Winding Down I (Transformation)
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. All rights with their original owners/creators. Shame though.
Warning: Implied boy love. Therefore rated NC-15/M. ANGST.
Let me know whether you liked it, folks!
xxx
Aya streaks out of the burning building in a flurry of crimson and black, katana gleaming in a deadly arch as he takes down the last guard without even pausing, a nasty, forceful swipe of cruel elegance that slices the man open across his stomach, and dashes after Yohji and Omi to the getaway car that screams to a halt even as they almost run into it.
Ken has the engine revving, and as soon as they pile and tumble into the non-descript stolen saloon, he is off, slipping away into the rainy night quietly, carefully, and only when he threads into the mainstream traffic does he turn on the headlights. Yohji smokes, Omi slouches by his side in the backseat, head lolling back, eyes firmly shut, his young face pinched and blank. Ken is hunched over the wheel and focused on bringing them out safely, and Aya sits stiff and straight on the passenger seat, watching out with him. None of them likes to talk after a messy job.
Behind them reigns mayhem – a series of explosions rocking the complex of warehouses by the docks, showers of debris scattering everywhere, and flames shooting sky-high, mirrored ghastly in the oily waters of the harbour. An apocalypse en miniature, complete with half a dozen hacked and pierced bodies, to keep busy the forensics experts of the police that are about to arrive in a cavalcade of flashing lights and armoured cars.
By the time their handiwork makes it into the news, Aya climbs out of the car, adjusts his katana, and wanders off into the maze of dirty streets not too far from their latest theatre to pick his way home by way of an elaborate detour, Yohji slips into the darkness to scan his sector, and Omi and Ken make off to dispose of the car and then loop in from the opposite direction.
The dirty orange darkness fades into smoggy daylight when they trundle in, one by one, exhausted, still raging high on adrenaline, dragging their mission mode into their home. Omi makes haste to check the house from the groundfloor to the study at the top. Ken helps him; they chat agitatedly, in subdued voices heavy with tiredness and thick with excitement. Yohji disappears into the garage for a smoke, wolfing down not only one cigarette but almost an entire packet, and for once, Aya says nothing but tries hard to ignore the stink of tobacco that threads through the house.
Yohji sinks into a crouch by the door and closes his eyes as he leans back against the cool wall. He wriggles uncomfortably: the harigane is not a clean weapon, his clothes are soiled with blood and excrement from the men who writhed to their deaths in the deadly snare, the stench makes him heave and retch in between lungfuls of smoke. He will drag his rags off in a moment and stuff them into the large washing machine with the clothes the others have already deposited here before entering the house. He will set the machine going when he feels steady enough, and then sit here naked bar his briefs until the house is still and he can take his shower without being disturbed by Omi and Ken, and without keeping Aya waiting. Yohji always takes the longest to scrub and preen himself until he is content with the result.
Bloody high maintenance, Ken had scolded him when they became Weiss and were trying to figure each other out, quirks, habits, nothing too deep so nothing could bite them, but they had established the order of bathroom use back then, and Yohji had not argued. Omi and then Ken, followed by Aya, with Yohji the peaceful last one to get cleaned up, usually only a couple of hours before they were due to open the shop. He got to sleep in by way of compensation, and it was useful to prick Omi's never-fading guilt complex because it would result in the chibi making tea and breakfast for Yohji.
He counted the cigarette stubs on the floor, checked by shaking the crumpled packet, and rose to his feet. Staggering towards the machine, he tore off the filthy garments and pushed them in with the rest, set the programme and lurched off even as the machine rumbled into action.
The house lay in sleepy silence now. In the kitchen, the tap dripped softly into the sink, a small sign of life in the grey half-light that seeped through the bamboo blinds. Yohji climbed the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky ones and not touching the bannister because he did not fancy cleaning up bloody fingerprints. Warm humidity wafted from the gaping bathroom door, and Yohji went to take his shower, wash his hair, shave and comb. Finally he wrapped a towel round his middle, gave his image in the steamed-up mirror a vague grin, somewhere between relief and vanity, and with his hair slicked back and still dripping, he padded down the hallway.
Omi's bedroom door stood open; his bed was untouched. Of late, the chibi would unfailingly crawl in with Ken after missions that turned into slaughter. By now, they probably were asleep, Omi curled up with his back to Ken who would be content folding his broad frame around the younger man as though this could shield them from the nightmares. All was silent in Ken's room as Yohji passed by, heading towards Aya's door.
He leaned against it, touched his brow to the cool wood and listened for a moment. He heard Aya shuffle about, the sloshing of water being poured from a pitcher into a large bowl, enamel clanking against metal. Yohji suppressed the urge for another cigarette. Softly, he rapped, and the door swung open almost instantly.
Aya wore a plain grey yukata, slipped off his shoulders and arms and bunching around his hips in a beautiful contrast to his white skin and red hair. He gave Yohji a blinking glance. One of his eyes was still purple, the other one a misty blue-grey, with a dark rim around the iris that gave it brilliance and depth. Between index finger and thumb of his right hand he held a violet contact lens.
Without a word, he turned and walked to the low table near the window. Yohji let himself in and carefully clicked the door shut, then he slipped to the white futon on one side of the large, starkly white room and sat down, leaning back against the wall, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, long hands in his lap playing idly with a cigarette lighter.
He had come to watch. He liked watching Aya under any circumstances, but since he had found out what Aya did in his room after missions, he had battered and squirmed and begged his way into being allowed to witness what never ceased to baffle him - Aya sharing with Yohji what would be one of his most intimate momets, something he preferred to do in the safe retreat of his tatami-clad room instead of in the shower. And so Yohji resisted the urge to go for another smoke, and stayed still, staring at Aya in fascination.
Aya knelt and removed the lens from his other eye. He set the purple contacts aside in their little container and began to wash his bright crimson mop of hair. Dipping his head forward and soaking the fiery mane in warm, soapy water, he scrubbed slowly and patiently, lathering up and rinsing with water from the battered enamel pitcher, until the water was a cloudy red and Aya's hair a glistening dark brown. Yohji tossed him a bottle with conditioner that sat atop a small canvas chest of drawers by the head-end of the futon, and Aya caught it without missing a beat to slather the stuff into his soaking hair.
He rose, picked up the bowl and left to flush the soiled water down the toilet. Whe he returned, he was towelling his hair into an almost dry state. He gathered soap, shampoo, lens container, and stowed everything away in the chest of drawers, before pulling up his yukata and finally sinking to his knees on the futon, opposite Yohji.
Their eyes met, and Yohji read the same question, the same fear and insecurity in those blue-grey ones that he would always find there when Aya was not Aya anymore. Abyssinian, Aya, the flamboyant killing machine was gone, leathers and katana and brilliant colours, earring and all, carefully obliterated by stowing away clothes and weapon, hiding away and washing off all outer signs that it had ever existed.
To reveal a young man with a pale, regular, almost plain face, soft eyes the colour of the autumn sky, dark brown hair and a gentle mouth. He wore nothing but the yukata that traced the lines of a slender body that had not quite filled out yet into the muscular form of a man.
On a small tray in the corner of the room furthest from the futon lay a calligraphed scroll and a pair of reading glasses, along with a number of rice cakes that were placed in a neat row. The cloying scent of incense began to make the air murky. Yohji did not object. There would be as many cakes and smoke sticks as they had left dead bodies on the site of their latest mission.
For a heartbeat, they both sat in silence, before Yohji leaned over to brush a stray strand of hair out of the still face with solemn eyes. "Ran," he whispered, letting his fingers trail over high cheekbones and a firm jaw, tracing the familiar lines, making sure he did not dream, that this was still the man he knew.
His partner closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, a wave of relief washing over his face. Yohji enfolded him in a tight, hard embrace. "Ran," he murmured again, pressing his face into lush brown hair to soak up its scent, sliding his hands slowly over the contours of the warm body in his arms, reclaiming every inch as he eased them both down onto the futon and pulled the sheets over them. He refused to wonder whether it would always be like this.
For now, Aya's transformation was complete.
He was himself again.
He was Ran.
And a night of murder had been but a dark dream.
xxx
