Names, meanings, fate and what kanji have to do with it. Yohji and Aya, Schuldig, Nagi. Some Schuldig, Crawford, Yohji tension. Omi and Ken to follow.
(For research on the names, I used Jim Breen's brilliant dictionary server – just type into your search engine 'Jim Breen' AND dictionary – which resides on www csse monash edu au – you will need to put the dots in here.)
Disclaimer: This story is not for profit, all rights with their current owners.
Warnings: The boys are foulmouthed. The chibis are no cuties. That includes Nagi.
Rating: M for male/male affection and references to sex. Don't look for graphic instructions though - you will be disappointed.
Pairs (I would not call them couples):Aya/Yohji (destiny interrupted), Omi/Ken (definitely no sweeties), Crawford/Schuldig (Schuldig has a thing for Yohji though).
Disclaimer, warnings and rating valid for all chapters of this story.
Reviews appreciated. Cheers. LH
xxx
The dictionary lay open on the kitchen table at the Koneko. Between the small-print extra thin pages of the tomestuck a folded sheet of notepaper, covered in systematically divided, scribbled notes in Yohji's sweeping handwriting:
Youji (Yohji)(These are not all possible readings and interpretations – it's multilayered.)
(n) infant; baby; child
(n) tasks; things to do
(n) toothpick
(n) using characters
(n-adv,n-t) cradle
(m) - shine; sparkle; gleam; twinkle / director; official; govt office; rule; administer
Kudou (Kudoh) 7
Kudo (p,s) – old story / counter for occurrences – something like the same old story many times over…
Kudou (s) - ward, district / wisteria
Kudou (s) – shinto shrine, princess / road
Kudou (s) - long time; old story / road-way; street; district; journey; course; moral; teachings
Kudou (s) – armor; high (voice); A grade; first class; former; instep; carapace / the second kanji means wisteria!
Kudou (s) - craft; construction / road-way; street; district; journey; course; moral; teachings
Aya
(Simple and singleminded. That's him alright.)
(n) (1) figure; design; (2) (a single kanji) twill weave; pattern of diagonal stripes
Ran
(Another simple one. A girl's name, to boot - oh man...)
(n) orchid
(n) column of text (e.g., as in a newspaper)
Fujimiya
(It remains straightforward, so typical Aya. And they all fit him like a glove.)
(s) – wealth; enrich; abundant / gentleman; samurai / Shinto shrine; constellations; palace; princess
(s) – wisteria / Shinto shrine; constellations; palace; princess
xxx
"You can't have the table now," Yohji said to Ken who was looking for somewhere to put his bowl of rice and his mug of coffee. The kitchen was cluttered with sheets from a thick unruled pad of white paper. The table was covered in them, too, and Yohji – in a grey, ink-stained vest and black briefs – was bent over yet another piece of paper, with an inked brush in his hand. He had drawn one bare foot under his bottom and kept wriggling the toes of the other one against the chill from the tiled kitchen floor. The tip of his tongue crept from the corner of his mouth, and his hair fell into his eyes as he dragged the brush over the paper with a flourish and an expression of utter concentration.
"You're such a baby," Ken grouched.
Yohji shrugged, then winced as the brush made an unplanned squiggle. "It's all in my name, innit?"1
Aya perched on the window sill to soak up some of the pale morning sunshine. Prim in his orange sweater and black jeans, and safely ensconced behind his broadsheet, he peered over his reading glasses, past the edge of the paper. "Get dressed at least," he growled.
Yohji smiled without looking up from his task. "Looking indecent, huh? Well, don't peep then, Ayan."
Aya blushed and bit his lip. He would not allow Yohji to tick him off this easily. He pushed the reading glasses back up and shook the paper out in order to carry on reading.
Yohji sat back a little and cocked his tousled head to regard his work critically. Then he leaned forward again to try and improve on the squiggle, making it worse. "Damn." He crunched up the sheet and tossed the paperball at Ken.
"Oi," Ken said tetchily, "will you stop this? I'm trying to have my breakfast here, without getting into a fight with you."
"Yeah, yeah," Yohji groused, "I give up anyway. It's crap, I can't do it." He brushed his hair out of his brow and left a sooty smudge. His hands and lower arms were stained with ink, and a few blots had spattered onto his vest.
Ken stuffed a chopstick load of rice into his mouth and craned his neck to see what Yohji was trying to do. "Hmmm…not bad though, Yotan," he said, appraising Yohji and then a few of the sheets that lay about the kitchen, "Considering…"
Aya shifted on his perch, paper rustling as he turned a page with just a little more noise than strictly necessary.
"Considering what?" Yohji got up to make himself a mug of coffee. Leaning hipshot against the sink, he singlehandedly lit a cigarette, while holding the kettle under the running tap, switching the kettle on and flicking the tap closed.
"That you're blond," Ken mumbled and ducked his head, narrowly missing the soaking washing-up cloth Yohji flung at him. The kettle bubbled and clicked off quickly - Yohji was in the habit, despised by Aya and frowned upon by Ken - to use hot tap water instead of cold.
"At least I ain't got a football for my head," Yohji sniped, spooning ground coffee into his mug and pouring boiling water over it. He blew a mouthful of smoke over the steaming brew in an attempt to cool it down, but when he tried to drink a sip, he hissed because the hot drink scalded his lips.
Ken laughed. "Why're you bothering anyway? It's not like we'd ever need to be kinda literary."
Yohji set the mug down hard onto the counter. "Fuck." Hewiped his mouth, then went to gather his calligraphy utensils. Without looking up once, he shoved the papers together, washed out the bowl and brush, ink swirling in the sink.
Aya let his newspaper sink to his lap and took off his reading glasses.
Ken cleared his throat. "Yohji?"
Yohji made no reply but picked up the cloth that lay between Ken's and Aya's chairs, and wiped the sink clean. They watched him move, toss back his hair, wring out the cloth.Firm and swift, as if on a mission.
Aya calmly slid his reading glasses into a case he shoved into his jeans pocket.
Ken swallowed the mouthful of rice that seemed to swell in his mouth. "Did I say something wrong? I just meant-"
Yohji turned to face the two younger men. His face was drained of any expression, his eyes blank and dark. "No, you're right," he cut in with sudden bitterness. "We're handiworkers. We don't need this." He held up handfuls of inked paper, beforepunching it into the bin under the sink and stomping out of the room. His steps faded up the stairs.
Ken jumped when the door to Yohji's room slammed shut, and met Aya's gaze. "Shit," he said quietly, setting down his bowl and chopsticks. He looked annoyed and lost.
Aya got up and neatly folded up the newspaper. He laid it onto the table and sank into a crouch by the bin. Paper rustled as he picked through the discarded, crumpled sheets. Ken got up and bent over Aya's shoulder to look as he pulled out three of them and smoothed them on the floor.
"He isn't that bad anyway," he said uncomfortably. "With this stuff. And usually he's not this touchy, right? Man, he's not been himself the last few days. What's up, Aya?"
Languidly, Aya traced with his fingertips the broad black brush strokes on the jaundiced paper. Bold, strong swipes, all in the right order – Aya's lips soundlessly formed the name spelled out in kanji: Yohji. A tiny smile settled in the corners of his mouth, for Yohji had indeed used the kanji for baby.
Ken watched Aya's hand, then he shook his head. "Okay, don't say it then. You two really are a pain in the ass with your bloody moodswings." He clunked his bowl into the sink, drained his mug, and marched out into the shop – he would apologise to Yohji later, when the blond would come down for his shift. Yohji did not bear grudges; they would share a smoke and a coffee and forget about it. Or so Ken hoped, because Omi would be jittery when Yohji felt down, and Aya... well, without someone to temper him, Ken found it hard to keep on speaking terms with the redhead.
But perhaps Aya had a plan.
Aya tended to be good with plans where Yohji was concerned.
And – differences aside – Ken relied on this as they would rely on one another on a mission.
xxx
"Stay out," Yohji's muffled voice ordered from behind the closed door to his room.
Aya opened the door anyway and stepped inside. Yohji had pulled the blinds halfway down and was sitting on the floor by the window, in a swath of watery autumn morning sun. He was leaning back, one elbow on the window sill, his head resting against the wall, wisps of silvery smoke curling lazily around him as he seemed to contemplate the busy street. The light gilded his skin and made his hair shimmer, a soft halo around his angular face and long neck. Aya could not help but stare, until Yohji turned his head and looked at him. Eyes luminous but filled with shifting shadows as he regarded Aya. "I shouldn't have blown up like that," he said,an apologetic smile curving his soft lips.
Aya went to kneel beside him. "I understand." He set down a pack of paper and a small box he carried under one arm. Yohji dipped some ash onto the window sill and watched him as he laid out a sheet of paper next to the box made of black lacquer, adorned with an image of pine and bamboo, painted in pale jade green onto one side of the lid. With sure, measured movements, Aya slid back the lid of the box and took out an ink stone, brush rest, three brushes of varied width, and an ink stick.
Wordlessly, Yohji got up to fetch a half-empty plastic bottle of water he kept by the side of his futon, and handed it to Aya before settlingin his place again.
"Do you know how many different ways there are to spell your name?" Aya asked,slowly grinding the stick against the ink stone.
Yohji looked on, fascinated by the contrast of Aya's white skin against the pitch black of the pigment. "A few?"
"At least eighteen for your family name. And more than seventy for your given name. This may not be all, but I am not that good with the more obscure kanji." Aya stoppered the bottle with his thumb and drizzled a few drops of water onto the black powder in the well of the stone. Droplet after droplet soaked into the dust, darkening it more still, liquefying it into a black mini mirror, containing a shiny mini image of Aya. Aya picked up a brush -reddish hair tapering to a fine tip, set into a smooth bamboo grip -and began to swirl it gently in the ink. Yohji put the lid back onto the bottle and set it aside, then he knelt next to Aya.
Who reached out and pressed the brush into his hand. "Here, this is one…" He gripped Yohji's wrist and began to guide the strokes of the brush in his hand. "Yoh…ji. Task. Things to do."
Yohji laughed a little. "Am I really such a job? C'mon, Ayan, gimme some credit."
Aya smiled, a barely there curving of thin lips. "Very well. Let's try this then."
"Toothpick?" Yohji sat back and chewed his lip. "Really?"
"Well, you do remind me of one, sometimes."
"Hey!"
Aya bent forward to remove the sheet from the pile and onto the floor. "It would be easier if you sat here, and I behind you."
Yohji said nothing. He tossed the cigarette butt out of the window and complied. Aya moulded against him immediately, his breathing warm and even on Yohji's neck, his chest heaving calmly against Yohji's bare back. One of his earlocks tickled Yohji's jaw, but Yohji bit his lip and remained silent.
"Dip it into the ink," Aya commanded quietly, his small, hard hand sliding down Yohji's naked right arm. His fingers closed over Yohji's pulse, his thumb rubbing slightly the tender skin there. Yohji leaned back against him ever so slightly and did as asked.
"Now dab off a little of the liquid on the edge of the stone, or you will blot the paper. Aa, like that. Keep your arm steady and your hand relaxed… good. Here, Yoh…ji."
The whisper of ink-soaked animal hair over rough paper – Aya had brought good, fibrous rice paper, Yohji noticed, slightly bemused. And the box looked expensive.
"You are not paying attention, Yohji," Aya reproached him calmly. "You need to concentrate."
"What does this one mean?" Yohji nodded at the kanji Aya had helped him to write just then. "Shining?"
"Aa."
Yohji was growing warm. Aya pressed against his back, Aya breathing against him, their rhythm as one, Aya's touch on his bare skin… "Shining," he murmured as he wrote the kanji again, ink gleaming wet and black on the coarse paper. This time, Aya was not guiding him, but travelling with his motion, and Yohji began to feel strangely lightheaded – as though something was coursing through him, a surge of warmth and light, easing the gloom that had threatened to swallow him up again... As though Aya was pouring into him, body and mind, to help him stem the overwhelming swell of darkness.
"Perhaps we should try your surname," Aya said evenly, "you could prepare some more ink."
Yohji did, and Aya stayed close even though he had to let go of Yohji's wrist for a little while. His hands drifted to Yohji's thighs instead and began to rub unhurried, small circles there, to mimick the ones Yohji made with the grinding stick on the ink stone.
"Good." Aya's voice melted into Yohji's guts. "There is a way of learning that is supposed to make every kanji unforgettable."
"Oh? I remember sitting in stuffy classrooms and dying from heat and thirst while trying to learn the damn things."
"You remember the classrooms, not the kanji. Would you want me to show you?" There was an odd undercurrent to Aya's tone, and Yohji was not sure whether he liked it. It reminded him of… missions?
"I…"
Aya's fingers slipped a little towards the inside of Yohji's thighs and pressed lightly into his flesh. The touch sent a jolt of pleasure through Yohji, and he gasped, "Aa. Show me."
Aya scooted back a little. "Lie down. On your back."
"Huh?" Yohji glanced over his shoulder.
Aya looked serious, his purple gaze hooded, expectant, if somewhat cool. "Lie. On. Your. Back." And when Yohji still hesitated, Aya gripped his shoulder, and half-turned him, half-pushed him until he sprawled on the floor and looked up at Aya with a shade of apprehension. "Now close your eyes." Aya lightly laid his hand over Yohji's brow and wiped down, trailing hard fingertips over long dark lashes, a sharp nose and asoft mouth, letting the touch linger for a heartbeat.
Yohji closed his eyes.
He nearly jumped when something wet and cold touched his stomach.
"Keep your eyes closed, Yohji."
Yohji made an effort, colourful sparks dancing against the blood-red light that drenched his vision. And then he sensed the lick of the brush and tried to follow the strokes in his mind, imagining the wet black traces they would leave on his skin, and a smile stole onto his lips. "How many ways... you said there are... to write my name?"
"Enough," Aya said, and Yohji could hear a smile in his tone. "Feel…"
"What?"
"Feel the strokes and you should be able to recall the kanji."
Yohji sucked in a tight breath. "Same… same old story… oh." A small pause, then, "Is that true, Ayan?"
Aya bent over him. Yohji felt Aya's breathing brush his face, then Aya's lips in a kiss. "There is nothing wrong with this, is there?"
"It tickles," Yohji said, unable to suppress the click of laughter in his voice.
Aya straightened. "Lie still. I cannot do this properly if you fidget."
Yohji lay still even though his body began to shine with a thin film of sweat. Aya dipped the brush into the ink again, and the cold, wet tip began to trace patterns on Yohji's heated skin again, beginning just above his left nipple, and writing the traditional way, of course – downwards.
Yohji shivered. Aya smiled a little as he lifted the brush. "Well?"
"Way," Yohji guessed. "Road… wait… journey. Journey?"
"Aa." Aya kept writing, in fine strokes, not as sweeping as Yohji's but clearer and more precise.
"Shrine," Yohji clucked, writhing as Aya dotted the details of the kanji onto his skin.
"Aa." Aya had arrived just above the waistband of Yohji's briefs and lifted the brush once more.
Yohji took in a sharp breath and let it go softly. Aya tugged at the waistband. Yohji gasped. The brush ran over his skin more hastily now, and he yapped, "What? Princess?"
"Well, if you don't like it…" Aya let the elastic snap back.
"Oimphh…" Yohji was silenced by another kiss and a small hand determinedly yanking down his briefs.
"Ayngh..."
Aya's lips sealed his, before leaving him again. "Be still, Yohji."
This time, the brush rushed down the left side of Yohji's abdomen. "Craft," he breathed harshly, "teaching… the craft of teaching?"
"You taught me," Aya murmured, "now I'm teaching you…"
The writing ended in the join of Yohji's thigh and groin, and he was flushed a deep shade of pink, the blush creeping down over his shoulders and chest. He knew what he looked like down there now, and that Aya could see exactly which state he was in, and that his mind was most definitely distracted…
"Yohji."
"Hmmmmm," Yohji gritted.
"You need to focus." There was laughter in Aya's tone.
"Argh."
Scratchy wool chafing on amber skin, a soft, moist touch to Yohji's right nipple, then the quick graze of teeth. "Here, how about…"
"Wis… ah… Ay… Aya…" Sweat was beading on Yohji's cleanly shaven upper lip.
"That was not it. Try again."
"Wisteria," Yohji groaned out.
"Very good," Aya praised, a rough edge to his voice, "and now…"
"Aya, please…"
"One more." Aya dropped a kiss to Yohji's other nipple and flicked his tongue over the firm flesh. "Or two, perhaps..." Yohji tossed his head to one side and bit his lip hard, his hands fisting and unclenching by his sides, nails scraping over the wooden floor. The brush hurried. Cold. Wet. Prickly on burning skin. Yohji was on fire. He wanted, needed… touch, or look at least…
"Keep your eyes closed," Aya whispered hoarsely. "This…" Swift, damp strokes, quickly drying. "...is my favourite." Another kiss, lingering ever so slightly this time just below Yohji's navel. He squirmed, and Aya pressed one hand hard against his hip bone. "Still."
"What…what do I get…" Yohji panted, curling and uncurling his toes against the urge to draw up his legs and trap Aya between his thighs.
"Get?" Strands of Aya's hair trailed over Yohji's belly in the wake of Aya's lips and breath, and the traces of ink the brush left.
"If I guess…"
"Find out," Aya murmured, barely audible. "Yoh-ji."
"Sparkle… gleam, twinkle," Yohji yapped.
"Shine," Aya said softly, soaking the brush in ink once more.
"Don't… I don't know that one."
"Rule," Aya said, "Shining."
"Gods, Ayan…" Yohji sucked in a lungful of air and strained to lie still, tremors wracking his long limbs and taut muscles. "And… high? My voice isn't that… ah, no, wait – first class? Carapace."
"Yohji," Aya admonished, slightly breathless, and a tad impatient, "will you concentrate, dammit?" The brush swished over a very sensitive part of Yohji's anatomy that twitched in response, and Yohji yelped and screwed his eyes firmly shut against the temptation to break off their game and ravish Aya without further ado. But images of Aya's cool, detached expression flashed through his mind, the slight disappointment in the purple gaze if he were to spoil their game, the reproach, unspoken yet there nonetheless... Aya was rarely inclined to be playful. If he held out, there was a chance to see Aya's features soften, melt into a haze of passion and affection... to see him smile and perhaps even laugh...
Yohji shook his head and bit his lip harder. He trembled, half with laughter, half with the agony of a rather determined arousal. "Armour. Yes, armour."
"Good," Aya sighed deeply and kept scribbling. Down and closer to Yohji's groin. Brush tangling in the dark blond tousle there, and finally whispering over the jutting flesh.
"Wis…teria," Yohji moaned and at last seized Aya's hand, all resolve gone. One sharp tug, and Aya dropped on top of him, the brush staining the floor and their entwining fingers.
"Yohji," Aya puffed. He had a smudge of black on his nose, and another one in the corner of his mouth.
"Hmmmm…"
Aya kissed Yohji's lips but drew back when Yohji tried to deepen the kiss. "We... uh... should keep... ngh... practising."
"Huh?" Yohji cracked one eye open, and flicked his tongue over the tip of Aya's nose, eyes sparkling with mirth. "You said there's more than seventy ways of writing my name… I can't keep still that long." He ground his hips into Aya's groin for emphasis and laughed breathily when Aya dipped his head against Yohji's collarbone. "Besides, I'm not that bad with kanji, now am I?" He nipped at the top edge of Aya's ear. "And…" He snuck one arm around Aya's waist and began to stealthily turn him over while Aya was too preoccupied licking the sweat from the small hollow at the base of Yohji's throat. "And I like it that part of you is part of me, too."2
Aya landed on his back with a surprised oomph and a flash of purple from fierce eyes, but Yohji silenced him with a long, deep kiss beforehe could start ranting, and only when Aya started kissing him back, did Yohji loosen his pre-emptive grip on Aya's arms. "Wisteria," he said softly, a smile warming his eyes as he looked down at Aya. "I'm your armour?"
Aya glanced up at him, cheeks reddening, eyes growing wide, before they slid shut. Hiding, Yohji thought wistfully. He settled between Aya's legs and began to rock gently against him. "You'll have to wash the ink off me later," he said, shoving Aya's jumper up to kiss his belly and up to his neck. Hestuck his head inside the jumper, forming a warm, woolly cave,and kissed Aya's lips, then he pulled the garment over Aya's head and tossed it aside. "You can scrub me in the shower."
"Ahh," Aya said, tilting his hips into Yohji's crotch and gripping his shoulder. A small, ink-blackened hand obscuring the tattoo that starkly proclaimed Yohji's SIN.
Yohji gasped, lifted his bottom and managed to tear Aya's jeans and undies offwithout letting go of him for a moment. "It's gonna print off onto your hide," he yapped. "So you'll have to shower with me."
"Yohji." With a sudden motion, Aya rose to his elbows, bringing Yohji up with him, bit his ear and huffed, "Shut up already and move it; we have a shift soon."
xxx
Schuldig stared at the notepad in his lap and chewed his lip as he read silently what he had copied from the dictionary that usually sat - fat, tattyand imposing - on Crawford's desk. Characters dancing and tumbling sometimes neat, sometimes hasty and messy, over the white paper to proclaim:
Guilty (n,adj-na) be proven guilty of a crime; have one's guilt for a crime made clear; the nature of offense being (becoming) clear
Four kanji:
1. guilt; sin; crime; fault; blame; offense
2. status quo; conditions; circumstances; form; appearance
3. bright; light
4. white
Guilty (adj)
One kanji:
behind, back, later.
(This sucks. I am not backward.)
xxx
"What are you doing, Schuldig?" Nagi asked, without looking up from his handheld computer game. He sat on the rear seat of the ratty old banger Schuldig had parked round the corner from the Koneko.
"Nothing," came the grousy retort.
"You are doing something."
"Well, then look and don't ask stupid questions."
"Why should I look if you can tell me?"
"I don't wanna talk now."
"If you don't tell me, I'm gonna tell Crawford you didn't take care of me."
"Brat."
"Carrot."
Schuldig groaned and let his head thud back against the headrest. "Man, Naggles, you can be such an asshole. Heard about manners yet?"
"You're supposed to teach me."
"I'll teach you if you don't shut it!"
"Gonna tell on you." A small, sulkypause with no sound but the traffic passing by and the soft clicking and bleeping of Nagi's game. "And then he's not gonna bonk you for at least a week or so."
"You!"
"You were supposed to go for a walk with me," Nagi pointed out, still busy with his game.
"What's the difference? You and your fucking games," Schuldig ranted, kicking the underside of the dashboard for emphasis. "You wouldn't know the difference between a tree and a shrub if they bit you in the ass."
"Try me. Besides, I've seen in the mirror what you're doing."
Schuldig groaned and covered the cheap, spiral bound notepad in his lap with his hands. "Okay, so you have. And what? Why're you winding me up then?"
"I am not. You are getting yourself worked up. You should smoke something."
"Why on earth do I have to babysit you? Don't you wanna get out, Naggles? Go for a stroll in the city, huh? All by yourself, without a leash?"
"No thanks. Crawford said it is too dangerous."
"Crawford this, Crawford that – why don't you kiss his ass?"
"I am underage."
Schuldig had a coughing fit that jolted him forward and wracked him for several minutes. He groped for his cigarettes; the notepad fell to the floor, and before he could gather it up, Nagi swooped in and snatched it.
"Schuldig," he read out the complicated kanji that were written in neat blue ballpoint onto the A5 sheet of faintly ruled paper. "Guilt. Sin. Thirteen strokes. Isn't thirteen supposed to be an unlucky number where you come from?"
"Shut up already." Schuldig suddenly sounded deflated as he eyed the back of the Koneko with a glare in which anger, greed and spite mingled oddly with longing.
Nagi leaned forward between the seats, wedged his game between his short-clad thighs, and held the pad out to Schuldig. "Here," he said, in hisexpressionless voice, and pointed at the second kanji in a column of four. "There is more."
"Yeah, this one tells me nothing will ever change."
"And this is for light and brilliance," Nagi said calmly. "And here, the last one is for whiteness."
Schuldig shivered. "Like THEM. I don't like white. Reminds me of those idiotic suits Brad makes us wear. Isn't it for corpses in Japan?"
"And for brides. Innocence," Nagi lectured, without changing his tone. "Thirty three strokes in total. Taking your kanji separately and adding them up. Three times eleven. All primary numbers; can't be divided except by themselves and by one. "
"Huh?"
"Thirteen, eight, seven, five. The strokes in your kanji. Sums thirty three. Eight is a lucky number. Spoils your sequence. Four is unlucky. Two times four is eight. There's no two in your name. But there's four kanji.8 You're so dead."
Schuldig met Nagi's eyes in the rear view mirror, blue eyes glittering coldly against fathomless midnight. "Whatcha tryin' to say, Naggles?"
"Nothing." Cautiously, Nagi withdrew to curl up on his seat. "Just playing."
With numbers, figures, allusions. Typical Nagi – sometimes Schuldig suspected, against better knowledge, that the youth's brain had been replaced with a stack of microchips. Far had once suggested they find out for real, and it had cost Schuldig all of his considerable power of conviction to hold him back, without resorting to the straightjacket, the cell, the syringes Crawford employed freely whenever Farfarello's nightmares got the better of him.
"Stop this shit," Schuldig snapped, shifting uncomfortably. "What do you have to do with my fuckin' name? It's not Japanese, anyway."
Nagi shrugged, his eyes still and dark as always, and it struck Schuldig how much they resembled Crawford's spectacle-armed gaze – only that Nagi did not need glass lenses for shields.
"Take your pick." Nagi tossed the pad into Schuldig's lap and scooted into a corner of the backseat, out of Schuldig's immediate reach,to focus on his game again.
Schuldig leaned back and lit a cigarette. "Haven't you got school or something?"
"You were supposed to take me for a walk," Nagi said tonelessly, without looking up. "Before you decided it would be a good idea to stalk your fucktoy."
"I wish," Schuldig snarled under his breath and turned the key in the ignition. He only just caught Nagi's thin smile before it vanished from the youth's face, leaving his features blank and pale as always. The face of a corpse, Schuldig mused crossly and threw a gear in. "'Kay chubby, where do you wanna go?"
"I am not chubby. The word is chibi. And I'm no chibi either. I would like to see the park. The one where your toy goes watching the cherry blossoms and getting stoned, like you."
Schuldig sucked in a lungful of pot and a nasty retort – prodding Nagi too far would result in him blowing a fuse, throwing a hissy temper tantrum, and launching a complaint at Crawford, who would retaliate... well, rather not think about it, Schuldig decided and made the tyres squeal as he pulled into the dense morning traffic. He gave Nagi a sly grin in the mirror when he saw the boy's head snap up and his face blanch even morewhen they narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a lorry. "To the park then," Schuldig laughed through a puff of smoke.
Nagi swallowed hard and wrinkled his nose, but made no reply.
They knew one another's quirks, and they knew when to stop. Schuldig could be nasty.
And if he got into one of his moods, no one would go for walks with Nagi.
xxx
Nagi. Lull. Calm. Six strokes.3
Farfarello,tidy in a grey jumper and black jeans, traced the kanji with the tip of his knife on the battered surface of a once-polished dining table in the lounge of their current safe house.
Naoe. Seven. Life. 4 Two strokes and five strokes, seven altogether combining to spell one version of Nagi's surname. Seven lives. The single eye in the scarred young face shimmered with silent excitement. Perhaps he could find out whether this was true... seven lives, seven souls, seven ways to live and die... like the cat with seven tails, or the magic foxes that abounded in the tales of thissea-bound land where Crawford had taken them...
Esteem. Eternal.
Carefully, he carved the kanji into the table. Schuldig, in too-tight washed out blue denims and nothing else, a mug of coffee in one hand and an as yetunlit joint in the other, leaned over his shoulder and watched curiously, his hair falling in wild swathes over the younger man's shoulder, his chin resting lightly on Farfarello's white-blond head.
Noted. Birth.
Schuldig soundlessly formed the words. Farfarello, white, black and golden, cut some more.
Still. Bay.
"Pretty," Farfarello murmured, soaking up the mental image of deep silence the kanji evoked.
Schuldig ruffled his short, colourless hair. "Snap outta it, Far." He looked up at Nagi who in blue shorts andshirt and white school socks, sat on the sofa. Legs drawn up beneath him, he was playing a new handheld computer game. "I checked," Schuldig went on. "It's all girl's names."5
"Most of them," the youth replied flatly. "Check again. Do I look like a girl to you?"
Schuldig drank a sip of tepid coffee and pursed his lower lip. "Dunno... check – man, Naggles! And who the hell had the jackass idea to saddle you with a girl's name?"
"I have not a girl's name," Nagi said, his voice hardly wavering. Hardly. "He just scrawled the others all over the new table. Crawford is going to have your ass for this."
Schuldig quirked a smile. "I would like that."
Nagi's pale complexion took on a greenish hue, and he began to look sick.
Anything to force some emotion onto this small, dead face... Momentarily content with the effect, Schuldig drank some more coffee, before setting the mug with the dredges onto the table. "For all we know, why should you not have a girl's name? You could be our little girl, Far your troubled elder bro, I'm Mum, and uncle Craw's your daddy." And with a sudden nasty edge, "We're a nice family, just like back HOME. Aren't we, Far?"
Farfarello's white face was swept by a sudden wave of despair, followed by a vague, flickering smile- almost a plea. Almost. Nagi began to flush, the mixture of shades on his face looking distinctly unhealthy. His fingers stabbed furiously at the keys of his game, and his lips thinned as a few hefty bleeps signalled that he had missed to shoot down a couple of targets flitting past the grey screen. "I do. Not. Have. A girl's name. Stop distracting me."
Schuldig hopped onto the sofa next to him and flicked the television on with the remote. "Naoe Nagi." He rolled the name on his tongue as if to taste it, then he smacked his lips. "You even taste bitter, Naggles. Dead and bitter, like ashes. Or like yapping for breath when you're drowning, and can't shut your gob, and all you're drawing into your chest is water." He pulled a face, then he wrapped his arm round the stiffening youth and drew him close, enveloping him in a swath of cigarette smoke and the sharp, clean scent of cheap soap. "C'mon, don't be an ass."
Farfarello looked up from his place at the dining table, his eyeshining with gentle curiosity. "Tastes? Like waves. Sea. Salty. Sweet, later?"
"Don't even think about it," Schuldig snapped over his shoulder.
Nagi shuddered, avoiding to look at either of them. "I would like to go to bed now."
"You're gonna miss the news."
"I don't care. I want to go to bed NOW."Nagi pushed at Schuldig and thwacked the game at the hand that clamped down on his shoulder. "Let go of me, or I'll tell."
Schuldig squeezed once more, then scooted away. "Okay, as you wish. Go to bed then."
Nagi hesitated. "Won't you take me there?"
Farfarello gleamed at him with his single amber eye. He smiled, the line of his lips broken by scars. "Dark is nice," he said dreamily, in his mellow brogue. "Gentle. Quiet."
Nagi began to shake. "Bed," he said, as firmly as he could manage, but beneath his calm lay shades of panic, ready to rise and burst to the surface any moment. "Schuldig, please?"
Schuldig grabbed him and hauled him up by the collar. "C'mon then, brat. Far and I, we'll go out later, I'm hungry and there's nothing in the house, and who knows when Brad's gonna be back from his business meeting." So Nagi would be able to sleep without starting at every tiny sound in the house, and perhaps without nightmares.
Nagi stalked ahead, stiffly like someone walking away from a growling dog and hoping it might be impressed by fake composure. Farfarello sent a soft, torn smile after him, and Schuldig glowered at the shining yellow gaze, before closing the lounge door with emphasis behind Nagi and himself. He wandered after Nagi, who found his way through the unlit corridors to the room in the basement he had picked as his own after they had moved into this house. Nagi tended to choose basements, preferably without windows, and with doors he could lock and bolt from the inside.
"Night, kid," Schuldig said when the youth slipped into the dank room.
Nagi's dark eyes shimmered at him in the weak blue shine of an emergency light above the light switch inside his room. "Good night, Schuldig." He paused, then handed the game over to the redhead. "Far wanted this earlier. Perhaps it keeps him busy for a while. You look ragged."
"Cool stuff, kid." Schuldig shoved the game into his jeans pocket, but hesitated to leave. "You believe in that stuff?"
Nagi, about to close the door, paused. "What?"
"That there's something to our names... fate, that kinda thing?"
Nagi's large eyes closed for a moment, before blinking open again. "Not really."
Schuldig's fingers drummed against the game in his pocket. "Ah." He sounded disappointed. "Then why did you tell me?"
"'Cos you were bored. It got your brain milling." Nagi pushed at the door. "Take your foot out of the door."
"Milling?"
"I feel safer when you got something to do," Nagi said, finally succeeding in kicking Schuldig's foot out of the way.
The door slammed shut, leaving Schuldig in total darkness for a moment, before he groped for his lighter and flicked it on. The brief flame cast a murky yellow glow over the corridor; enough for Schuldig's quick mind to take in the distance to the stairs and refresh the familiar blueprint of his surroundings.
xxx
"I picked your name," Crawford said into the silence of his bedroom and Schuldig's breathing by his side.
"You?"
"It was rubber stamped on the cover of your file."
"Ah. I won't be grateful though." Schuldig, naked and warm under the comforter, lulled by the closeness of Crawford's hard, pyjama clad body, sounded sleepy, but he was mulling over something, and Crawford waited patiently. "How good's your Japanese?"
"Reasonable."
"What does a name mean?"
"Anything you want. Or nothing." Black and white. Guilt and innocence. Life and death. Everything. "Schuldig... you might see it as something limited by time. Do penance, and you'll be free one day. White, innocent." Crawford paused, lacing his fingers through handfuls of bright copper hair. "Or only death will get us back to that state."
"I wouldn't want you innocent." With a drowsy smile, Schuldig turned his face into the pillow that smelled of Crawford's aftershave, and within moments, he was fast asleep, as always when theylay close to one another.
Crawfordstayed awake for a long time. He found it difficult torest with the younger man so close. Hard to remain as detached as he needed to be, to feel in control of his own sanity. When he chose Schuldig's name, he had not known he would find his guilt tattooed onto another's shoulder 6, on tanned skin shrouded in darkness to rival their own. When it came to light, he had decided not to payattention to it, discarding Nagi's dry remark as superstition.
Yet how fitting that the White Hunters should wear black and bear a cross, while Schwarz preferred white outfits when on non-bloody duty... white-clad, living corpses... Crawford stared into the darkness, resenting the thought. He preferred to see his team as a warped kind of innocents, the spewed-out rejects of Rosenkreuz, created against their will, yet willing tools nonetheless. For now.
He closed his eyes and forced the images from his mind, determined not to pay any more attention to such nonsense. Nagi was too wrapped up in his computer world, too prone to make connections where none existed. Numbers, fairytales, colours, fate – fate belonged to those who dared to brave it. Crawford had taken on fate and the world when he hadbegun to fight for his survival and that of his team. He was not prepared to back off now.
Schuldig shifted in his sleep, sneaking one arm across Crawford's waist.
Crawford decided not to shove him back.
For now.
xxx
In the small hours of that night, Yohji stood at the open window of his bedroom and blew smoke out into the neon-lit darkness, hoping that Aya would not wake up and scold. He cast a smiling glance at the short, compact form huddled under his wildly patterned bedding, before breathing a long stream of greyblue into the murky darkness.
It was raining, fine droplets that made shimmering rainbowhalos around every speck of coloured light, and condensed in a thin mist on the panes of Yohji's bedroom window. Yohji liked the rain. He lifted his arm and dragged the tip of his middle finger over the glass. Stroke by stroke, in perfect order, bold and sweeping.
Sin.
Guilt.
Aya had woken up with the first rusling of sheets whenYohji got up and padded to the window. He had kept still, watching with heavy-lidded eyes. When Yohji was done, droplets of water weeping down his reflection in the glass, Aya closed his eyes and turned his face into the pillow to muffle the hard, throaty sounds that choked from his throat.
The man in the shadows on the opposite side of the road lit a cigarette, the dancing flame of the lighter casting a brief, flickering shine over pale features and bright copper hair, stained with dampness. He smiled as he pushed his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans, and wandered away into the pulsing, light-cluttered night of the city.
Yohji wiped out the kanji and let his head dip against the window, the glass cooling his fevered brow. For a heartbeat he stood motionless, smoke curling lazily around him. A dollop of ash dropped onto his bare feet, startling him. Yohji shook it off, finished his cigarette in a few deep pulls, and tossed it out into the street.
Before sliding into bed next to Aya, and wrapping his arms firmly around him.
Like a drowning man might cling to the saving log.
And Aya enfolded Yohji's hands in his own and held on.
xxx
To follow:
Omi and Ken
NOTES:
7Kudoh - Rather common and many possible combinations and kanji – I liked the interpretation of armour and wisteria best. It gives a lovely link to Aya's surname. The kanji for old story/long time appears in quite a few of the combinations that make up this name, along with craft/construction – someone skilled, someone on a journey…
1 Yohji – baby – one possible interpretation of his given name – there are scores more, depending on the kanji and the kanji combination used
2 Fujimiya – wisteria, shrine; Kudoh – armour, wisteria
3 Possible kanji for Nagi.
4 Possible kanji for Naoe.
5 Most kanji for Naoe are for feminine names, some are generic, some undetermined, a few are for surnames. Seven Life are generic. The other pairs are surnames.
6 Yohji's tattoo – SIN – also one reading for the first kanji in one possible interpretation of Schuldig's name
8 Four - in Japanese, the sound of the number Four resembles the sound for Death and is considered unlucky.