So why do I rap his door now, after we have just settled from our latest mission? He was in a haze of bloodlust and fire and smoke, murderous and spiteful, hacking his way out of the place in spite of Omi's yelling through the earpiece. Afterwards, barely back at the Koneko, they had 'a talk' – Omi hauled him into the mission room without delay, with both of them stinking of fire and gore – and I won't be Kudoh the Flirt if Aya hasn't a fat black mark on his Kritiker file by now.
Aya wanted to hurt and get hurt last night, and he was prepared to drag all of us in with him.
He doesn't answer my rapping and scraping. "Hey, Ayan?"
Silence, the soft sloshing of water, the shuffling of feet. He is in his room, at least. "Aya, I'm not gonna go away 'til you open that damn door."
"What do you want?" His voice is muffled and flat.
I cannot answer that. Not by saying I want to make sure he is fine, that he has no injuries beyond a few bruises and minor cuts, that he is not hungry or aching...
The door flies open so suddenly that I can only burst back into the hallway when he appears in the gap, a towel wrapped round his head. He holds the doorknob with one hand, and keeps rubbing his hair dry with the other. His eyes are cool and alert as he runs his gaze over me, appraising and a bit calculating. "Come in," he orders and disappears from the door.
On the makeshift altar burn incense sticks amid a scattering of origami shapes. As I draw the door shut behind me, he pulls the towel off his hair, and I can only gape for his hair is not red anymore but dark brown, almost black. On the sideboard by the window stand a bowl and pitcher, the water in the bowl turgid, the towel spread neatly underneath is soaked with rusty red stains. A small container with purple contacts sits next to the pitcher. (1)
Aya turns to me and meets my eyes. "Now you know," he merely says, in an oddly neutral voice. Without the wild crimson and the brilliant purple, his face is pure and serene. In nothing but his yukata, he looks slight and innocent and years younger than his true age. "Do you still want me?"
His eyes are grey-blue, like a dusky summer sky. His hair is still damp and a bit tousled, clinging softly to his temples and cheeks. He looks at me when he simply slips the yukata off and lets it drop by his feet. He is himself. No false colours, no earring to remind him of his burden, no layers of protective clothing. No more hiding. He is naked and bare and willing to be mine.
I don't want to look down at him when I answer, so I kneel before him and wrap my arms round his knees. Just in case. I look up, he looks down. It feels right that way. He is reassured, and laces his hands into my hair,a tiny smile in the corners of his mouth.
"Hai, Ayan. I still want you."
"Ran," he says, his tone almost soft, "I am Ran."
I should be happy. Smug. Something like that.
Instead, something wrenches at my heart hard enough to make me breathless with pain. "Ran," against his warm skin. "Ran."
He is not hard. I kiss his thigh, just once, and feel a tremor run through him. I look up again, he glances down, intently, his lips parted, his breathing light, shallow. Expectant and nervous, even though he'd rather die than to admit this.
"Yohji, I... it won't come up," he says, rather embarrassed, a blush staining his cheeks.
Ok, so I was wrong again. He does admit it, and it doesn't kill him. As though he had not only shed his colours, but Aya (2) altogether. "Then let it be," I tell him. Another kiss, a bit closer to his crotch. Warm, velvety flesh snuggled into a nest of dark hairs, wiry and curly. My hair tickles the sensitive inside of his thighs, I can tell because goosebumps dimple his skin, and he fidgets the tiniest bit. Taste his skin down there, make him jump a little when my tongue touches him there.
We slept with one another that night. I kissed him until he was hard. Not difficult for he was starved for touch and hungry for passion. He refused to take me first; instead he let me in without pain – I could feel him willing his body to relax as I slid between his drawn-up thighs and kissed him deeply while making him slick, then pushed in gently. He was eager and fast, and when we were done, he turned away, angled his arm over his face and let out a few dejected little sobs. No tears, no drama, just dry small sounds of utter defeat.
It shocked me enough to roll off him, chilled out of my hazy afterglow. I knew better than to ask, but I refused to let him slide away from me without at least trying to hold on; so I pulled myself close to him and tugged the blanket over us, my hand slipping underneath to rest on his waist, and my face touching his hair.
"Aya... Ran."
The pulse at his neck where I nearly cut his life off.
"Ran?" Kiss him there, savouring salty skin, pine needles, steel and heat.
"Yoh... Yohji..."
More ellipses. Too many of them in our lives that are riddled with blood and death. When we chose not to cope, or plainly lose the plot, we write another ellipsis into our existence. Petting his hair feels good. Fitting myself against the rounding of his spine feels great, my nether regions pressing against his trim backside, feeling the dampness of what we've just done, and I grow hot inside just replaying it in my mind.
"Yohji, am I your trophy now?" The wild kid tamed? Storm contained? Tide stopped?
"Like I'm yours?" The chronic flirt settled? Sunshine boxed? Freedom shackled?
"I do not collect."
That hurt. I have to see his face now, so I tug at his arm. "Ran?"
He relents and half turns onto his back, shoulder digging into my chest. His eyes narrow and shaded, his expression collected, no tears. He cannot cry. "So?" he says, quietly.
"I want you, no matter what you call yourself – Aya, Ran, Fuji, Abyssinian – I don't care, 'cos I love you. 'Cos I want you."
"And what exactly, Yohji, do I get in return?"
Testing. He is always poking, mistrusting, insecure, angry and lost. Testing. "You get me, baby. Full on."
"All of you?" He has an odd way of putting things.
"Yeah, the lot if you can handle it."
"Ah." He is thinking, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. Studying the pattern of cracks in the rendering and the flakes of white paint thatwill drizzle down when Omi plays his heavy metal stuff at full blast. My place is the same. "How long is forever?" he wonders aloud, his voice floating, strangely disembodied though I can feel it vibrate deep in his chest. He should think less, it tends to screw the simplest thing for him 'cos his mind is twisted by grief.
"As long as I'll love you," I tell him.
"Love me," he murmurs, the tension draining from his body that sags into mine. I pull the comforter upover our shoulders. I could do with a cigarette now, and it is a bit chill in his room.
But he is falling asleep, his face relaxing, his breathing deepening and slowing, and I feel content. Don't need the fag after all. And he warms me.
Through the slits in the bamboo blind gleams light.
I want to believe it is a star.
Forever.
Just how long does it really last?
xxx
The End1) for more detail on what happens here, see 'Winding Down – Transformation' and its sequels
2) woven of silk, or colourful – possible interpretations of Aya's name; Ran is also a female name