Farfarello, Ken discovered, slept like he'd been wrapped in a straight-jacket and tossed carelessly in a corner. Back pressed against the wall, arms folded across his chest and knees slightly bent, he looked like a discarded doll. Ken fell asleep sprawled gracelessly on his back and woke up on his side, curled up and facing Farfarello, his head tucked against the madman's shoulder and his body brushing his in several places. Slow, even breathing ruffled his hair pleasantly. He smelled, Ken realized, like cool water and evening mist and heather, a nighttime sort of smell thick with mystery. He wiggled, pressing closer, and then balked when he realized what he was doing. One golden eye shot open, and he stared up into it for a long, frozen moment. Then Farfarello uncurled slightly and pulled Ken against him, settling down to return to sleep.

He was surprisingly warm. They'd kicked the covers down at some point during the night, or perhaps Ken had, and he pulled them back up before folding gratefully into that warmth.

"I'm surprised you don't mind," he murmured idly.

"Why would I?" was the typically simple answer, and Ken chuckled.

"I don't know. I guess maybe I always thought you'd hate being touched by other people. You know, having them in your space. But you're not like that, really. You like touching." He remembered a hazy day on the park bench, his head in Farfarello's lap, the Irishman's strong fingers meandering through his hair.

"'Like' is not precisely the right word," Farfarello said, shifting slightly.

"Then what is?"

Farfarello paused for a long moment before answering. "Hunger."

"Need?" Ken ascertained.

"Something like."

"Why?"

Those pointed shoulders rolled. "Who would touch a madman if they had any other choice? When anyone touches me, it is always to restrain me. I dislike that, so I fight it. But you would not do that, so I do not mind."

Ken swallowed and tried not to think how it must feel to be left alone in a small cell without light, too tightly bound to move, with no human voice to hear and no contact with people for days on end. You would lose track of time, he thought in mild horror. You would go insane.

He moved a hand tentatively and rested it on Farfarello's side, feeling hard muscle through the t-shirt. The sensation wasn't at all unpleasant. He let the hand slide down to the other man's lower back, arm draping over his waist. He felt the wild impulse to hug Farfarello, but decided not to press his luck that far, however much the man might inspire his sympathy.

"It's hard to believe they don't realize they're making things worse instead of fixing them," he said quietly. "You would think all these smart people, these doctors and psychiatrists and such, would realize that if they keep failing, they're not doing something right."

"One does not have to be intelligent to graduate from medical school," Farfarello told him. "That is a popular misconception. One merely has to be dedicated. Less so to become a nurse. Very few of the doctors I have ever seen cared at all about their patients. Asylums are not for healing. They are for experimentation and incarceration. That is all."

"How can you still be even slightly sane now?" Ken wondered. "Why aren't you tearing me apart? I would have lost it completely, I think."

"I am patient," Farfarello said simply. "And I can sleep when I choose to, for weeks at a time."

Ken sighed. "Farfarello…."

"Siberian."

He frowned. "You can call me Ken, all right? We're friends. At least, I'm your friend."

"I am your friend," Farf told him easily.

"So can I call you Farf? Or Far?"

He considered that for a moment, then nodded. "If you like. But not Farfie."

Ken smiled and snuggled down against his warm human pillow. "Far," he murmured. "That'll work. And don't you call me Ken-ken."

"As you like, tiger kitten."

"Who're you calling kitten?" Ken demanded.

"You," was the straightforward answer.

Ken grumbled. "I'm no kitten. Psychopath," he muttered.

"Pot," Farfarello sang with wicked amusement. "Kettle. Black."

"Easy for you to say, Schwarz."

"At least I do not deny it, Weiss."

"…That's it." Ken writhed free and snatched up a pillow, smacking Farfarello over the head with it. He was expecting a counter-attack with a similar weapon, not the ticklish caress of fingers along his sides, unerringly slipping up under the protection of the sweater. "Hey!" he yelped, lurching backward. Farfarello pounced, and Ken laughed wildly, attempting to fend him off with a pillow, but his only weapon was quickly snatched away and tossed cross the room, and he found himself sprawled on his back, hands pinned above his head in an iron grip, with the madman looming over him. That golden eye gleamed with triumph, full mouth twisting with amusement.

Ken sighed. "All right, all right, you win. But only because you cheated."

"The bad guys do not have to fight fair," Farfarello informed him, smirking. "It is one of our singular advantages."

Ken stuck out his tongue. "So now what, Mr. Bad Guy?"

He almost regretted that challenge. For a moment, something flared in the bronzed depths of that single eye that made his skin tighten oddly, something he wasn't sure he wanted to touch. The hands on his wrists tightened, strong as steel, and the scarred lower lip dropped from the upper slightly as the tension in that coiled body changed subtly. Ken found himself trembling and not knowing why, knowing something was coming but unable to hazard a guess as to what.

"Far," he breathed, unable to keep his voice from quivering. "Hey. Let me up?"

He was relieved to see the words register, and feel the grip on his wrists relax. The madman rolled off of him and settled back on his edge of the bed, retrieving the covers and curling into himself.

Ken stayed where he was for a long moment, head spinning. What had THAT been about? He let his head fall sideways, taking in the thatch of frost-white hair he could see sticking out of the bundle of blanket, and felt something in him pang. He reached over and tugged at the covers.

"Hey," he murmured gently. "Don't do that. What was that all about?"

"I should not have frightened you," was the angry mutter, and Ken rolled his eyes, yanking the blankets away and facing the ferocity in Farfarello's eye without flinching.

"You didn't scare me, okay? I know you're not going to kill me because you told me you wouldn't, and I know you tell the truth. But you didn't look like you wanted to kill me. I don't know what all that was, and I'm not going to make an assumption, so why don't you tell me, huh?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it is not the right time. This is an answer you should fear, and I will give it to you only when you are strong enough to overcome that fear."

Ken sighed. "Okay. I won't push you, then. Sometimes I think you need to be pushed, though," he grumbled, glaring mildly at Farfarello. "You keep pushing me. I hate it when you're doing it, because it makes my head hurt, but then afterward, I always find out I… I know something new, that I never knew before, and it… expands things. Somehow. And I'm not afraid of you anymore," he added fiercely. "Not even if you have an… episode, or something, I won't be afraid of you. So you shouldn't assume that I'll run away from whatever's going through your head because… because… what goes through your head seems to always go through my head sooner or later," he said, giving up and flopping back to the mattress on his face.

"I will wait for that day," Farfarello said, and Ken felt a light touch on his back, trailing down his spine. He groaned plaintively and arched into it, remembering how those hands could so easily touch triggers in his body and make all his muscles relax.

Then, suddenly, he knew.

He froze, eyes like saucers, unable to comprehend anything but the slow progress of those fingers down his back, not massaging, but petting. 'I will wait for that day,' Farfarello had said, and his tone had been resigned, slightly wistful. And he understood, like a shotgun blast to the chest, what had been lurking in that tiger-gold gaze. His first thought was that it was entirely impossible. It just couldn't BE, he had to be interpreting things incorrectly. He heard his heart thundering like a galloping elephant, felt Farfarello's hand come to rest on the small of his back. He glanced sideways. Farfarello had tucked his head into his pillow and his eye was closed again. He looked like a kitten.

Every nerve and muscle in Ken's body was suddenly aware of the hand on his back, the slow stroking movements of the thumb, the light weight of it. He tried to speak, found his throat closed, cleared it, and tried again.

"… Far?" He hedged for a moment, then decided that his usual clumsy lack of tact would overwhelm him anyway. "Do you… like me?"

Farfarello was slow to respond. "If I did not, I would have killed you long ago."

"No," Ken corrected, exasperation giving him strength. "I mean, do you… LIKE me? Is that why…?"

"If I did," Farfarello said flatly, "would it bother you?"

"I… don't know," Ken said honestly. "I would have to think about it. I don't think so," he said gently. "Though I don't think I'd understand why."

"Love is not a thing that is meant to be understood," Farfarello told him, finally opening his eye to meet Ken's gaze. "It can only be accepted or denied for what it is."

"Love?" he repeated. "That serious?"

"All things are serious."

"Maybe with you," Ken teased mildly. "You're always so serious. Heavy," he murmured, trailing off as he remembered Yuriko once telling him nearly the same thing. "You should relax. I'm not afraid," he said, brow furrowing in confusion as he reflected on those words. "I don't know why. I should be scared, I guess, but I'm not. I…." He realized what a ludicrous thing he was about to say and shut his mouth with a snap.

But Farfarello was unwilling to let it go. "You?" he repeated pointedly.

Ken swallowed. "I… trust you. Crazy, huh? I do, though. You wouldn't… do anything. You're too… I don't know, I can't think of good words. I just trust you."

He considered that, then smiled faintly – a real smile, not a smirk, and it changed something fundamental in his appearance that made Ken's eyes widen – and snuggled contentedly back down. Ken felt his own mouth twitching upward and moved in, pressing against him like he had before and draping his arm comfortably over that narrow waist. The hand on his back slid up between his shoulder blades and flattened, pressing gently, somehow reassuring.

"I don't know how I feel about it," Ken confessed, tucking his head against Farfarello's shoulder again and feeling the taller man nuzzle his hair. "I really have to think about that, but it doesn't scare me, and I'm not going to be an ass about it." He paused, considering. "And I'm not going to avoid you, or anything."

Farfarello's expression was unfathomable, his gaze piercing, but Ken met it staunchly, refusing to look away.

"You're good," Farfarello said finally, a childlike tone of wonderment threading through his voice.

Ken blinked. "Good?"

"Good," Far affirmed. "There is a rock upon which every soul is built, the basis for everything a person is, their foundation of thought and action. Very few people are good at that level of themselves. Most are inherently self-centered. You are not. It is rare." He sounded slightly awed, and more and more amused with every passing second.

Ken felt himself turning bright red. "I'm not special!" he protested. "Besides, I'm not sure I want to be good, or pure, or whatever in your opinion."

"I do not hate goodness," Farfarello told him. "I hate false piety. Most piety is false, as you have come to discover, but you are not false. You are simply a good man, without effort or theatrics, one who tries to do the best he can, and it is rare."

Ken buried his face in the mattress. "Will you cut it out? I'm NOT good, okay? I'm … I'm clumsy, and I can't do what's required of me a lot of the time. I always let people down. And I like killing, that's not good, that's so far from good, and I AM selfish. If I wasn't selfish I wouldn't want to leave Weiss when they need me."

"You are good," Farfarello insisted stubbornly. "You have always been good. And what you have suffered, you did not deserve. That is the way of the world, but for what it is worth, it was not your fault, and nothing you did. Goodness trusts and you were betrayed, because God does not see injustice, or care."

"Forget God, okay?" Ken protested. "Kase…."

"Kase was not good," Farfarello said. "He was a man so wicked he betrayed someone who would have given up anything for his happiness. What he did… was NOT your fault."

"I should have…."

"Nothing," Far cut him off. "Nothing would have changed what happened. You could not have known or seen. The second time, you could have trusted Kritiker, but it is not in your nature to condemn another person. What happened had to happen, and you carry no culpability for it."

Ken felt tears well and shut his eyes against them. "But if I just…."

"Stop," Farfarello told him, hand settling on his head and caressing. "Be quiet. You were not at fault."

Ken sighed and just stayed there.

"You were not at fault," he repeated quietly. "Say it."

"I can't," Ken muttered, butting his head into Farfarello's chest.

"You can. Say it. 'I was not at fault'."

Ken swallowed. His voice cracked. "I… was not at fault."

"No. You were not. What happened to you happened because a wicked man grasped ruthlessly for money and power, and used you as a tool to get it. He killed you three times out of mere spite. He would have killed dozens more, but you were strong. You put an end to it. You stopped the evil."

"That evil was my friend," Ken told him, shuddering as the tears spilled despite his best efforts.

"That evil was a friend to no one," Farfarello told him. "A friend does not use a friend. A friend does not betray another friend. A friend wishes for your happiness, not his own."

"You're a friend?"

He smiled, and Ken felt it. "I am a friend."

"You, of all people," Ken said, laughing brokenly, but he squeezed Far to show he didn't mean the verbal jibe. "I'm glad."

"Are you?"

"Yes. Because you're strong when I'm not. Which is always these days, feels like."

"Everyone is tried at some point in their lives." Farfarello patted him. "You've endured thus far. I don't intend to let you fail."

Ken nodded. "I should… go home soon. They'll know I meant to ditch them. I'll be in enough trouble as it is."

"Breakfast first," Farfarello told him, stirring.

Ken laughed. "All right. I won't pass up you offering me food again. You make such great miso," he teased mildly.

Farfarello smacked him on the head with a pillow.

X-X-X

Ken kept the sweater to wear home, but it didn't prevent him from fielding commentary when he arrived at the shop.

Yohji wolf-whistled. "Nah, Ken-ken, a new look for you? Is that for the ladies or for the guys, hmm? Nice pants."

Ken turned red and flipped Yohji off congenially. "Butt out! I can go out for a fun night if I want to! Besides, it's not like it's the first time you've seen it," he said, hands on his hips. "Or was it Aya or Omi tailing me last night?"

Yohji threw his hands up. "It was Aya, and he lost you in Ginza. It wasn't my idea, so take it out on him if you're upset."

"I'm not upset," Ken told him, sounding a bit peeved none the less, "but what are you guys up to, huh? You're acting like I'm all suspicious, and I don't get it. Just because I picked up reading and decided to take some more evenings off, you think I'm doing something nasty? I can't coach the kids anymore," he said pointedly. "Kritiker took that away from me, but the stress of the job just keeps getting higher. I need to relax too."

"We're sorry," Yohji said, holding his hands up defensively. "Talk to Aya and Omi, all right? I was out last night too. And speaking of Kritiker, Birman called. She's coming over this evening to discuss a change of venue with us."

"The mobile flower shop?" Ken wondered, feeling his heart sink.

"Looks like it. They've got some sort of issue in the surrounding provinces and they want us to go traveling." Yohji removed the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out in the glass ashtray. "I think it's a terrible idea, personally. It takes more than a few hours to get the right kind of pretty lady into bed. My sex life is going to go down the drain."

Ken laughed, thwapping Yohji lightly on the head as he wandered past, toward the stairs. Yohji responded by giving his ass a light smack.

"I say again, Ken-ken… nice pants. Didn't know you OWNED something like that."

"They're my old biking clothes," Ken explained. "So they're a little tight on me now. I don't go clubbing a lot so I had to improvise."

"I'll bet you got hit on a lot," Yohji purred, crossing his legs and folding his fingers across his stomach. "And coming home so late in the day? Come on, tiger, spill – who'd YOU go home with?" He leaned in and sniffed. "And don't say no one, you smell like miso."

Ken couldn't help grinning. "You'll just have to keep wondering, playboy. I don't kiss and tell."

"Boring!" he heard Yohji protest as he headed, laughing, for the stairs. Retreating to the safety of his room, he stripped off the leather and midriff shirt and pulled on a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt, but after a moment's deliberation, pulled on the borrowed sweater over it. It still smelled nice, only now the scent of miso was, indeed, added to it. He settled on his bed, curling up inside the loose, comfortable sweater, realizing suddenly that if Weiss was going mobile, he wouldn't be able to come back and visit Farfarello for a long time. That was bad, he decided. At this point, it felt like Far was the only thing keeping him sane.

Oh well. He'd deal with it however he could. In the meantime, he picked up the Book and opened it to where a tattered receipt had been holding his place, and began reading once again, snug in the scent of mist, miso, and heather.

X-X-X