Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. All rights with their original owners/creators. Shame though.
Warning: References to sex. Therefore rated NC-15/M. ANGST.
Thank you to everyone who reviewed my stories. Let me know how you liked this one.I have amended it quite a bit, including the ending, hence this re-posting.
xxx
Sometimes jobs suck, Yohji mused as he stared out of the window of the getaway car Ken piloted with dreamy ease and lightning speed through the beginnings of the morning rush hour of the big city. Grey light began to replace the neon glow of the black and orange night, seeping into the glittering streets and fizzling into murky dusk in the dirtier corners, bashfully hidden beneath layers of glam.
Omi was nodding on the backseat, head on his folded arms on his knees, his tousled blond hair streaked with rusty brown. He had the crossbow securely wedged under his elbows. As though he would have to zap someone off any moment now, Yohji thought with a quick glance into the passenger mirror. But if experience was anything to go by, they were safe now because they had wiped out the hornet's nest they had encountered.
Since working for Kritker, he had amassed more experience than he cared for. They all had, since becoming Weiss.
Aya sat stiffly, his back rigid, the blank katana upright between his thighs, tip resting on the floor.
"Sheathe the damn thing," Yohji grumbled irritably, fumbling for the last cigarette of his last pack. "Or you'll chop off your best bits."
"Stop stinking out the fucking car," Aya snapped back, shooting a glare at his partner in the mirror.
"Quit bitching, both of you," Omi sighed. He clamped one hand over the backrest of Ken's seat and pulled himself up.
The chibi looked bushed, and no wonder – being thorough and a stickler for detail, he had co-ordinated that damn mission as carefully as always, but the briefing had not warned them of the additional contingent of security guards who were hanging out at the drugs factory, or of the new firewall for the computer system into which Omi needed to hack. They had been expected and received a nasty reception once trapped inside the building.
The car hobbled over a bump in the road, and Omi clasped his left arm just above the elbow and winced. He had not been able to breach the firewall before they were surprised by the armed guards, Yohji had to haul him out before setting off the charges they had placed on entering the building, and even this had gone wrong because it was too early, the wiring incomplete, and he and Omi had been caught in a hail of debris. Something had hit the chibi – some metal shrapnel, a splinter of brickwork, they did not know – and only after escaping the flaming inferno that was hard on their heels did they have time to staunch the bleeding with a field dressing.
Aya had been magnificient, bringing up the rear, slicing and dicing with his blade, while Omi used his crossbow with deadly efficiency, heedless of his wound, and Yohji spent half a dozen wires.
Usually, they tried to create as little fuss as possible when going for the information Kritiker wanted. Now and then, something slipped and they had to hack their way through.
This time they left no living soul on the premises. It had been wholesale slaughter – once Yohji and Omi were safe, Aya had stormed back in to chase down the guards to the last man. A nightmare, and Yohji had stumbled out of the blazing ruin of the former warehouse dazed, bloodied, and with a vague sense of failure.
That was now sharpening into something acute. Reality stung.
With a shudder, Yohji recalled slumping into the car and Ken talking agitatedly, Omi muttering something soothing and slightly unnerved, his young voice thick with pain, while they were waiting for Aya. Gotta go now, Ken had announced when police sirens began to approach, and only when he turned the car in a screaming arc did they spot Aya.
Emerging from the burning building with smoke billowing around him as he kicked open the door and stalked out, carrying the katana flat on his shoulder, a garish vision of black and crimson. Run, idiot, Yohji had yelled at him, but Aya had the nerve to coolly stride across and slip into the car without the slightest sign of distress.
Ken took them as close to the Koneko as he dared, given that dawn was rising fast, the car was stolen, and he had taken great care to criss-cross his tracks in the thickening traffic. Yohji groaned when in a narrow, dark alleyway he clambered out of the car – his entire body was aching, and from the palms of his hands seeped blood through the thick leather gloves where the wire had sliced through them from repeated strenuous use. He grabbed Omi who by now looked queasy, and firmly hooked his arm round the younger man's waist.
Aya was gone in a flash, melted into the shadows of the dull morning. He would spend some time sneaking around to check whether anyone had followed them after all. By the time he dropped in at the Koneko, any pursuers would be dead as sure as Yohji knew his own name.
Blessed be routines.
Showers for example.
The chibi went first, after having been fussed over by Ken and Yohji who wanted to be absolutely sure the ragged tear on Omi's upper arm was a mere fleshwound. In the garage, they forced him flat onto a work bench, cleaned the wound, poured half a bottle of antiseptic over it, which made Omy cry and squirm, and Ken stitched him up expertly, with the benefit of a hastily applied local anaestethic and Yohji holding the boy still. Omi nearly passed out, but they stuffed him with painkillers, and Ken went with him to help with his shower before he could spiral down into shock.
Aya sneaked in silently, through the hatch in the roof. This was unusual because it meant more work cleaning up puddles of dirt and blood and heaps of filthy clothes that had to be gathered and carried downstairs to the washing machine, but he was done in minutes, efficient as always, and went to take his shower. Yohji, naked bar his briefs, retrieved his reserve stash of cigarettes and cheap sake from under the work bench to calm his fraying nerves and cramping muscles. Then he settled into a crouch next to the rumbling machine, smoking and patiently waiting his turn to use the bathroom.
Yeah, routines. Sometimes nothing else was left to keep them going.
He leaned back and tried to think of nothing as he put the bottle to his lips. Only to think of everything. A wheel of fire and blood and Aya and Omi and Ken churning in his mind: Ken, closed-up and concentrated on saving their ass. Omi methodical and stern, steering them during the assault without losing his cool once. Aya with his katana in the heat of slaughter. Aya with blood that was not his own spurting all over his face and chest. Aya stinking of blood when he crawled into the stolen car to join them. That was why Yohji would not quit smoking on missions: the taste of tobacco kept him from retching.
Quickly, he breathed out in an attempt to settle his heaving stomach. Shivering with cold, he counted the cigarette stubs and, holding on to the washing machine, hauled himself up. Aya never took long and would have finished by now; time to get cleaned up. He stumbled over the empty bottle and felt a silly grin spread over his face as he wove his way upstairs to the bathroom.
The water was still streaming.
Cautiously, Yohji pushed at the door. It swung open, and Yohji hissed in a sharp breath. In the tiled shower cubicle stood Aya, naked, sagged against the wall, his hands cramped around the piping of the shower to keep himself from slipping down. His face and body were streaked a lurid crimson that leaked from his dyed hair and pooled turgidly around his feet. He started when Yohji stepped inside the steamy room, and shot a glare at him. "Get out. I'm not done yet."
"Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. Now let me finish."
Confused, Yohji took another step, but Aya stiffened and fairly melted into the corner of the enclosure. "Balinese!"
This stopped Yohji in his tracks. Aya had never used his mission name in the house before. Or kept his damn katana in the corner of the shower, for that matter... After a moment of tense silence, Yohji locked gaze with Aya and made to pull off his last scrap of clothing. Aya's eyes widened as they broke away to follow Yohji's hands, before snapping up again. "Get. Out."
"You get out. It's my turn now," Yohji replied calmly, trying to cover up his rising disquiet. Aya should be in his room by now, going through his own little routine of winding down. Rice cakes, incense sticks, some short verses to appease the spirits of the men they had killed, and then he would be himself again. Warm and pliant in Yohji's arms, loving and tender and yielding. Ran. Plain and simple.
Instead, Aya suddenly grabbed the katana and ripping a towel from the rack by the door, he dashed past Yohji who, mindful of the blade, tried to grab his arm, but Aya who was slippery with soap and water yanked it free and slid from the bathroom in a flurry of red and white, dragging the blade along.
Yohji tried to smother his rising worry while scrubbing down and washing his hair, but by the time he towelled it dry, his hands were shaking madly and his heart was thumping hard in his chest. Wrapping the towel round his hips, he followed Aya.
Who had left a track of crimson all the way from the bathroom to his bedroom, slurred prints of small, firm feet in a hurry.
Clad in a pair of black drawstring trousers, he sat crosslegged in the middle of his tatami covered room, his back to the door. He did not stir when Yohji softly closed it and leaned against the wall. Aya's skin was still soiled and his hair streaked brown and red, dripping with dye. The mats that he took such pains keeping clean were now soaking up rapidly spreading puddles of red water. Yohji's gaze strayed to the makeshift altar in the far corner of the room, but it held none of the small offerings Aya usually placed there after a bloody mission.
Aya was moving, the muscles of his arms and shoulders shifting subtly in monotous motion. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Yohji stepped into the room and dropped to his knees by Aya's side.
By his feet lay a scattering of white origami squares. He was folding. Paper cranes. He worked swiftly, almost frantically, without pause or thought. Yohji felt a surge of anxiety wash through him as he watched slim, calloused fingers nimbly crease the paper, press down and sharpen the fold, bend and smooth until another crane fell onto the growing heap by Aya's feet.
Those small feet that always reminded Yohji of white birds, ready to fly from this life into another. One where Ran would be happy.
"Hey," Yohji whispered, lifting his hand to brush some soggy strands of hair from Aya's pale face, but Aya shied from his touch without interrupting his work. Yohji picked up one of the flimsy creations and, turning it slowly in his hands, swallowed hard. "Want help?" he murmured, trying to sound confident when he was burning and freezing inside.
Aya did not reply though his lips were moving. Counting, Yohji guessed as he felt himself go cold. "Let's go get some sleep," he tried again, this time winding his arm round Aya's hunched shoulders. To find with relief that those hard hands ceased their work. He could sense Aya warring with himself whether to lean into the touch or pull away again, and pulled him close before he could think about it too much.
"Sleep," Yohji urged softly. "Let's go to bed. We can sort everything else later, ne?"
"My birds..." Aya's voice was a ragged whisper, and when he lifted his head to look at Yohji, his eyes were wide and unfocused.
Yohji enfolded him in an embrace, trembling because Aya trembled, hurting because he did not know what to do, panicked because he was afraid at what he realised was happening and felt so balefully unable to stop. "They're for you? I'll make you hundreds, thousands of them..."
"They're for Ran."
One thousand paper cranes, and you'll live forever...
Yohji pressed him close and began to rock back and forth, lacing his fingers through wet hair and holding him so tight that both of them found it hard to breathe. "Ran doesn't need paper cranes," he muttered, "'cos he's here, with me, in my arms. He'll always be here. I'll always love you." He touched a kiss onto the crimson head. "Now, how about sorting out your offerings – I'll help if you show me what-"
"Yohji!"
And Yohji fell silent, fear sealing his mouth. A long silence fell before Aya stirred and began to push out of the embrace. And suddenly, his voice, this dark, rich voice, was clear and cool. "I lost count."
He had lost count of how many lives they had taken on that mission. He could not tell how many incense sticks and rice cakes he should place into that little corner dedicated to the dead souls of killers, dealers and other assorted scum.
This time, Aya could not cleanse his own blood tainted soul. Bereft of his ritual, he was trapped.
With a desperate gasp, Yohji tried to hold on to him, but Aya peeled away his arms and rose to his feet, crushing some of the paper birds as he stepped back and looked down at Yohji. "Please leave me now."
Purple, Yohji thought with a flash of pain, he has not taken out his contacts, he'll damage his eyes, gods, we're all a bit messed up... "At least let me help you with your hair. You just need some rest, and everything will sort itself, you'll see. We can find out tomorrow how many..."
"Don't," Aya said softly. Don't try to appease, to talk nonsense, to tell comfort lies. "I checked with Omi and Ken. Because of the additional contingent, there's no way anyone could tell how many we left behind."
"I love you," was all Yohji knew to say, rather incongruously, as he got up too and reached out for Aya. "I love you, Ran."
Aya stepped back until his back hit the dresser with the pitcher and bowl he usually used for washing the dye out of his hair. He braced his arms behind him and stared at Yohji, his expression changing from torn to impassive as though a cool wave had washed away all emotion. "Ran is dead, Yohji. He died tonight."
Yohji came up close and without hesitation, moulded against his shorter companion. "He'll always be here," he insisted, his gaze as intense as his voice, "With me. In my heart, in my mind." He lifted his hand to Aya's mouth and softly thumbed over his lips. "Ran lives. Just give him a chance, for goodness sake. That," he nodded at the corner with the remainders of previous offerings, "isn't everything."
But he could not suppress a shudder when those purple eyes bored into his with an odd expression. "You don't understand." Aya tensed, Yohji could feel him struggle as before, muscles shifting, bunching beneath stained skin, and suddenly, Aya shoved him back forcefully. Yohji stumbled and caught the fall on the edge of the futon.
"What's there to understand?" he gasped, trying to get up, but Aya was over him in a flash, hovering close, just out of kissing reach. "I love you," Yohji tried to reason with him. "You don't scare me away that easily. I told you it would be for life, so unless..." His voice faltered as he met Aya's eyes again, and then he was nudged roughly onto the futon.
"Ran is dead, Yotan," Aya gasped as he tore the towel off Yohji's hips and pressed his knees apart. "Perhaps you'll get that into your hard head when I'm done with you tonight... or you leave, now!"
Yohji stared into glittering purple and swallowed hard, his heart burning, his limbs seizing up in anticipation of the pain he could see flaring up in Aya's gaze. "I won't leave you. I'll always love you. Ran," he murmured, and yelled when sharp teeth bit down on his lips to stifle his words.
Sensual and experienced, Yohji had nearly always been the one taking. Bathing Aya in tenderness and passion, taking joy in giving pleasure to his lover, making Ran melt under his hands and shiver and cry out when he spent himself for Yohji who would be drunk with never-ceasing amazement that it was him doing this to Aya, to Ran.
Now there was only pain, rocking, searing, ripping agony from his bleeding lips, his bitten tongue, from the welts and teeth marks on his neck and nipples, from the bruises on his manhood and the rents up his backside, and while Yohji finally let his eyes fall shut and longed for it to end, he kept stubbornly chanting his love for Ran.
And his fingers locked over the crunched, sweat-damp paper crane.
While Aya tore him apart.
