Tempus Fugit …

XO'MagickMoon'OX

Chapter 5: Starting the Job

After we'd changed out of our bathing suits, we took a bus down to the abandoned house. The scenery changed drastically, going from cute and suburban to rustic and historic. We had had to get off the bus a little ways back, seeing how the bus route didn't include this part of the town. We'd been walking for about ten minutes (which, in the sweltering heat can seem more like an hour) when we finally reached the house.

Simple put, it was amazing.

Four stories high, it stood on a small cliff overlooking the sea. It was an august Victorian house, rising proudly from the ground, dwarfing all around it. Despite the fact that the windows were boarded up, the shudders were hanging feebly from their hinges, the once rosy paint was chipped and peeling, and the roof had numerous holes in it, it was still amazing. Like a piece of history cut from a text book and pasted in modern-day America. Obviously no one had lived in it since the couple Kakei and Mr. Yamamoto had told us about. Pity, as it probably would've been an awesome place to live in.

We reach the gate that stands as an iron guardian to the house. It's locked up tight. No problem.

I narrow my eyes at the lock, feeling the familiar pull in my mind as I throw my energy forward. I can see the mechanisms and metal cracking, breaking, shattering inside the lock until …

CRACK! It hangs limp from its chain, defeated.

Kazahaya unravels the chain from around the iron bars of the gate while I give my mind a moment to recuperate. He drops the chain on the floor, and it lands in the dirt with a melodic, clinking whisper. He turns to me, his smile bright but his eyes betraying his apprehension. I guess my talk of "certain danger" and me always having to save him has gotten to him.

"You all right? Think you're up to unlocking the house?" I can almost see the hope spinning through his mind, half-heartedly wishing the answer is No.

Sorry to disappoint you, Kazahaya. "Yes."

He nods, but I can see him bite his lip in uneasiness. He pushes the gate and it swings open with an eerie creak. We walk across the dirt path that leads to the front porch, each step eliciting clouds of dust around our feet. I step warily onto the first step of the front porch, and it groans in warning. The wood is old and brittle, unused to constant comings and goings of people. I continue up the steps carefully, stepping lightly on each stair. Kazahaya follows suit.

The lock on the door is similar to the one that was on the gate: an old-fashioned padlock, the metal rough and worn. Using my power again, I break the lock. Kazahaya goes to take it off the door, and I notice he's trembling. I sigh, placing a hand on his shoulder. He flinches, startled by the sudden gesture, but turns to meet my eyes.

"Kazahaya," I murmur. "Calm down. It's going to be all right."

"But," he starts, "you're right. We always wind up in some weird or dangerous situation on these jobs. I don't know why I always agree to them." He turns back to the still unopened door.

What should I say? It's true. Normally, I'd tell him to suck it up and stop being such a baby, but even I'm a bit nervous, so I can't blame him for being scared. He needs comforting. "It's … going to be all right," I repeat. Then, in a tone so soft that he barely hears me, I whisper, "I won't let anything happen to you."

He takes a deep breath and nods, obviously finding solace in my words. He turns the old-fashioned doorknob and pushes the door open. Like the gate, is swings open with an uncannily unnerving creak. We poke our heads in the doorway. The house is dark, save for the sunlight shining through various holes in the walls. Everything is coated in a thin, gossamer layer of dust, some of which is stirred as the door opens. Silver spider webs are spun in each doorway, cobwebs filling every nook and cranny. It's all too quiet for comfort.

As we step inside, a strange uneasiness comes over me. I can tell from Kazahaya's quiet gasp that he feels the same. It feels like … hopelessness, and a sense of loss and longing, and a quiet sort of dread. I take a wary step, stirring up a cloud of dust in doing so. I hear Kazahaya sneeze. It really is dusty in here, proof of its abandonment.

"Well, where should we start looking?" I ask, my voice just above a murmur.

Kazahaya shrugs. "Whatever we do, I am strongly against splitting up."

I nod in agreement. "Let's search the first level, I guess, and then move onto the others. Look in all the drawers and cabinets …"

"All right."

I glance at Kazahaya. "Just make sure you're careful about what you touch. A house like this is sure to hold a plethora of memories."

He passes me a sharp look, but when he finds no mockery in my eyes, he nods solemnly.

We start our search. Each step we take on the fragile floorboards makes them groan and creak, each door we open stirs a whirlwind of dust, each move we make further into the house feeds the foreboding in our hearts.

Time passes, and our eyes have adjusted to the dingy atmosphere. The furniture in this house is definitely antique, made of strong wood and elegantly carved. I'd had to break a few locks here and there on various drawers and cabinets, but Kazahaya, it seems, has had no run-in with peeks into the past, much to his relief.

After searching through the several living rooms, the kitchen, and the foyer, all on the first floor, we reach the dining room. A crystal chandelier hangs from the high ceiling over a large, sturdy table. On the table is a wilted, floral centerpiece and a white, moth-eaten tablecloth. Spiders have taken the liberty of weaving their webs between the centerpiece and the table and between the claw-footed legs. There are also webs woven around the matching wooden chairs, and cobwebs veil the glass-faced armoire standing against the wall that holds various silverware, china dishes, and other glass containers painted with gold and pink and green floral designs. Light filters through the doorway from a hole in the neighboring living room wall, the golden streaks refracting off of the chandelier, casting the light around the room.

Kazahaya takes a wary step from the living room into the dining room. A small whimper escapes his lips, and I'm immediately at his side.

"What?" I whisper.

But Kazahaya didn't hear me. He steps towards the table, his hand outstretched.

"Kazahaya," I call, grabbing his wrist. But he shakes me off, as if in a trance.

He reaches the table, his hand falling lightly on the cotton tablecloth. He stiffens, a small gasp sounding from his lips.

I stand there, unable to do anything as a memory flashes before his eyes. Moments, moments that seem more like agonizingly suspenseful hours, pass before Kazahaya's body finally relaxes and he turns to face me.

"Well?"

"I … I saw a couple, sitting here, eating dinner – or, at least, I think it was dinner," he says. "They were talking to each other, and the atmosphere between them was a bit tense, as if they were arguing. They were speaking English, so I couldn't understand them, but the man jumped up and threw his spoon against the wall, shouting angrily. The woman looked scared. The guy stomped off through the doorway and I could hear his footsteps as he marched up the stairs, and then a door slammed shut. The woman put her head in her hands." He looked back to the table. "That was it."

"'A door slammed shut', eh?" I look up at the ceiling, as if I could see through it to the second floor. "You think he went up to their bedroom?"

---

We trek up the stairs. At the top there's a huge spider web stretched from wall to wall, gleaming in the dim light. Kazahaya "eeps" and clings to my arm.

Though I have no protests to him touching me, I can't help but growl, "Calm down, idiot," which earns me a fiery glare. I sigh and tear through the gossamer threads. Kazahaya makes a disgusted sound as I step up onto the second floor and pull the strands off of my skin.

"How come the other spider webs didn't bother you?" I ask as he comes up beside me.

"Well," he begins, "they were small and I didn't have to touch them if I didn't want to." He looks away as a small blush rises in his cheeks. He's utterly adorable. I clench my fists to suppress the sudden urge to pin him against the wall and take him right then and there.

The wall would probably fall down, anyway, if I but leaned against it, let alone –

"Where's the bedroom?"

I snap out of my reverie to see Kazahaya starting down the hallway.

"Idiot, wait up! I don't want you falling through any holes or anything."

Kazahaya turns, and an uncharacteristic smirk finds its way across his face. "Do you really care about me, Rikuo?" he asks slyly.

I bite back the automatic Yes! about to escape my lips and force a retort. "I'm just not in the mood to jump after you if you get in trouble."

Kazahaya turns back around and continues down the hallway. I'm not sure, but I could've sworn I saw hurt and disappointment flash across his angelic features. I sigh wearily and follow after him.

Why did I say that? Why didn't I just say "yes" like I wanted to?

I know why. Because if I had said "yes", other words – and probably actions – would've followed, like, "You idiot, of course I care about you. I love you!", at which point I would've proceeded to say, "Why can't you just love me back? Why do you torture me with unrequited love? Why is it that you're always around, always taunting me?" My ranting would then evolve into something like, "I shouldn't have brought you home that day. You're nothing but a plague on my heart, a distraction I really don't need." Yes, I would say that, but I wouldn't really mean it. That's why I coat my words with sarcasm and retorts, because if I were to say what I really thought, my tongue would get carried away with itself, spouting all sorts of things I would rather leave unsaid. And then I would unintentionally push Kazahaya away from me … probably forever.

Kazahaya, what would you think of me if your knew how I really felt about you? What would you think if I told you that you are always on my mind? What would you think if you knew the things I fantasized about doing to you? What would you think …?

He would never speak to me again, probably move out as soon as possible. And not having him around, even as a sort of friend, is worse than unrequited love.

That's why I watch what I say. That's why I make sure I hide behind a mask of sardonic remarks and mocking smirks. That's why I only satisfy my desires through my teasing, and never take it any further than suggestive touches and irritating banter.

Because I don't want to lose him.

But lately, I find my emotions harder to control. I find my taut barrier of self-control withering under my overpowering feelings.

But, I'll keep myself restrained, tie a leather leash around me neck and tether myself to a pole, just so I don't lose Kazahaya.

"All right. I think this is the master bedroom."

Again I'm pulled from my musings by Kazahaya's voice. I look up as he pushes open a door. It swings back with a creak, dust dancing through the air. The room is huge. There's a large canopy bed in the middle, it's head against the wall. The bed is made, the deep blue comforter tucked under the mattress, the top pulled back to show the white sheets underneath. The pillows are carefully placed at the head. The sheer blue curtains of the canopy bed are pulled back all the way, billowing with the breeze that blows in through a busted window. Unlike the other windows, this one is not boarded up. The shudders are long gone, the white drapes catching the wind like the ones of the bed. A cushiony window seat runs beneath the sill, so one can sit and look out over the ocean. The window also lets in a considerable amount of sunlight that reflects off of the white walls, seeming to make this room the brightest in the house. A mahogany bureau is against the wall, a metal washbasin at the foot of the bed. Two bedside tables are at either side of the bed, and a wooden desk is against the wall next to the window. Pieces of yellowed parchment papers flutter in the breeze, grounded only by the black bottle of ink holding them down. A quill is beside the ink bottle, its tip coated in dry ebony. Like the rest of the house, spiders had filled in each nook and cranny with their webs, and gossamer cobwebs took residence in the remaining areas. A thin layer of dust covers the entire room, even the bed.

"This seems like a good place as any to keep the necklace," Kazahaya murmurs. I nod in agreement. "Let's start."

I search around the bureau, opening it carefully, while Kazahaya investigates the desk. The shelves inside are laden with clothes, dresses and blouses, shirts and trousers, and so on and so forth. I ruffle through the garments, feeling around to see if maybe the necklace is in the pockets of a pair of pants or hidden beneath the folds of a blouse. No luck.

I move on to the side tables searching the one on the right first. I open the drawers, finding a pair of dressy gloves, a few trinkets and pieces of jewelry – none of which were the necklace we were looking for – and a few dried flowers. This was obviously the woman's side of the bed. I move around to the other side of the bed and search the man's bedside table. His drawer contains a couple books – one of which is the Bible – and a handkerchief, as well as a small black box. Curiosity overcomes me. I pick up the box. It's too small to possibly hold the necklace. So what's in it?

I lift the lid, and my breath hitches.

It's a diamond ring, sitting primly and beautifully on a small cushion. It appears untouched by time, glittering and gleaming in all it's glory. I want to lift it from its home and examine it further, but I leave it sitting there.

"What's that?"

I jump, startled by Kazahaya's sudden appearance at my side. I close the box. "It's not the necklace."

Kazahaya frowns. "Okay, so what is it?"

"It's a ring."

I hand him the box. He opens it, and his green-gray eyes widen. He stares, transfixed by its beauty, and absentmindedly sits down on the bed. The antique frame groans.

I look away. To many over-played fantasies are surfacing in my mind, each involving Kazahaya and a bed.

Damn him.

We're supposed to be focused on this job, and all I can think about is ravishing my coworker/roommate. I sigh, frustrated. Turning back to Kazahaya, I find him still entranced by the ring.

"Give me that," I growl and snatch the box from his feeble grip.

"Hey!" He pouts indignantly.

"Get over it." I stow the box away back in the drawer. "Did you find anything in the desk?"

Kazahaya shakes his head. "Only the parchment, ink, and quill, and in the drawer there were a few books, extra ink, quills, and paper, and a few envelopes."

I wish he'd get off that damn bed.

"But I did get a memory of the woman crying and writing a letter when I touched the quill. Then, she folded up the letter, stuck it in her blouse, and left the room. I think she went upstairs further." Kazahaya pointed to the ceiling.

I really wish he'd get off that damn bed.

"So, should we head upstairs?" I ask, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. Kazahaya nods. Thank God.

I head out the door and he follows, the bed groaning again as he stands. As we march up the stairs, I begin thinking – and this time my thoughts don't involve a certain light-haired boy and a bed.

Mr. Yamamoto told us that the woman used to stand out on the widow's walk, waiting for her fiancé to return. But he never did. And then she died, supposedly of a broken heart. Though, I'm not quite sure if brokenhearted-ness can be an actual cause of death. Can it?

I voice my musings then. "Kazahaya, maybe we should go up to the widow's walk," I say thoughtfully as we reach the third-floor landing. "Remember how Mr. Yamamoto said that the woman would stand up there all the time? Maybe we can find something there."

Kazahaya stops, thinking for a moment. Then he nods. "All right."

We find the steps that lead towards the fourth floor, which is really more like an attic. There's a hole in the roof where a hatch obviously used to be, a wooden ladder leading up through the opening. It ultimately leads to a sort of small deck on the roof with a walkway facing the ocean. The walkway is surrounded by wooden safety rails, most of which are missing or busted. The wooden floorboards of the widow's walk are weathered and worn, and, like the rest of the house, creak and groan as we step across them. Were we to look around, we would realize that the view is breathtaking. But, our eyes are focused elsewhere …

On the woman standing at the end of the widow's walk.