbearable hope. "Anything you want me to change; just tell me and I will." He clasped Ken's hand in his.
Ken wet his lower lip and tried to recalibrate things. Omi wasn't cooperating, in fact was doing the opposite and refusing to see any sort of doomed inevitability. 'I can change', he'd said. You can't change your entire personality on a whim. What the fucking hell was he supposed to say to that? What do you tell someone who has just offered to sacrifice their individuality for you? Ken tried to reform his thoughts, made the mistake of looking at those miserable, too-old eyes. Nobody deserves to be alone.
"It-it's not you. This damned house is just getting me down, eating up so much of my time and sanity. I need some change. You were partially right. I am getting tired of things, my surroundings. Not you. I miss our old work; I miss being an assassin, having an outlet for all this pent up energy. I even miss being a florist, with all the annoying teenaged girls that came with it. I need something to do other than endless house repairs."
Omi shifted a bit closer. "We can't do anything as a team until-"
"I know we can't fucking do anything until Aya's fucking leg has healed up." Ken forced himself to stop talking while he regrouped yet again. Still hadn't worn the anger down yet, it appeared.
"I know how it has to be. Aya would feel useless if we went off without him, even if he were masterminding operations behind the scenes. If he suffers, we all suffer. That's how it goes."
Ken looked over, "What's wrong now?" Omi glanced away, wringing his hands.
"Nothing. I'm sorry." He hunched his shoulders up again.
A slow exhalation of breath. Time for a decision. Should he stay or should he let the inevitable take control and be an asshole. Omi shivered next to him. Ken sighed again, put an arm around Omi.
"Don't be sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. Don't try to change for me. You're fine the way you are. Be yourself; I love you as you are." There was no going back now; Ken understood that. As the saying went, you win some, you lose some. Ken couldn't ever remember winning any.
"Are you sure?" Omi tucked his head under Ken's chin, huddled against the outside chill of his body.
"Yes." He wasn't sure at all. Lying never lead to anything good.
"Oh! You've got splinters in your hand. Sit here, let me get the tweezers." Omi leaped off the bed, hastily rubbing his eyes. Ken closed his and wondered when he'd next be alone to berate himself for being an idiot.
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Okay, you guys can probably expect a few annoyingly angsty chapter endings while I'm getting things set up. Fear not, Youji and Aya fans, they're in the next chapter. I'm going to be dividing things fairly equally between the two "happy" little couples. -laughs- Anyway, I'm baaaaaack! Yay! E-mail me at darkhunter@ijustdontcare.com or akainobaka@mchsi.com , or even better, leave me some spiffy feedback! -gives candy to all-