Hi folks,
I was unsure whether to divide this one into chapters or leave it as it is now - some of the sections are rather short. So here goes:it is a gentle, sometimes funny, sometimes angsty Yohji and Aya centred story, with a very lonely Aya, Yohji losing himself, and the chibis... well, they are a scandal, as a certain redhead comments, and whoever pulled them into Weiss, shi-ne!
There are a few end notes, and I was not sure how to mark them up in the text - I have no idea how html works properly. Any tips welcome.
Let me know what you think of it. Happy about any feedback.
Warnings: boys loving boys, some profanity, references to sex and substance abuse. Don't read it if you prefer not to deal with such things.
Cheers
LoveyouHateyou
Finding Stillness
Heavy Metal
When I chose the name that would mark the end of everything I had held dear, I meant to remind myself what I was still living for: Aya, my sister. Now someone should find a new name for the Koneko. Something to include caterwauling. I just cannot get used to it, for all the time I had to spend with Weiss. It is the same almost every morning on those days when, heavens forbid, everyone is in: Ken is working his shift in the shop and has the radio on full, so he can listen to a soccer game while dealing with customers. Kudoh is nowhere to be seen and probably collapsed in a drunken stupor somewhere in the house – not necessarily in his room, let alone his bed – and to top it all, I can hear or rather feel the thumping of Omi's heavy metal noise from his bedroom.
The kid is a genius, but how he can work on the computer with this kind of racket pouring into his brain, I will never know. Or how Kudoh... well, no, that one I do know. He just passes out, high on whatever he could lay his hands on the night before, drugged up to his eyeballs. I suspect that is why he keeps those silly sunshades on his nose all the time, to hide the rings around his eyes. He is such a vain bimbo.
Perhaps the name could refer to something like cat house /1 too. I'm not stupid and no monk, but to see the kid in full clubbing gear a few nights ago, when we were mission free, did knock me a bit. Yes, I do know he has faked papers so he can carry on at school in spite of holding down two full time jobs, managing the shop by day and coordinating missions at night, and he is nineteen already. That is still no reason to wear nothing but black netting and vinyl so tight it looked like painted onto his butt, plus a good helping of body glimmer, though I presumed that would help him peel those vinyls off again.
He had hurried our dinner – it was his turn to cook, and even if it had not been, the rest of us tend to dodge that kind of duty more or less artfully – and left the washing up to us, only to drag Ken along upstairs to shower and get ready.
Did he shower with Ken? I tend to ignore whatever is going on in our team beyond work. Thinking about it now, I wonder. Ken looked a bit tamer in a white muscle shirt and baggy jeans that flared out about his lower legs, but he was wearing a gold chain round his bronzed neck and an earring, and they both had spiked their hair and streaked it wildly with blue and purple. They smelled like Yohji's aftershave. Quite a nice scent, actually, of sandal and tobacco, though they must have rolled in it because they were moving in a cloud of it so thick it filled the house. Perhaps that's what they did in the shower.
Do flowers wilt when they get exposed to this kind of odour? I intended to check on the shop because quite often no one else bothers to mist the plants before we finish for the day. I was walking down the stairs when I saw the chibis in the light of a streetlamp that poured in because the outer door stood slightly ajar. Ken's bike gleamed outside on the pavement, and there they stood, snogging for all it was worth. Omi's hair had a glow-in-the-dark halo, I noted with irritation. He had crowded Ken against the wall and cupped his face, chewing his lips off and jabbing down his throat with a hungry tongue and smacking little noises.
And Ken? He had his hands on Omi's vinyl clad bottom, rubbing their groins against one another, denim squeaking on rubber, and he kneaded the firm flesh and moaned into that kiss as though he was about to come. It struck me not only as inappropriate but as utterly base; they are way too young for this sort of thing /2, but before I could say anything, I heard someone gasp behind me and then Kudoh's yell, "Ooomiii!" before he barged past and charged at the chibis. Looking ridiculous in his sloppily worn excuse for a pair of slacks, he cuffed the boy lightly and dragged him off Ken. Whose hands snapped over his crotch as his gaze met Kudoh in a devastating glare, but neither he nor Omi did protest. How odd.
Instead they ducked under the tirade blondie delivered to them and nodded meekly now and then, though I could have sworn they smirked a few times, stealing greedy glances at one another. And when he was done, content with their promise to behave, they went clubbing, not to return before five in the morning, with him fretting for them in the kitchen as though he were their mother. Of course they were drunk, Omi more so than Ken; they are too green to hold their measure. Should I have told him something so obvious? And I did not even want to think of what else they might have done besides getting sloshed.
So Kudoh's renewed rant woke me. I could not go back to sleep and went to use the bathroom down the hall. Ken slunk upstairs, looking deeply flushed and a bit bewildered, the waistband of his jeans buttoned, fly ajar. He was sweaty, smeared with glimmer everywhere, his shirt hung messily out of his denims, and he had a hand halfway down the bottom of his trousers as he shuffled awkwardly along the wall. Well, they had been dancing through the night, after all. Omi apparently still listened to Kudoh giving him a bawling out; the boy has an amazing patience with the blond.
When I left the bathroom to return to my bed, I only narrowly avoided bumping into Kudoh. He looked shameless with still nothing on but those slacks. They were slung so low they almost fell off his hips, and I could see that dusky trail of hair from his navel down.
I wonder why he cast me that inane grin.
What an idiot.
Pretty EyesI knew Aya checked me over when he ran into me in the hall. Those pretty eyes glued to my crotch, and the tip of his tongue peeking out for the fraction of a second before his pale face settled back into a scowl like a thundercloud. He hates being here, and he's trying to take his frustration out on something, someone. Well, don't we all. Except that he has this big knife which he keeps religiously honed, and I respect that.
But I cannot forget the day he arrived here, battered, confused, in shock and still fighting so bad that my wire nearly silenced him for good. He still has red lines across his white throat and scars on his fingers where the wire sliced into his gloves when he tried to pry it off. It pains me for some reason.
For that day, despite Ken bleeding and bellowing his fury and Omi upset enough to demand Manx take Aya back like some shopsoiled goods, he was caught in my wire like some poor, lost bird. Feathers ruffled and straggly, his bony body taut against mine, his head snapped back against my shoulder, and his eyes so sad they reminded me of Asuka.
In that desperate moment, he was not afraid of dying; he was afraid of dying too soon.
I think he knows what I saw, and he hates me for it.
Slave of the StoveOne of those mornings, when I went to get my breakfast before starting my shift, I could not get into the kitchen without stepping on squidgy, greasy, dusty stuff everywhere. Kudoh had exploded the room. Kitchen tools lay on every free surface, and I had to watch out for exposed knives – for some twisted reason, Omi tends to keep them razor sharp, enough to cut on touch. The kid is warped, in a nice, friendly way.
HIs back to me, Kudoh busied himself by the stove. By the mercy of some sensible god he wore a walkman, the plugs firmly in his ears, which was good because I don't want to know what kind of music the dumbhead listens to. But being true to himself, he had to sing along and shake his bum in a shameless way, and as he wore only a black, flour-dusted vest and artfully frayed blue jeans cropped just below his knees, I sent a glare his way, hoping it would stab him. His bleach-blond hair was greasy and unkempt, falling messily into his face and sticking to his neck that had a golden tan, like the rest of him. Well, what I could see of him – his muscular shoulders and legs, and his rather big bare feet that had made prints all over the mess on the floor.
I would not want to eat anything with blond hairs in it. Apart from that, I am sure he is prissy clean for he spends hours in the bathroom preening. To get ready for whoever is willing that day, I suppose; I don't need to wonder why the chibis are rotten to the core with the example he is setting. He ought to be more responsible, considering he is the oldest of that bunch, but no, he lets them run riot instead of instilling some discipline because he has not a shred of it himself.
He started when I shoved him aside so I could rummage for my rice bowl, only to find he had used it to mix tempura /3 batter. It was not even worth growling at him, he is thickskinned that way, so I just poured the batter into the sink and washed my bowl.
"Hey!" he yelled, presumably over the noise of the music in his ears. "I needed that!"
I shrugged. "Oh." Omi had steamed rice and left some for me; I know it was him because no one else has enough consideration or foresight. In my family, we were used to taking care of one another: my mother would always prepare enough rice for our dinner and for my father's breakfast because he refused to disturb her in the mornings, when he got ready for work. I made a mug of instant miso soup and set a tray to take back into my room; no way I could cope with the state the kitchen was in and with Kudoh around at the same time.
"That all?" he ranted, looking around for another bowl. He found a used one on a shelf and rinsed it before beginning to prepare new batter. He was not used to this; he hardly ever tried to cook, and I pitied whoever it was for. No way I would ask, of course.
"And before you ask, it's for Manx," he said, whisking briskly.
They do not make quality rice bowls anymore these days. It should have survived a fall onto the lino floor had it been made of good, hard-fired ceramic, like the ones we used at home, but it was simple supermarket trash and shattered, adding scattered rice to the smears of oil and flour. By the door, someone snickered, and when I looked up, I saw Omi elbowing Ken in the stomach, hard enough to make him double over and clutch at his belly.
The whole thing began to get to me. "What's so funny?"
Ken looked up, still bent over, his eyes a hazel gleam from beneath brown bangs, and I could see he was not sure what to do. Omi leaned casually against the doorjamb and scratched at his temple. He smiled, but his eyes were a bit cool when he said, "Nothing, Aya-kun, but we should have warned you. He does this once in a while, and there's no point trying to hold him back."
Kudoh looked over his shoulder, shooting a mock glare followed by one of his stupid winks. Could he hear us talking over his music? And he had resumed humming, some cloying tune so different from the flute and shamisen /4 tunes I like. They made fun of me when they found out – bushiko /5, bushiko, come too late to save us all – and I hate that. Oddly enough, Kudoh held himself back more than the chibis did. Whatever.
"It actually is edible," Ken commented quietly, "the stuff he comes up with."
So he had a thing for Manx? "She does not strike me as the type who'd appreciate the effort," I said, carelessly to make clear I was not interested. My appetite had gone; I would drink the soup and maybe some tea and wait for dinner.
"Even Manx," Kudoh lectured, pointedly suave as he turned and pulled out one earplug with a sticky hand, "needs to feel like a woman sometimes." Another of those excruciating winks, and then he ran the back of his hand over his forehead, leaving a streak of white on his golden hide. He grinned at me.
Shaking his head, Omi gave him a sidelong glance before looking at me again, his smile a shade warmer. "In any case," he said lightly, "it's usually us who'll eat it all 'cos she jilts him every time, but Yohji will do it anyway. It's a once-a-year thing; if you're around tonight, drop by and try it."
To play out a travesty of family life? Something wrenched inside my chest; perhaps I should seek medical advice on this pain that sometimes hits me out of the blue. Right then, I could only scowl. Kudoh would be better off treating Manx like he treats us, but he is too daft to grasp it. However, he spoiled my breakfast. And why were the chibis still here, watching us as though we were on show or something? I did not want to shove them aside, but I hate having to ask for what good manners should make obvious, namely them clearing off, and therefore I felt cornered.
The only retreat was the other side of the table.
Where I had to wipe some more flour and tools off a chair, dusting my fist in the process, before I could sit down and drink my soup.
Finally the chibis got the message: as nothing else happened, Kudoh returning to his activities and me sippingsoup in silence, they disappeared, whispering and quite possibly snickering some more once out of sight.
For the life of me, I could not get the joke.
Not FunnyHe never gets a joke. Where the chibis fall about roaring and I laugh along, Aya will look on with his usual cool expression that is not really an expression at all but a mask. I worked it out soon enough: it's not that he won't smile sometimes, he just does not understand humour. The things that make him smile – such as gory horror movies or reports on revenge murder cases – elicit a tight, feral little grin, a baring of teeth that in anyone but Aya would look threatening at best. In his face, it looks menacing.
He is an unfunny person, fussy, demanding, and all up his neat little ass. He blamed me for making him drop his bowl and had the cheek to demand I compensate him, the stingy little sod. I found this a bit rich and told him so; I am not his punchbag and thought it better to make this clear before he gets ideas. Nip it in the bud, to remain with our florist's image – I don't want to end up exploring his idea of fun at the receiving end of his katana or having to slice his throat for good. It would be easy; he has such a thin neck, like a bird, and dainty feet for someone of his height.
It was a standoff, clear for all to see, and this time I won, but I have the sneaking suspicion it was Omi's intervention that prevented Aya from doing something silly. The chibi mentioned his sister, and Aya went all limp and meek, the fighting spirit taken clean out of him with a few words. Now I feel wary of him, and a bit sorry. Not only is Omi's wit like lightning and his mind works with the precision of his damn computer, but his tongue can be sharp as a razor even if his voice remains gentle and his smile sweet. He could fool anyone. Aya is too awkward to handle this sort of assault well, and so he shut up, defeated.
His pride was cut. Omi did not appear too happy either.
Aya is not good at coping with the girls that besiege our shop every day. We all saw his file and know of his sister, fading away without recognition on a white hospital bed. Maybe it is too painful for him to bear the admiration the children lavish on him. Starry-eyed in their longing for a first taste of love, they come here to catch a glimpse of his exotic hair and pretty face, to gush and stutter giggling compliments. Stoking memories in him he'd perhaps rather left buried.
I know that feeling. Not that it makes him any nicer to deal with, but I will take the girls off his hands 'cos for me it's fun to bring smiles to their faces and laughter into their eyes. I should have done this more often for Asuka. Aya only groans and tells me off when I let the odd flower go without asking for payment.
Maybe it was a mistake to help him out, for Omi now has an excuse to stick us together on shift, and he tends to spend his shifts with Ken. I don't want to know what they're up to in the greenhouse when no one is looking, but it does not make sense to take a packed lunch into the shop downstairs. Still, every time I check on them, they're just busily working away.
Casting sly, contented glances at one another. And the deliveries, when one of us has to leave the shop, will usually be left to me and Aya.
Be HappyI only ventured into Kudoh's den to fetch him for our shift, like it or not. I hate laziness. Of course I could hear him before even reaching his door that stood ajar. He had some reggae blasting and was dancing with abandon while singing, loud and false, into a microphone. He should know tht he is too old for that sort of childish behaviour. His only garment was a pair of boxers, plain black cotton, a showy contrast to his tanned hide. But then, anything looked good on him for both he and Omi have this sun-kissed beach-boy look.
The moment I stepped through the door, he started – noise or not, he has fine instincts as becomes a professional killer. He tore around, pulling the microphone cable out in his rush, presumably to hide his embarrassment, only to knock the remote control and cranking up the volume to house-shaking level.
His eyes went round for a moment and his jaw dropped, but he never stopped moving. He goes clubbing so often that for him, dancing could have become another reflex for all I know.
He was not puzzled for long. Instead he made a show of linking his hands behind his head, showing the dark tousle in his armpits, as he gyrated and turned slowly in front of me. Displaying his body without shame or restraint, a big silly grin on his face. And when I averted my eyes for no one should be exposed to staring at this kind of lewdness, he dropped to his knees with a flourish, the momentum enough to scoot across to me, ploughing through the mess of clothes and magazines on the floor.
He startled me, and I hate that. I could not move because he flung his arms round my legs before I could react, nuzzled up my thighs and damn him, headed for – no, avoided – those other bits further up. Shockingly, they were tingling, against my express wish, but Kudoh did what he fancied in his lust-addled mind and slipped his embrace higher, circling me, feeling me up. His big, oafy hands slid up the back of my legs to cup my backside, his breath hot on my stomach, chest and neck, his crotch rubbing against mine as he slowly unfolded to his full height. He was rock hard.
Should I have yelled, kicked him into place, or what? I should have done something, but when I tried to raise my arms to shove him back, I realised that he was stronger than I thought. And he looked down on me, damn him, with a smile that was almost stunned.
I should not have panicked. A real samurai never panics, let alone from a kiss.
But that is what happened, I am ashamed to say. I panicked when he boldly leaned down and kissed me hard on my lips. And instead of fighting, I went all limp, with a bitter taste of defeat and his cigarette smoke inside my mouth.
The reggae tune was still chugging away, singing of sunshine and white, sandy beaches, the blue gleam of everlasting summer. Not for me. I have my sister to take care of. Kudoh's rooling the roost for Omi likes him a lot; I know that now. Like the elder brother I never had. I know though that one does not kiss elder brothers; neither is it wise to antagonise them even if they take advantage of one's weaknesses such as a bed-bound relative. We all take our spoils when we can. I had to learn that this is a rule of our game, so I will comply because in the order of things, none of this will matter.
But I was fused. My body betrayed me, big time, until I almost thought I wanted this.
And Kudoh let off, blinking at me before he managed to get a hold over himself, adjusted his trousers and cleared his throat. He winked and flashed me a smile, though it looked knocked. "Hey, man," he said, still swinging softly in the music. Like a reed in the wind, yes, like that, without thought, because that's what a reed does, and there's no shame in it because it cannot help being a reed and swinging in the wind's caress.
I am not making sense. He tasted odd, sweet and sharp, and smelled good of his aftershave, tobacco and a hint of sweat. He is a guy.
I think I am in real deep shit now.
Deftly, he swatted the volume down with the remote, and when he turned back to me, he was his usual daft self. "Still here? Snap outta it, baby, I'll be downstairs in a flash. Just let me get dressed, huh? Privacy?" He waved his hands at me, shooing me out.
So he would not ravish me here.
How strange that I felt no disgust.
And this, I had decided by the time I opened the till for the afternoon rush, did disgust me.
Sometimes, I hate my dick.
Sly and StealthyOmi deserves credit for being the most quietly sly teen I've ever met in my life. Not only for forcing me and Aya to work together. Omi is brainy and sweet-looking and plays it for all it's worth, and on our first mission with Aya on board, the chibi surpassed himself. For while he had planned and schemed, together with Manx, to get everything as right as possible, he left the mission lead to Aya without batting an eyelid.
Aya did not even realise what was going on, and I bet it never occurred to him he could be anything but the leader of our on-site team. I also saw why – he is brave, in a cold, calculating way that has nothing reckless, with an efficiency at killing that chills me because he seems to like it. Doesn't the saying go that you're best at what you like doing? That would be fucking for me, soccer for Ken and computers for the chibi.
Aya is a true expert at wielding his big knife, unbothered about elegance and more concerned about hitting home. Has he set himself some kind of management target, or what/6 I am still not sure whether I would trust him not to leave any of our team behind if the shit hits the fan. His sister needs him, after all. That must be why he will not court death, he prefers to dole it out instead.
Omi knows us well: neither Ken nor I are keen on running a mission. Ken is too afraid of losing his rag and slipping up, and me, I cannot handle this kind of responsibility anymore. But the chibi stakes his faith in us to cope, and it does bother me a bit because I know he expects me to keep tabs on the two younger ones. I also know Ken's temper. But of Aya's, I realised that night, we had not seen the last.
We left behind mayhem, as usual. After a mad dash in the getaway car Ken had stolen, we ditched the vehicle into a disused dock and lurched home on roundabout ways. While the rest of us went through our little coping routines, Aya disappeared into his room. I tried to push the door a bit, later after my shower, but he had barred it from the inside.
He is plain weird.
Perhaps I had spooked him. It was foolish to kiss him like that; he went limp like a ragdoll in my arms. I don't want that. I don't want to break him.
And it kills me to know what he is doing behind closed doors after a mission. /7
TartKudoh showered, came to scrape freakishly at my door, and then plodded off to his room to change. I had to get some tea, so I could not help seeing him sidle into the kitchen in a tarty netty thing, all silver mesh that clashed unflatteringly with his golden hair and skin. They have a penchant for tasteless clothes here, if you can call it clothes what they use to dress up. It always seems too short, too tight, too sheer. Barely enough to cover their modesty.
My father would never have permitted this kind of attire; it has no dignity. He would wear his suit for work. At home and when going out on festival days, he would wear an appropriate kimono – plain in the house, and more formal outside – and my mother would always dress in kimono. She never had to ask for money, she would go and order her clothes hand-made, at least one ensemble per season, a luxury my father enjoyed giving her. She would look lovely, and my father would say something like, but woman, you have little taste, the bag does not match your obi. It is immodest to lavish praise on one's family, but I know he was proud of her.
Kudoh has a clothes fetish. I think he and the chibis enjoy shopping together, which is bad for all of them as he strikingly proved with his current outfit. His stomach was bare, toned, the colour of pale amber. He had hung himself liberally with necklaces and earrings and bracelets, all fake and pretentious, the whole stupid lot, and jingled like a bunch of geisha flutters /8. He would attract muggers this way, or worse. Top that with his silly shades... and I could see his nipples through the netting. Hell, he had them pierced too, that slut, and his belly button.
The gods sure have no mercy. I only wanted to make my tea and be gone, back into the relative stillness of my room though Omi's ghettoblaster was roaring and I bet I know what he and Ken were doing. They were not reading, which I intended to do. But here was Kudoh, making a show of filling the kettle with cold tap water instead of hot; he even let it run off for a while to make it as cold as possible. Then, for all the hurry he was in earlier, he settled with his backside on the counter, oh disgusting, that's where we prepare our food, now I would have to scrub the place. He leisurely lit a cigarette while eyeing me rather openly, raking over me with critical green eyes like he would appraise himself in the mirror. I hate that, and I know that will show in my face. So he has seen me after a job done, in nothing but my yukata /9. If he breathes a word to the other two, I will murder him.
They say I glare too much. They should not complain: I do not glare, I just look back. At him. Over his scrap of a vest, he had dragged a biker jacket borrowed from Ken – too short, too narrow and hence tastelessly baring his midriff – and his lower half was encased in more black, shiny leather plus his hastily scrubbed mission boots. What a jerk, they still smelled of blood and guts. And I bet he was going commando; he could afford it with his... now, I am thinking rubbish. I blame it all on his influence, no, on all of them; they're either horny or at it or on mission. Those poor kids are a scandal and whoever pulled them into this team deserves to die. Perhaps I will get round to that one day. Anyway, I sincerely hope this does not come with the job, but the house reeks of testosterone most of the time.
For some reason, he made me tea. Too strong, of course, and he put sugar in without asking. I never take sugar, it tarnishes the fine flavour my mother taught us to appreciate. Yet before I could tell him that, he got a phone call and rushed out as though his ass was on fire, yelling back he'd go clubbing. Rather predictably, he turned up sometime around dawn when ordinary people, if they are hardworking unlike Kudoh, start to rise and prepare breakfast. My father used to be up well before that time to pray at our little shrine at home and eat his rice and miso. He had usually left for his office by the time my mother roused my sister and me for school. I try not to think of these things, damn him.
He fell into the house and must have crawled up the stairs on his fours from the noise he made trying to make no noise, with a few setbacks in the form of falling down a couple of steps, perhaps when trying to get to his feet.
I cannot see why I should help when he is like that. No doubt he had been slutting around for he always stinks of it when he gets back. Some nights he doesn't come back at all until the afternoon shift is up, and the chibi will fret no matter what he pretends he is doing watching TV all night long, preferably porn channels though he has the good grace to switch and blush when he notices me. It eludes me, however, why he is concerned: Kudoh is more than capable of taking care of himself, from what I've seen of him on missions. When he is someone I had not known before watching him in action: cool and precise, a natural, a born killer though he appears to dislike the fact.
Because when I told him, meaning to praise, to be fair in a professional way, he only turned all ashen and excused himself.
Some people just cannot handle the truth.
Snow In SummerAya is listening to this flute and shamisen tune again. The CD has been looping for what seems hours, and it goes on my nerves because it never fails to get me down. What the fuck is his problem? It sounds like wailing, or the wind in some reeds, crying and keening for all it's worth. It is fine playing, but I really don't like it. I could yell and coax him out, that would stop it, but for some stupid reason I don't feel up to weathering his wrath and disdain. Not today.
I have seen the first cherry petals flutter from the trees in the park.
Soon, they will be like snow in summer, frosting everything.
Search Without Warrant"Yo, Omi!"
I had to shout before the chibi turned from his computer to me and shoved one of his earphones up, a curious and slightly cross expression on his face. "Aya-kun, what's up?" he asked rather coolly, his tone matching his eyes that scrutinised me. It seemed as though everyone was staring at me these days. Hai, so they did not like me, he and his mate the soccer player, no more than Kudoh did. As if I'd give a toss. I did not ask to be here, but while I had to be part of this team of oddballs, I would teach them some professional behaviour.
"Where's Kudoh? Shift starts in twenty three minutes."
"Oh, uh, hell I forgot!" Omi slapped his forehead. "Ken's taking the shift 'cos he wants to go out tomorrow morning, so I switched your and Yohji's shift with Ken's – thought you'd not mind 'cos you're an early bird anyway."
He slanted me a sudden smile. Too sudden to be real, and it did not quite reach his eyes. Fair enough, we could be polite and professional. I can live with that. Though I disliked him calling me a bird. It is a sloppy word for girls; if someone would address my sister like that, he would be toast. Besides, I am no female, and Omi is younger than me. He should not call me –kun either, but at least he does leave me alone most of the time. Sometimes I even have the impression that he is trying to keep the others off my back a bit.
So beyond his teen-follies he appears to have rudimentary manners, unlike the other two slobs, therefore I will be polite too. Not that I am anything else with them, of course, I am above their antics. My sister and I, we were taught manners at home, and it made our life pleasant.
"Dinner was great," he goads me a little. They ate Kudoh's cooking last night. I had rice and pickles in my room.
At home, we used to have dinner when our father returned from the office. We could have afforded a maid for serving and cooking, but my mother preferred to do it herself. So we would kneel in the dining room, waiting for her to finish serving rice and all those small dishes with fish and greens and pickles, pour the soup and the sake for my father and the tea for us, and then we would pray and begin to eat.
Our evening meals were quiet occasions, each one a highlight of the day and a pleasant counterpoint to whatever had passed – school, work, my mother's housekeeping and visits to wives of my father's colleagues. My father would bless the food, and we would give our thanks. After that, we would talk but sparsely, and only to appreciate the scroll with the new season's motif she had placed in the shotogan /10 behind my father's seat, or the artful ceramic bowls and platters we used. She took pleasure in beauty, and my father shared her taste. My sister and I grew up surrounded by beauty and calm.
"So what, Aya-kun?" Omi snapped me from my reverie. I should not slip into the past like this, it happened too often recently. My chest burned and I felt a bit faint, hating the fact that his gaze softened. "You unwell?" he asked, pulling the headphones off completely and ruffling through his mop of stripy blond hair that is almost as brilliant as Kudoh's, only natural.
"I do not mind at all," I told him, and his smile warmed a little though his eyes remained guarded.
I did not feel too good right then, but still... "Where is Kudoh, anyway?" Did I have to ask this? How stupid; I should have gone for some training instead. But Omi suddenly appeared concerned.
"Have you looked in his room?"
Now why did I have to blush? I had done nothing wrong by looking for him there, though I did not like it. It is a mess in places – a heap of sweaty clothes in a corner near the hand basin and more strewn all over the bare floor – and oddly clean in others, the bookshelf for example. He reads poetry! I saw a paperback of haiku /11, among other things. He also owns a random collection of the most dreadfully sappy music I have ever come across, and the gods help me, should he ever play the stuff aloud I am liable to kill him. "I was searching the house for him," I admitted curtly.
I could hear the music blaring even from Omi's headset. It sounded like a ratchet, or white noise, or a nest of machine guns hacking away. He eyed me suspiciously, his thin fingers fiddling with the cable, twisting it round his thumb and letting it unfurl again. Like Kudoh's cursed wire. "Yeah?" the chibi prodded.
"He is not in." I had even looked under the bed for him, one never knows, he could have crept there to avoid work and sleep off some high or low of whatever he gulps down to stay steady. And where I keep my katana, under the edge of my mattress because I need it close, he had hidden a stack of porn magazines under his, though he had stashed them rather sloppily, with some of them peeping out and one open under his pillow, along with a used sachet of lube /12. How immature.
Some of those publications were even... well, they did not involve females at all, and my stomach had been heaving at that. Would he be doing such things? And if so, would he prefer to be top or bottom? To imagine Kudoh sprawled naked on his back, squirming, with some guy's dick up his bum... or down his throat... pounding into him... would he make any noise? The reaction of my body was totally unexpected and utterly unwelcome. It made me want to sink away in shame, but I had to keep face and stayed put. Unyielding denim can be very practical.
Omi was thinking, I could tell from the concentration in his face that made him look older. "Aya-kun," he said, and I didn't like the tiptoeing tone he suddenly used, "I think I have an idea where he's gone."
I would not go after him to babysit. Why should I?
"I can't go fetch him 'cos I got cram school this afternoon, and Ken's busy in the shop. Please, Aya-kun, he was not very well those last few days."
No, he was permanently stoned, the word engraved on his shoulder made flesh: sin on legs. Long, muscular, golden legs. That would spread for anyone who tried, damn him.
Omi laid on his most ruthlessly pleading, vulnerable chibi look, quivering chin, wide blue eyes brimming with moisture – he can turn his taps on and off at will, I found – and I felt cross at being manipulated so blatantly. But he also smiled, a real, nervous smile, and I knew he WAS worried. He would have his reasons. He is bright and cool at his job, for that I had to respect him. And he was right, someone had to keep them all in check. Perhaps it was in order to lend him a hand. "Fine," I said stoically.
He was honestly relieved. "Great. I think he'll be in the park."
Viewing the cherry blossom? The park would be full of people. I did not like that. When we were children, my mother used to take us to view the cherry blossom as it snowed into eternity. We would take a bento /13 picnic and settle in a quiet spot, a bit removed from the more raucous places where men would get drunk and start behaving in a disgraceful manner. My father would go with his work colleagues, and those would be the only occasions when he took a little more than his fill of sake and got tipsy. He was a tender drunk, showering my mother with the affection he kept well restrained for the rest of the year. Sometimes, he would hire some classy geisha for an extraordinarily expensive viewing party, usually with business associates of his, and after the outing they would repair to an ochaya /14 to conduct business, spin politics and get entertained. My mother never seemed to mind.
"Yohji goes there sometimes; I think he likes the viewing." Omi frowned suddenly. "He was not in good shape."
Whatever. The quicker I found Kudoh and hauled his stupid ass back, the sooner I could withdraw to my room and be left alone. "Fine. See you later."
Omi smiled, chibi tears forgotten, turned back to his computer and slipped the headphones back on. "Thanks, Ayan," he said over his hunched shoulder, and I nearly blew a fuse at the nickname – my sister used to tease me like that. I hate it! I had to make that clear to them, once and forever.
However, for the looks of it, I was off Kudoh-sitting. These people really were a heap of fools.
Viewing Cherry BlossomsThat shower earlier on... hey, watchit, you stupid car, this is my street, I walk here... but that shower was nice, oh, way tooo nice, I think they sold me crap, I don't see all those nice colours around the edges as I did last night, but then I bought this rubbish on the street corner and the guy was content with one of my fake gold necklaces, so I suppose I shouldn't complain. Last night... what else happened? Hey, I remember, chibis had dinner, redhead didn't, and after that, well, it was a win-win situation, right? I got the stuff, and that guy got me... I needed both. What is this stupid hydrant doing in the middle of the footpath?
Whoa, they're really out to get you here, Kudoh, I bet that car was mounting the pavement just now to hit me... oh, well, almost, 'cos I managed to jump and he doesn't like me telling him a few home truths, hey, fuck you too, sucker, but you're not my type. It looks funny to have the wall marching up by your side where it should be following the street as any ordinary wall does, but perhaps... yeah, I think I have to walk up this wall now that happens to be the street, phew, how did they switch places; I'm just a little dizzy I guess.
Just as well the park is coming closer, it's floating on city smog, that makes it easier for me. There, the gate, must be the gate for it feels nice 'n cool as I cling to it, don't hump the gate Kudoh or you'll get arrested by scandalised members of the public, now there is a bench, missed that one, ok, walk on, steady, steady, that shower, ohhhh, tickling me down there, no tickling's not the word... what did Asuka do with her tongue... ouch, no, I have no issues with you, I know you hulky young skunks, yeah, yeah, alright, I'm going already.
She used to tease me with that damn shower, the sprayhead screwed off, good grief... what's that flash of red over there, could be Aya damn him but he's so screwed up he needs to get laid, sorts it all out doesn't it, I swear, no, look, your girlfriend, no really she just looks like my... don't hit me, I haven't hit you either, now have I, I am a peaceful man by day, yanno. It cannot be Aya 'cos he'd not hide in the shrubs, he'd march straight... he is straight, shame that, walk straight Kudoh, that's better, climb over the rocks... a rock garden, now how can you grow rocks in a garden, and wouldn't they look stupid in a flower arrangement... no he would march up to me and wallop me into oblivion if he saw me now.
So what? Why shouldn't he see me now, I'm only a bit pissed, oh, a brook, no dog piss, I hate that, cats /15 hate dogs, people should know better than to let their dogs piss just anywhere, perhaps he would slice me up instead, and she had this hang of passing this... ray of water right over my dick while I leaned back against her in the shower and I could feel her breasts pressing against me and her lips kissing my neck and my shoulders, so pretty, love you too, and she pinched my nipples and kept teasing with that showerthing, and her lips would wander down and suck me off...
Ngh, not here, not here, not here, not... I must have overdosed that IS Aya damn him, and she got me off really nicely, almost nearly blew my brains, they say women do when they climax and she sure was near to that when I got her there, sitting with her in my lap and her legs angled over my spread thighs, and I'd repay the favour and use the stream of water on her, into her lap, pink folds, rosebud, where it made her moan and arch against me and whimper and beg for more, for my fingers inside her, and for my... damn, my trousers are too tight, Ken's so right but then I don't run after a stupid ball for hours on end... and she'd bottom me from the top, sitting down on me 'cos I'd be half-hard again by that time, gods she's hot and sweet and bloody demanding, and yes that's Aya, I know that redhead, really, riding me hard, back to my face, then face to face so she can kiss me senseless what will all the water washing over my face I can hardly breathe and I'm throbbing, and when she slumps against me and screams her pleasure, oh hell, oh, ah, I... don't... ahhh... mind... oh... gods... ohhhh... whether I'll come too but hell, it feels so sticky down my front...
Now I am a little wobbly on my legs, I better go sit down somewhere, here, is this grass? It looks so colourful, perhaps that stuff wasn't that bad after all for if it had been I'd killed the bastard, he got my necklace for it even if it was cheap it was MINE, like Asuka and she wasn't cheap at all, she was priceless...
Priceless.
StonedI can't do this. I could have stopped Kudoh when I saw him at some distance away, plunging into the traffic to cross the main road between a line of office blocks and the park; he must be having a death wish and it was not his fault he crossed the road unscathed. He probably had no idea that he abused a driver and fell a few times before reaching safety. He humped the gate, I coolly registered, and then let off one of a sudden to meander into the park, along the main path until he missed a bench he probaly intended to hump as well, and lost track.
It was too embarrassing. I'd rather have been dead than seen with this... thing; he was so high he probably wouldn't have recognised me and started humping me too. How would it feel, his hard-on grinding against my thigh? Perish the thought. Though it would have, of course, forced me to gut him and even Omi would have to agree that I had an acceptable excuse for doing so.
On the other hand, it might get me into more trouble with the chibi than it was worth. Like it or not, I need the job, I don't mind it, and the money pays for my sister's care. Restraint is part of bushido /16. So I watched Kudoh sway and tumble through the park, trudging right through a nice little zen garden and trying to clamber over one of the larger rocks and leaving behind messy, slurry footprints on the neatly raked gravel. Served him right that the stupid dog the old lady let off its leash used his leg for a tree – did she think the ratty mooch would protect her from Kudoh? – but for some reason, having a soaked trouser leg seemed to turn him on.
This was so sick. He kept lurching along, over the meadow, cherry petals like a cloud of lace everywhere, softly floating through the blue air and over the green meadows. People like dots of colour in their finery were sitting mannerly on benches to admire the death of spring and the coming of summer. Instead they got him, marring the mood, and he was muttering like some maniac and damn me but he had a raging hard-on. What a... no, I will not take this word into my mouth, no more than I'd swallow his... arrgh.
Though when I came across him earlier, and he was jacking off in the shower with the sprayhead off and him playing with the stream of warm water, in an idle, almost dreamy way, I had to admit he looked, well, shapely. Everywhere. Despite being hung over like the last century, with black bags under his eyes and this oddly dark glance he gave me. He was not startled, and that put me out. He merely turned off the taps and slung a towel over his shoulder, to march past me naked and silent for once, into his room. He had not come.
Now, for the looks of it, he had. In public. His trousers were ruined, and the last shred of dignity floated away with the cherry petals. Not that he has much shame anyway. Thank the gods he had not seen me, perhaps I should have been a bit more careful when going after this idiot, but then he was dosed up beyond awareness. What if in this state he started babbling about work? About us? I mean, our team? It made me seethe to think of it, and yes, Omi was right to keep tabs on him.
He completely lost his balance, no wonder for he had come hard, I could tell from the way he tensed and threw back his head and flailed for something to hold on to, and suddenly he braced himself, dropped to his knees and just crumbled. He landed sprawling on his back, in the grass, face towards the sky and the soft shower of pale petals that kept floating down, covering him like white confetti. Performance over. He was so finished.
He had alarmed enough people to create an empty space. Mothers with their hands over their children's eyes and their gaze averted, an elderly couple tutting, the woman with her disgusting dog, all gone. What a relief. No one was staring at me, or at him. Except for that bunch of young hunks who began to stroll into the meadow towards him.
I suppose he asked for it. They formed a loose circle around his prone form and talked among themselves, five of them, with mirrored shades and spiky wild hair, baggy trousers and wildly patterned muscle shirts. One of the lads had a skateboard, another a girlfriend who huddled behind his broad back, curious and a bit apprehensive but egging her hero on nonetheless. That would be the guy Kudoh insulted earlier by coming on to his girlfriend. Too pissed, too horny, too utterly stupid to chose his time and target properly.
They started booting him a bit, to test his reactions. Into his ribs, his belly, his chest, nudging him at first, and then kicking more forcefully. He tried to curl up and brought up his hands over his head, presumably to protect his pretty face, no it's not pretty, it's handsome if anything and not even that, really, way too sharp and keen when he's awake and hasn't abused his body with any substances. He missed. His own face. One of the guys stepped onto his hands to pin them down above his blond head, and two of them bent to pick up his legs. Whatever they had in mind, this I could not allow, the idiot needs his hands to work, they are his tools and therefore a team asset.
I wondered a bit what they thought when they spotted me, my hands on the katana and my mission face firmly in place. They insulted me at first – I am NO faggot – but stopped when the blank steel hissed from the scabbard. I apologised for his behaviour and urged them to piss off or else... They did not doubt my intentions. Good for them for I would have done what they read in my eyes, without compunction or remorse. I can't feel any of that anymore beyond some dull pressure in my chest now and then, for no particular reason.
Good for me that dusk began to settle; soon the gates would be shut. The embarrassment of carrying him home was bad enough, it would have been worse in broad daylight. And as I bent down to heave him up, expecting him to be out cold, I met his eyes.
Wide open.
Incredibly green.
And shockingly empty.
Pissed OffWhat have I done to this redhaired prick that he shuns me like a pest? Ok, I got a bit high and passed out in the park, but hey, that's life, and I'm bloody intent on living it all, and properly. Well, it doesn't matter. This song keeps turning in my head, a tacky tune with cloying lyrics – 'the folk that live in the hills' /17, for goodness sake.
But it did to me what it always does: it dumped me into a downwards spiral so fast there's no way I could get a grip. For it was the song Asuka and I loved. It summed up our silly little dreams.
I feel too raw today to handle any company. I'm rotten company myself. So I clambered up to the roof, with my CD player and a large bottle of sake, along with some tablets against the headache that is pounding me, and excused myself from the shift I'm supposed to work with said redhead. Who is a moping thundercloud waiting to burst. I really cannot handle that right now.
So I have a tacky taste, and why not, that song has the flavour of life, of dreams and of her. The echo is bitter, but I cannot have one without the other, so I'll take it. Better that than nothing. She was beautiful. She won't return to me. She's dead because I killed her. Because I was careless, sloppy, had grown cocky about my skills.
Bang...
No, it was a silenced plop that lodged the small slug of lead in her chest and ruptured her heart, right next to me, I caught her, too late, too late, felt her sag against me and us collapsing onto the tarmac, I could not even yell or cry, was too shocked, feeling her blood rush, pulse, wash over my hands, my arms, so warm, smelling of hot metal, kissing her, this was not supposed to happen, not to us, not to me, it's ok baby, I simply did not make this kind of mistake... if I'd turned a moment earlier, a heartbeat sooner, the fraction of a second, could have caught the bullet myself, would only have grazed my arm, whipped a round at the bastard before he could pull the trigger-
This is good sake, Omi would buy this kind for me. The chibi must have stolen into my room earlier, I could tell 'cos the bottle of aftershave he and Ken used up had been replaced too. The sun is shining warmly though it shouldn't, not today when I remember killing her and try to cope with my penance.
My penance is playing this song over and again while listening carefully to every word. Remembering what she told me, whispering into my ear in excited little puffs while I was inside her, how she wanted us to make love, how much she loved me, how many kids we wanted to have. Now I have Omi and Ken and perhaps sad, silly little Aya too. And Manx for Asuka, what irony. Manx hates my guts for what happened, thinking I'm a failure, a typical bloke with not a care in the world for any woman.
Well, perhaps she's right. But she reminds me of my woman, tough, pretty and professional, and that's reason enough to do as she says. We all have our ghosts, though I don't wanna know hers. So I sit crossleggedly near the edge of the roof, from where I can see across a sea of rooftops and the the park with its snowy veil of cherry petals, and further over the systematically shrinking maze of streets and alleys. Cities have no real horizons, only skylines.
That's why we wanted to live in the hills.
Soccer AllergyI was looking for Kudoh – again – because we were supposed to work a shift together, and Omi, instead of encouraging me, tried to put Ken with me instead. I did not mind that, although I still resent his trying to slash me open with those claws he fancies, and I dislike his fits of bawling fury because it makes it harder for me to keep calm.
He is very different with Omi. For all it is worth, Ken behaves like some protective elder brother with the chibi, though I do know they fuck each other, quite likely with Omi calling the shots for Ken is putty in his hands. Well, I don't like the thought, but then I do not have to imagine it bodily. I thought about it. It would be difficult for any of us to hook up with a girl, unless we wanted her killed and ourselves open to blackmail and worse.
Sometimes, I wish I had someone other than my sister who cannot talk to me now and perhaps won't wake up again. Ironically, I feel encumbered in my quest for revenge by the very fact that my she is not dead yet, but I owe her, and that's the end of that. I will just do what I can, and pray that it will be enough. Caring for her is exorbitant; I cannot afford broken rice bowls, and Kudoh WILL pay me back. He is in my debt big time now.
Now, I am not too fond of soccer, and Ken will flick through the radio stations until he finds one live transmitting some game, or a canned version of an old one, or someone warbling on about the sport, the J-league /18 and how to raise young talents. I would prefer to discuss poetry or ikebana /19. Or say nothing, without being showered with radio gaga or prodded for comments. I enjoy stillness, it is like watching a lake in winter: there are shades of silence, warm or cool, oppressive or relaxing.
Kudoh does rather tasteful flower arrangements. He told me he likes to know his hands can create as well as destroy. He even follow the rules of various styles; what a surprise; he knows a little then. He does not need me talking, either; we can spend an entire shift with him doing all of that, or in companionable silence when I tell him to cut it. And I do not have to handle the children with their longing eyes.
I wonder what put him out enough to let rip as he did in the park. Omi's concerned look deepened, although he kept his smile firmly in place when I lugged the dumb blond into the Koneko. Kudoh is deceptively slim but his height packs a lot of muscle and his bones are strong and heavy, so I have to admit that I was a bit out of breath when we arrived. A cab was out of the question; I would have been mortified, it would have cost money, and though I cannot stand him for his laziness and stupid antics, I would not expose him to any more ridicule than he had already done himself.
He did relieve me of the girls, after all. I could have dealt with them, of course, but it was a rather generous gesture on his part. I decided not to thank him formally because I don't want him to think he's got one up on me; besides, it IS a pleasure for him as much as it is a torment for me. My sister could have been one of them. She liked buying flowers and sweets after school, and would come home loaded down with candy and silly pink magazines, and my mother would never tire listening to her excited chatter. Girls. Don't brood so much, they would tease me sometimes, you'll get wrinkles on your nose, you know, such-and-such said so... unvariably one of Aya's class mates who would have a crush on me, and she would be proud of me because I was her brother.
It annoyed me back then. Now I would like to know just what little nothings they were talking about all the time. Women's things. I know nothing of women, they make me feel awkward. But my mother cannot tell me anymore, and my sister... not now, anyway. With my mother's agreement, my father had introduced me to the mistress of one of the most exclusive ochayas hereabouts, a place of power, tradition and money. Sometimes certain things can still be arranged, but it all came to an end before any of his careful plans could bear fruit. I never learned how to sleep with a woman to give her pleasure. /20
I suppose I could always ask Kudoh about the technicalities. He is apt at playing the girls' game – oh, madness is surely contagious or else I would not even thought this while plodding up the steps to the roof, the last place where he could be if he was in.
I could hear this annoying song from the stairwell. The CD player was blaring fairly loud, something daft about living in the hills as far as I can understand English. In my current line of work, I was not hired for my English skills, hence it has faded for lack of practice since I had to leave the private school I used to attend. Our relatives were too afraid to take us in, my sister and me, no matter that I promised on my honour to work for her upkeep and mine. Then you can do that without our help, they told me.
Well, I proved it. I found us shelter and care. I feed us. We live.
We don't need anyone, even though I feel like a pawn in a game I do not yet understand.
'And we will add one thing and another...' Those lyrics suck, but then they don't because that was what my parents did. Though we never inhabited any hills. My father was all for living well, but within the limits of propriety and modesty. He could have bought half of Tokyo yet he refused to waste money on whims. We had no servants except for keeping the the park around the villa, and the rooms we did not use very often. My sister and I were taught to respect those who work with their hands for their living, like me now, and encouraged to help my mother run the house. We had to earn our allowance.
We were no spoiled brats. It helps me now. I can handle money well, and it made me hardy too. Wonder how Kudoh grew up, with his exotic looks in the middle of Japan. Neither here nor there, stretched between cultures. Small wonder that he turned out such a weirdo.
Hillie billies, I think is the word for folk who live in the hills. Why didn't they say so? And I would be damned for when I stuck my head through the hatch to demand he turn the volume on that dreaful stuff down, he was dancing at the edge of the roof.
My breath seared down my lungs and caught in the pit of my stomach.
He wobbled a couple of inches from the drop into nothingness, with his back to me and his arms wrapped tightly around himself so that it looked as though he were dancing with someone embracing him. He softly swayed with the music, his blond head lolling on one shoulder. He was dreaming, I could tell. Sliding his hands up and down his upper arms, and then stroking his stubbly cheek. His caress of himself was as gentle as a woman's touch, as my mother's touch felt to me; then his long, hard fingers clasped his arms tightly again.
Surely he had overdone it this time and pickled his brains into oblivion. Not that it would need much, he hasn't got a lot of matter up there, and he keeps his level of booze and other stuff rather constant, just below the lethal dosis.
He was singing along, quietly, in a nice, husky voice, and when he swayed a bit more, making to turn, I could see his smile, his closed eyes, the tousle of sweaty, blond hair that fell messily over his rather worn features. He was in lalaland.
Had I hailed him, he might have started and stepped and plunged, considering the shape he was in. Omi would have killed me for damaging his precious Kudoh; he likes the blond too much. Well, I have to think of my sister. But in all the time I had to spend here, the chibi has not shown any concern for me, or even Ken. And Ken would cheerfully assist in my murder because he adores Omi and bears me a grudge. Professional jealousy, I suppose.
I have seen Kudoh leering, yelling, angry, sulking. You name it. I don't like his bleached dumb looks because he is trying to match his behaviour to them.
Up there on the roof, it was different for his smile was weary and bitter, he was unaware of me here and showed me a true face for once. And I remembered waking up from the shock of being almost garrotted and clawed to shreds, and the first thing I saw was him leaning over me.
Wearing the same sad, bitter smile, and way too much compassion in his eyes.
I felt as though I had been stripped bare, laid out for him to see into my very soul.
I hated him for it.
Hillie BilliesI could not remember what happened, only that I was dreaming along to the song and that I felt heavy and empty and full of tears that would not flow for I hurt so bad. There's no use crying for what cannot be undone. I can recall a flash of motion, my instincts compelling me to drag my eyes open but too late to fend anyone off, let alone Aya on a mission.
He dragged me back from the ledge – hell, I'd not realised it was so close – and thumped me in the back to shove me towards the hatch to the stairwell. Suddenly, I was stone tired, heard him scold in that cold, flat tone of his, and thought how nice his voice would sound if he could bring himself to talk instead of sneering or chiding. But poor, frightened little Aya can't laugh, or cry, or talk without help. All he has to keep from falling to pieces is his pride, and it's as hard and fragile as glass.
Shock set in rather suddenly: my knees buckled, my legs went numb, and I just crumbled.
He caught me.
Before I could hit the tarred concrete, he wrapped his arms round me who fell against him and knocked the breath out of him with a loud 'oomph'.
I know that he hates my guts.
Instead of dropping me and leaving, he held me close as he cautiously folded into a crouch, sliding me down carefully. "You're an idiot, Kudoh," he murmured. The colour of his skin cannot go any paler, but his lips – usually a faint pink – had turned a bluish white.
"I did not intend to jump," I grouched.
Staring down at me sternly, he heaved a long-suffering sigh. "That is not the question. It would be good if you could bring yourself to actually work a few shifts." A tiny pause, before he pushed himself. "You could tell me a few things."
Why would I do that? Why would he want to know? The park... I groaned. I had to throw those clothes and foot a hefty bill for getting Ken's jacket cleaned; even after Aya had stripped me of the stuff in the shower, under the steaming water, the rags stank of dog piss and were caked with come. He had stripped me! In the shower... and now what had he done making me so damn hard and horny; just as well I could only gather scraps of memories, and even those were so bad I was actively trying to bury them.
White SpaceHe was embarrassed, I could tell. And I realised that he was puzzled too, unsure what he had let slip while I hauled him back from the park, and what happened afterwards.
Well, I had a good look at him while soaping him down and washing his hair, that's all. Got all soaked myself while scrubbing him like a baby even though he's a grown man, how shameful of him to let himself go like that. The chibis offered help, heaven forbid they should see this, him, in such a state. They filled our shifts though, with not a single snide remark. As though they had done this before.
I did not dare taking off my clothes. I got to touch him everywhere.
Shocked that he began to respond to my touch, my hands, my body.
Stunned by the force with which my body reacted to him.
I will let him stew.
I could never tell him that I put him to bed and stayed because he seemed to suffer from some kind of nightmare. His den reeked of stale cigarette smoke, unwashed clothes and too much aftershave. I was too tired to move on. So I found some jeans and a t-shirt among piles of clean clothes in his drawers and changed. The stuff smelled of him, warm and sunny. He likes drying his clothes on a line on the roof. I sat down on his messy floor with the paperback of haiku and my back against the footend of his bed while listening to him sleeping.
It was funny that I should run into Omi when going to the bathroom in the small hours. The chibi was rather close to Kudoh's door. "Oh, hi, Aya-kun, you ok? Just been to the loo..." Why would he tell me that? He splashed crimson and looked bedraggled, trying to cover it with a dazzling smile as he swiftly repaired to his – no, to Ken's bedroom. They are too young for that, but I did not feel like telling him then.
I relieved myself, drank some water from the tap and returned to Kudoh's room, the book and the mess.
He has no tatamis. His floor are the bare boards. My backside hurt from sitting on the hard wooden planks, and he was out cold. So I crawled up onto the bed, careful to keep my distance to him, though I had to use part of the comforter for I had grown a bit cold. He was still keening and tossing in his sleep, and it went on my nerves. So I reached for his hand. The moment I touched him, his fingers clasped around my wrist, and he fell silent.
I felt so calm.
Here was the stillness I had craved.
FlowersSo here we go again, Omi playing matchmaker, for the sake of the team atmosphere of course, and I am stuck on a shift with Aya. Who sends me glum, meaningful glances, trying to will me into talking. I could tell him some things alright. That it should not be him I wanna fuck. He's a bloody ice block, I'd freeze my dick right off under his glare, but I wonder how he'd feel inside – searing hot, I bet. There must be heat underneath all that ice or else he'd be dead, and now I really should... shit, did I have to prick my finger on a damn rose? He likes roses, always stops to stare at them, with this faraway glaze over his pretty eyes. Memories, perhaps. Asuka liked roses, wanted a whole garden full of them.
Roses remind me of him, all prickly and harsh and beautiful, and some come with a glorious scent. Intoxicating. Omi caught me once rose sniffing, all around the shop after closing time. He did not laugh, I'll credit him that, instead he hugged me in an oddly tender way and smiled. I pinched him, he yelped, and we were back where we belong. Don't dream, chibi, this world's for real. Wonder what Aya would do if I tried to sniff him. Wrong, I know what he'd do, and I'm not keen on it.
Damn, we've run out of paper towels of course, Ken always forgets to refill the plastic holder on the wall above the workbench. I'll have to lick the blood off. Suck, smack, slobber, wipe hands on apron and get on with work afore His Icyness gets grumpy again. No, I am NOT trying to make him drop his paring knife, or burn me with his eyes, or have said eyes popping out of their sockets, that is an entirely incidental effect.
A smile? Is that a smile tugging at Aya's mouth, just there, a tiny twitch at the corner. I will be blasted. Still, we're not exactly familiar with one another, are we? And he hasn't told me what happened after I passed out in the park. He even got Omi to remain radio silence, how's that for a change? Aya and the chibi, and Ken pretends not to know. I have tried every trick in the book. They will tell me nothing. So... "I got no clue what to tell you."
I will not say that I know that he rifled through my sleezy magazines. His scent clung to them, a bitter aroma of pine needles, clean linen and hot steel. It also was on my sheets and on the book with the poems. I am good at observing, it was part of my old life, and only once I failed at it. Now I am obsessed with detail.
He levels an almost-glare at me, but deep in those impossibly purpled depths lingers something else. I think I know that one. He knows that I know, and blushes a bit, a faint tinge of pink rising to his perfect cheekbones, but he bravely faces me anyway. He has spirit, I'll hand him that. "It's not that. Who... Ku... I mean, Yoh... Balinese, you were well out of it. Who is Asuka?"
Was. Who was Asuka.
And this, really, is a very long, painful story.
He says we would have time in the workshop. He has turned the sign in the door to 'closed' but insists we work on some arrangements that are in the order book. The kid makes it so damn hard for himself.
He was a little flustered about my name. Well, I could start here, and I could watch him a bit more while telling him this and that. Not too much; no need to spook him. We need to take this steady.
MelancholyOur shifts have become easier since that afternoon when I saved his life. Because, even though he insists it's not true, that was what I did for the moron. He did not tell me much beyond what's on his file, and I left it at that, hoping he would say more later. He is not quite as stupid as he looks, and he does know a bit or two about poetry. I have not played the CD with the flute and shamisen again because he said it made him woozy in a not nice way.
He means that it brought on a bout of melancholy. It does that to me, too.
He insists on dragging out his collection of sappy songs from the sixties and seventies, interspersed with a smattering of reggae and assorted feelgood stuff. He cannot see why feeling sad can be good now and then: it helps the soul to compose itself and better appreciate the beautiful side of life. My mother taught me that.
He blatantly refuses to acknowledge melancholy. Drowns and fucks and fries it away. Yet I think he's playing some act, Kudoh the Cheerful Knight hunting dark beasts and saving the damsels from distress. Against a certain kind of payment as long as it's given willingly and without strings. He is inveterate. But I will watch him and I know I will see the act falter, sometime.
He loses his nerve and throws the secateurs when he catches me staring at him again. "What?" he yelps.
I keep a straight face, but I feel a bit smug now, and the tiniest bit sly as I say, "When I came to fetch you from that park, you were hanging on to me and telling me... things."
He blanches and then blushes furiously, but to his credit, he lights a cigarette with nonchalant ease and says, "Oh? Was it about sex?"
He looks good in his black vest and apron and way too tight bleached denims, and I think he knows that very well. I prefer my orange sweater, a present from my sister. It covers me nicely, keeping prying gazes away. Unlike him, I am too thin to show off my shape. I snort. "Well, that wouldn't even deserve mentioning, don't you think?"
He is a bit uneasy now, flicks away some ash and fidgets with the strings of his apron. "So? What was it, then?"
Well, I will have to ask someone. It could not be Ken, who meant to slash me open with his tigerclaws. Or Omi: he is too young. He might have enough sex to last all the lifetimes of a cat, but I doubt he knows of the other things, the ones that make people wanting to engage in that sort of activity in the first place.
"Aya?"
I think Kudoh the Flirt has to be the one, there's no other way. I draw a deep, low breath and say, as dryly as possible, "You described what you wanted to do... with me."
Someone WarmOk, so now he knows that I can't get it up for the ladies anymore. For everytime I try, I hear the gunshot ring out, see Asuka fall and my hands covered in her blood, and I'm dead in the water. These days I'm wiser, I go for guys and don't have a problem, though it bugs me. A lot. I don't necessarily swing that way, but I need relief. Not just jerking off, but someone warm to cling to. I'm bad at principles, and worse at celibacy, especially with a couple of frisky chibis bonking away in the house. How could I have prevented that from happening? Where should I have sent them? At least they won't babble mission secrets to a paid girl. Still, I feel guilty for no particular reason.
But that I should have told Aya? Icy, straightlaced, uptight Aya? And he has not skewered me yet, instead he keeps dropping tiny hints, prodding for answers I don't really wanna give him lest he gets spoiled that way. I don't know whether that's possible, but I would not want to ruin it for him. I'm not as vindictive as him, and he might still find a pretty girl to hook up with. He's so amazingly pretty himself, even with this fancy earring he won't take off, in spite of Ken teasing him mercilessly about it. Perhaps it belonged to someone he loved. His sister, maybe. We all carry with us scraps of a lost past. Dreams. The remnants of hope.
And what reason does he have to let off as soon as he realises that all my alleged womanising is just a show? Well, the sex bit at least. He has his duties, I have mine. It's part of my doing penance. This world is not for women 'cos we make the rules, and they're not for them; that's why Manx is how she is, and I don't take ill to it.
Now, if it weren't so stupid, I'd say prissyboy has become much more relaxed around me. And if it weren't so absurd, I'd even say he's been, well, possessive those last few weeks.
Yesterday, I found a white orchid in a single-stem black ceramic vase, placed neatly onto the bookshelf with the haiku collection. He was testing the water, see whether he could talk to me without words that won't come easy to him. His pride and his sorrow and his anger strangle him. He has forgotten what else there is, but he remembers that something was there, in this cold hollow place inside him. It was not difficult to read the arrangement: as Aya, he is as nuts as the rest of us, but his true, sober name is Ran /21. As plain and unstained as the blossom he left for me, rooted in darkness.
I cannot stop thinking of that night when I caught him with my wire. Pretty, brittle, snarling his spirit at us, his hatred and his grief... so very beautiful. I marvel at the twinge of compassion that paused my hands, slowed the deadly reflex that would have drawn the wire taut and severed his throat before Omi could yell at me, and I wonder whether it was fate. This tiny delay saved his life for then I only cut off his airflow, using my fingers on pressurepoints on his windpipe until he went limp in my arms. We bundled him into a bed and dragged off his clothes to see to his wounds, to find he was full of bruises – his skin is so white, no wonder it stains at the slightest touch. I could see the cruel marks my thumbs had left under his jaw where I had drilled them into the soft flesh, and it filled me with sorrow then to see him so damaged. My doing. My hands had done that to him.
I had not known such sadness since Asuka died. And all I wanted was to soothe those marks away, for her sake, for his and a bit for mine, too.
RanHe knows. He's seen the flower and understands, I can tell from the way his eyes go soft now when he looks at me, and his smile widens a little and loses its false edge, becomes warm and genuine. He is a whole different person.
I think I know what he would like to do. Perhaps I should consider. After all, that kind of instruction has always been a part of bushido /22, albeit one that is not commonly taught anymore, much less regarded with the same esteem in which our ancestors held it. And, of course, he is not exactly an example of lifestyle or honour either. If anything, it should be me teaching him.
But sometimes it is better to remain silent rather than to come up with a lie. I cannot say to him what I have to admit to myself: that I feel attracted to him, whether I like it or not, because he looks god, he smells good when he's freshly showered, and he radiates a golden warmth. That I could not help but imagine him doing the things to me some of his dirty magazines show in graphic detail. He has as much as told me that he does not sleep with all those girls he flirts with; perhaps it is true. Maybe he does have nightmares as I do, although I find this highly unlikely for he seems so shallow... but the flash of pain in his eyes when he told me in sparse, reluctant words about the death of this woman, that was real.
So am I a replacement for the woman he does not seem to be able to forget? I would not like this. But him wanting me for my own sake? That would be a very frightening option, one I cannot afford. I always strove to be a dutiful son, happy to make my father and mother proud. Now the only duty left to me is to avenge their murder and take care of my sister. I cannot allow anything or anyone as distractingly close as he wants to be; I need my focus. It is a matter of honour, and only death can unbind me, at the hands of my enemies or my own should I fail. /23 It is the ancient way of the bushi /24, unaltered and unshakeable. It is all I have left of my old life.
He told me about cherry blossoms, and surprised me again for he knows all the old colours /25 – cherry blossom means scarlet and white, the colours of bounty and death. The flower of youth cut down at its most glorious, like the kamikaze pilots at the end of the great war. /26 They are my colours, and the same ones that bind his memories to her.
He has an oddly poetic vein. I feel understood, for the first time since being shoved into this kind of life; how strange, for he is such a fool for hoping, living, hurting. I decided a long time ago that it is better not to hope anymore. I do not wish to live beyond fulfilling my task, and I refuse to hurt any longer for it would distract me too much.
Still, perhaps I should consider liking him, if not his taste in music. As long as I don't let him too close. I will need to be careful.
He kissed me today. No more than a shy peck on my forehead, but his arms went around my waist and he almost clung to me, his golden locks tickling my neck as he dropped his head on my shoulder. He was heaving; I could sense his heart racing against mine.
It felt good to lean against him.
For I knew I had found stillness.
The End1 a synonym for brothel
2 Aya is perhaps a year or a couple older but of course much more reasonable than the rest of Weiss
3 tempura – lightly battered, deep-fried vegetables, fish, or meat
4 stringed instrument, a bit like a box-shaped banjo, played by plucking or with a kind of plectrum; classical instrument of geisha
5 little warrior, little samurai
6 see 'Harigane' for Yohji's view of a mission
7 see 'Winding Down – Transformation'
8 hair ornaments of silver, shaped to imitate an ear of rice
9 unlined summer kimono, often worn as a bathrobe
10 niche behind the seat of honour, usually at the head end of the table, furthest from the door – it would hold a scroll with a seasonal motif that would be changed as the year moved on
11 a form of Japanese poetry, condensed in few syllables
12 and why would Aya search for Yohji under his pillow...
13 bento boxes – laquered, plastic or metal, they usually contain a layer/portion of sushi rice, smaller compartments with pickles, fish or other bites, and soy sauce in a tiny bottle. Miso soup or tea could be made and kept in a flask.
14 tea house where geisha parties, formal or less so, can be held
15 Balinese, Yohji's code name – a cat breed
16 the way of the samurai, a code of honour and propriety
17 Peggy Lee, 'The folk that live in the hills'
18 Japanese soccer league
19 Japanese flower arranging art
20 Aya refers to the possibility of spending a night with a highly paid professional lady – NOT a geisha – to learn how to make love properly
21 Ran – Japanese name for a kind of orchid
22 Aya refers to older samurai taking on junior disciples in a mentoring capacity; this could include sleeping with one another – a body of beautiful, romantic and passionate Japanese literature describes this kind of affection.
23 Aya is determined to commit seppuku should he fail in his quest for revenge
24 bushido, the way of the warrior – the code of honour of the samurai
25 colour terms used since Heian times at least, mostly for kimono; often the name of a colour stands for a combination of colours appropriate to season and station of the wearer and a number of other factors
26 cherry blossoms can be used as a synonym for those young men; kami – god/s, kaze – wind, kamikaze – the wind of the gods