Chapter 2

Thanks to my lovely reviewers meron pan daisuki, Vault 713, Kei, just a reader, Mistress of Darkness, Misura, schu-chan, and Kaelina. You guys inspired me to keep going on this.

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1:24 a.m., Marienplatz, Munich

"Tell me this isn't the way its going to be, Ken."

Two long limbs box in the younger man, palms pressed flat to the closed door. Yohji looms above him, his slender form menacing. Ken's throat clenches painfully; he fights the feeling and responds with as much force as he can muster.

"No."

Yohji's face changes, but Ken continues before he can speak.

"No, because its not going any further. I'm finished with this Yohji. I'm sorry."

Yohji's face changes again, this time from utter surprise to a mask of rage. He pushes himself away from his brunette lover.

"Sorry?" he repeats. Then again, softer, "Sorry?!" Ken stands his ground, positioned as he is against a closed closet door. Only a flicker in his eyes betrays his fear.

Yohji raises his hand as if to strike Ken, and Ken doesn't bat an eye. After a long, angry, tension-filled moment, Yohji backs down. Making an inarticulate noise of disgust, he grabs his coat off the back of the chair and exits without looking back. Ken waits until he hears the apartment door slam before releasing his suppressed emotions. Sobbing, he curls up on the unforgiving floor.

Ken shrugs off the memory, the shrug turning into a shiver as an icy breeze finds it way down his shirt collar. He looks up from his daze to see where he is. No subway in sight, nor busy highways. Cobblestone streets and red brick walls. He runs his hands over the rough stones as he weaves his way along the street.

He passes under a bridge. Homeless souls hold out their cups like grave toll men. He hiccups as he laughs.

Just like me, he thinks. No home and no friends. Dark memories struggle to surface; he trots faster along the cold road to keep them at bay.

He passes a last arch and is in a courtyard. He can see the stairs descending to public transit from here. Dark stairs leading to false light and false securities. He takes the courtyard on the perimeter, skirting the subway entrance. More cobblestones and shadows, flickering lights high up in windows, too high for him to reach. The moon above is stingy with her light, the multitude of stars like ants across the deep night sky. Ken keeps his pace along the cobblestone path, fingertips grazing the rough red brick.

He stumbles and puts a shaky hand back on the wall as he braces himself to stand again. Its harder than it should be; Ken shakes his head to clear it of dizziness. He might have to set up a tollbooth himself soon. Food, like sleep, had been a long time in coming.

A long while ago it wasn't dark. The gray and cloudy day had still cast light, real light, onto the streets and onto his own weathered head. He remembered seeing postcards, and red geranium flowers from window boxes. Then when it had gotten colder and darker, and shops had closed and the crimson petals had faded with the light, he had found his way beneath the city . . .

Gentle music on the cool breeze, drifting nearer, nearer . . . No, he was drifting nearer----there. The open archway. The lighted place under the stone pillars. Humble, flickering lantern light. Light without the insolent audacity to imitate the real thing, unlike that in the subway. He feels pulled toward the soft glow, the music.

He comes upon the accordion player, and, suddenly shy, stays outside the small, dimly lit alcove. The player barely acknowledges his presence, seemingly drawn into his own melody. Ken follows the music, his heart almost at peace in a numb, lulled sort of way. Inside this tiny circle, he is free of the world. Music and musician become one in Ken's haggard mind.

His eyes scan the sweeping pillars and sturdy foundation, the open courtyard and twinkling lights in deep-set windows high above. His heart pangs at the distant glows. Always out of reach.

For some reason the music becomes painful to him, and he turns away to face the night. Hand on the harsh stone walls again, he shuffles down the cobblestone path.

2:11 a.m., Marienplatz

Hurts. Everything hurts. Ken strains to keep his eyes open while forcing himself to take a much-needed breath. The quiet agony in his side flares up in protest. He expels the air, wondering how long it will be before he absolutely needs oxygen again.

Dampness touches the corner of his eye. He is past tears by now; it is the blood from a recent head injury. One small misstep and he was tumbling off the ledge onto dark asphalt. A rigid metal corner had found his temple, and his side had been smashed on the curb concrete ledge. At this ungodly hour, no one had heard his anguished cries for help. He had silenced them himself once the pain had died down enough for him to regain his wits. It was not the wisest idea to draw attention to himself this late at night. He would have to wait it out until morning, but he'd be damned if he'd do it in a gutter!

Ken steels himself to sit up, and even then it is beyond his control to hold in the yelp of pain at moving. Gritting his teeth, he levers himself to kneel, slowly but surely rises to his feet. Grimly, he sets about relocating his battered, bruised, burnt out body. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ken knows this doesn't matter, doesn't even make sense. But then, nothing has made sense to him for a long time. He trudges on.

Familiar towers appear before Ken's wavering gaze. His sanctuary. He zigzags across the courtyard, toward the lanterns and non-existent music. The accordion player is long gone, the alcove empty. Ken feels as if he has lost a friend. He sways for a moment before the great building, one man against the pillars of ages. He steps forward, touches the cold wall, drops down to its base, his legs folding under him like a child. He presses his cheek against the rough stone, reawakened tears slipping down to dampen the dust. At long last, his heart gives out and he falls mercifully unconscious.

~~@~@~@~@~@~@~~~

"Was ist das?"* a voice murmurs above him. Cool fingers tilt his chin up, and he groans. The hair on his temple is feathered up, a hiss of sympathy emits from the tall bending form. He stirs, and shivers, the night having grown colder, and he having been pulled out of his warmth-retaining curl. Touches at his shoulder, his waist. He moans as the fingers graze his ribs. He struggles against the intrusion, grumbling nonsensical phrases like a drunkard. Soft laughter floats down to him.

"Can you get up?" He realizes after a moment that he can decipher the words, and that they are being directed towards him. He struggles to make his heavy tongue obey and reply . . . . No go.

In an instant he is lifted and positioned vertically. His knees don't even give the pretense of holding out long enough for him to stand alone. Arms go around his torso to catch him as he pitches forward, his hoarse yell is muffled on someone's shoulder. His body decides enough is enough and goes limp in the other's hold. He doesn't feel the stranger's coat wrap around his trembling form, or hear the man's quiet laughter once again.

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* Eng. Trans.: "What is this?" == I don't know German, please let me know if I make any mistakes! ^^;;


Oh dear! Poor little KenKen is so tired and distraught he falls down and bumps his head on the gutter. ::chortles:: Talk about hitting rock bottom. ::sigh:: But who is this mysterious stranger? And what could his *intentions* be?? Review button says, "Click me and you will receive the answer!"

~~~Lady Kickass ^_^*