I took my time, didn't I? Well, I would never give up on this story, though. I hope you're still with me. :) Please enjoy, and don't hesitate to drop a review and let me know if it's worth those two months of waiting.
Warnings: Language, towards the end. Psychological mind games.
The music: Lisa Gerrard – Amergin's Invocation (email if you want it)

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Against the Wind
Chapter Four

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In the still silence of the night, the Castle of Candles loomed ominously against the starlit sky. Watari remember having made an observation, a while back, that the enormous edifice had a similar unnerving feel to it whether one beheld it at night or in bright daylight. A curious contradiction, that; the Castle that housed millions of candles, the feeble representatives of the existence of every person currently alive in Japan, resembled a grim shrine of death rather than a place that had anything to do with life.

The creepy darkness shrouding the building unsettled many; still, as it was, Watari found himself unfazed. Silence, though, was another matter. In the dead of night, the still air somehow smelt of death and decay, even more so as he entered the first of many pathways leading towards the entrance.

Across the neatly kept lawn, along the narrow paths that wove intricate patterns around the Count's domain, Watari made his way quickly, with no trace of hesitation in his long, sure strides. His slightly narrowed eyes focused on the tall, dark gate straight ahead of him. He stared it up and down, as though it could tell him something about what lay in wait inside.

The offending slip of paper, still gripped tightly in his closed fist, seemed to mock him with its pristine white as Watari unfolded his fingers and spared it a critical look, never slowing down as he approached the Castle. By appearance alone, it could have been printed anywhere; in his own lab, even, for all he knew. Although unsigned, the tone of the message told him clearly enough who the sender had to be.

Using Tatsumi to deliver the slip was a move so obvious Watari found himself almost compelled to laugh. Whatever hope he'd had for the chance to keep his partner uninvolved ,as long as he could, had vanished in the wake of the Secretary's parting words. Instantly Watari knew he had given Enma's fairness far more credit than the god deserved. He was nothing if not perfectly capable of playing dirty tricks, to ensure he had the upper hand. His patience had run out; when Enma chose to strike, he aimed straight for the mark. Watari had no doubt the god would not miss his carefully chosen aim. The wheels had begun to spin; he knew he was in for a ride all the way down.

Long, silky shadows crept in slowly as he moved, preceding every step as if showing him the way, as though he didn't know it well enough, himself. The Castle itself cast a large chunk of shadow that wrapped the ground at its wide front in an all but impenetrable veil. Feeble invitation, that.

Watari fished in his pocket for a watch. Half past eleven. Not quite a suitable time to pay someone a visit, he thought as he stood in front of the impressive gate. He doubted he would meet the master of the house, though – and even though he was loath to guess what sort of 'work' he was expected to do, he didn't think the Hakushaku had anything to to do with it. Had the Count encountered a problem that required the assistance of a Shinigami, he would have undoubtedly requested that the one sent in to his aid was no other than Tsuzuki himself.

Drawing a long, deep breath to calm his somewhat shaky nerves, Watari reached out his hand for the door - when suddenly it cracked open before he even had a chance to knock. Befuddled for but an instant, he sighed as he looked down. In doorway, Watson – the Count's undead manservant - bent himself excessively low in greeting of the guest. He held a candelabra with five dripping candles that sat, haphazardly, in their holders.

"Good evening," the servant's screeching voice greeted him as Watson straightened himself again, almost dropping the candelabra in the process. "Watari-san, you are being expected."

Watari frowned as he returned the bow, sweeping his hair back before it caught fire from one of Watson's dangerously wobbling candles. "Thank you," he said, walking past the threshold as soon as the small gardener moved away to make room for him for pass.

The door closed behind him with a dull, muffled thud; as if something restrained it by a barely noticeable touch of some invisible obstacle. Watari shrugged lightly as he realized he hadn't noticed Watson moving an inch towards it. Something like a heavy bolt slid with a moan, that of old, rusty iron, and clicked as it lodged itself in the lock.

Figures, Watari thought to himself, all the while keeping a silent watch on the manservant as Watson sneaked past him, creepy cracking of old bones accompanying each tentative step. Intimidation? He smirked. Watson motioned one heavily shaking hand for him to follow. Show off is more like it. Old tricks, try again.

The marble stairs seemed to climb endlessly up as Watari followed the zombie servant at an unbearably slow pace. To his surprise, he found the Castle unnervingly quiet; most lights were out, save an occasional candle in large, ornate holders attached to the walls on both sides of the wide, curving stairway. Here, like outside, the shadows danced to some imperceptible tune; the flames flickered in what seemed almost like a pattern against the laws of physics – the air was perfectly still.

Then again, Watari knew better than to expect anything in the Castle to work the normal way. He had seen enough of its strange wonders to know that he should never assume he had seen it all.

Watson led the way in complete silence, sans the click-clack of his bones which Watari soon ignored as irrelevant background noise. Instead, he focused on getting himself prepared for the meeting that was about to take place - not that he hoped he could predict what would actually occur, but at least he could get his bearings enough to try and maintain at least some manner of control. Come hell or high water, he would not suffer having self control wretched out of his hands easily again.

At the end of a long, dimly lit corridor, a pair of heavy doors invited him with a ribbon of warm light seeping through a small crack between the edge and the thick, wooden frame. Watson came to a halt a few steps away, cracking a creepy grin at Watari as he motioned towards the door.

"I have been ordered to escort you here. Please excuse me now, I shall take my leave."

Watari nodded a thank-you, casting a brief side glance at the slightly ajar door. At once his throat felt tight and strangely dry.

"Please, enjoy yourself," Watson said courtly, bowing again before he turned on his heel and limped back to wherever he spent his eternity when he wasn't called to serve.

The scientist gave him a wry smile. "I shall."

Left to his own devices, Watari looked around in curious anticipation. Here, the silence was no longer so deafening even as Watson had turned a corner and his small figure dissolved in the darkness down the hall. A soft crackling sound of burning wood came from inside the room, warmth seeping out alongside the pleasant, gentle light.

Suppressing a shiver, Watari wasted no time wondering whether it was a remotely good idea to have come here at all. He knew all too well; he had no other choice. If not in terms of disobedience, as the invitation had come through anything but the official channel, Enma would interpret his refusal as a challenge. That, Watari's experience told him, would have been a course of action that 'sheer stupidity' failed to describe.

With one more deep breath, he straightened his lab coat, somewhat wrinkled, and brushed the loose strands of his long hair away from his face. Slowly but decidedly he pulled the door open and entered.

In the room that looked more like a hall, for the size of it, a long table with several tall, decorative chairs around it occupied the center spot. To his left, a large fireplace emitted warmth Watari felt even as he stood at a distance of several feet. But his attention was fully with the dark, richly clad figure at the other end of the table, right in front of him.

"You're late."

The voice that greeted him held a faint undertone of contempt, although he suspected that note had taken permanent residence there and amusement could have been more like it.

"The reception was painfully slow." Watari measured Enma's tall figure posed in the chair in an almost casual way. Dressed in a black robe, no doubt pure silk from the looks of it, he seemed at ease – his long, black hair wove loosely around his broad shoulders, cascading down like a living creature with a mind of its own.

"Well," the god said, setting a small, white porcelain cup in front of him, "Consider yourself excused, this time. You've had a rough day."

Inwardly Watari winced, though he gave no sign of discomfort on the outside. Across the long room, Enma's face was hard to read, but he could bet the god wore a ghost of a smile on those pale lips that betrayed how pleased he was with himself.

"How gracious of you," he said dryly, still not moving from his spot by the door. He wondered briefly how far into the game Enma had planned to let him go before dragging him back down and into submission in one of his creative little ways.

"You approve. I appreciate it," he said smoothly. Then, beckoning Watari forward with a small wave of his hand, he shifted in his chair and leaned against the table on one elbow.

Watari moved from his spot with a bit more reluctance than he'd cared to show, eyes never leaving Enma's face, subconsciously studying his every tiniest move. For the rough treatment of the previous night and earlier that day, the game seemed to have slowed down to an almost leisurely pace. A sudden change, that – a surprisingly unwelcome one, suspicious in and of itself.

The sound of his footsteps was muffled by the lush carpet laid out on the floor as he crossed the room towards the offered chair.

"Please, take a seat," Enma invited him courtly with a nod of his head.

Watari raised an eyebrow. When the pieces of the puzzle at hand failed to form a whole, he patched up the holes with everything he managed read in between the lines. Now that nothing added up, he found his unease and suspicion growing by the second.

"What am I doing here?" he asked as he took a seat at his end of the table, opposite the god.

"Come now." Enma leaned further forth and folded his pale, slender hands in front of his face. "You come here on my sincere invitation, and demand answers right at the door? Indeed, I should be the one asking them of you."

"What could I possibly tell you that you don't already know?"

"You flatter me, but there are questions you have managed to avoid answering so far." Enma took another tiny sip from his cup. "Regarding your work, for one. Did you know that some of your former colleagues still wonder whether it was bold or stupid of you to have turned your back on my offer, thus breaking the agreement through which I granted you your extension?"

"I haven't heard you complain about the quality of my work."

"Don't test my patience, KinU." The god's voice sounded stern now, one that permitted no game. "I want to hear this from you. Tonight. Why did you leave? You could have achieved so much."

A shiver ran down Watari's spine, but he kept his calm. "There's a fine line between the acceptable and the unethical. You crossed it. Does that answer your question?"

"I crossed it?" Enma snorted in disdain. "Truly, you couldn't be more mistaken. You, of all people, should bite your tongue before judging the ethics of others."

The black eyes fixed upon him were distant and cold; Watari met them, as he had many times before. "And here I thought," he said, "that you want me back because you trust my judgment."

"I care little for your judgment; today, anyway. I care for your answer."

Watari shrugged. "You asked me whether it was worth it. Is that what you're getting at?"

"Ah, always a step ahead, aren't you." Enma smirked. "The question, however, is not whether it was worth it, but whether you can forgive yourself."

Watari bit his lower lip; a reaction too instinctive to hold back from it before he noticed a glint dancing in those slightly narrowed jet-black eyes; the herald of satisfaction at having hit an obviously sore spot.

Enma measured him with critical eyes, one eyebrow arched. "Then again, I'm sure you must have wondered - would the others forgive you, if they knew? Such a noble act you have there, on your agenda; to protect your friends, to help them, but would they even want that if they knew the true face of the man that hides behind that mask?"

Staring down at his hands, Watari counted his slow, measured breaths to keep his composure. He had been thinking, yes; even though he had long since pushed the thoughts of guilt far back in his mind, at times they couldn't help but surface. Sneaking up on him when he was alone, the odd one out when no one needed him, guilt was a distraction that held him back all too many times. He had half-expected someone to rub it into his face all over again, but once the question came, he found himself strangely at a loss for words.

"Deep down, you already know," Enma drummed his fingers on the table as he spoke. "You have no other choice."

Watari looked up. "Exactly. I've never had a choice, have I?"

Cocking his head as his smirk turned into a grin, Enma said nothing. Silence lay between them for a few long seconds, but the answer rang softly just beneath the veil of satisfaction, unspoken and yet clear enough without the need of words.

As he rose from his chair, leaning heavily against the tabletop, Watari felt his anger rise along with him. "It's been twenty five years since the day I left. If I've never had a choice, why the game?"

"You tell me," Enma said as he, too, rose from his seat. "If you had complied, no game, as you call it, would have been necessary."

"You have curious ways of delivering your lessons." Watari couldn't keep the bitter tone away from his voice; he scorned himself quietly in his thoughts. For all the smart responses crowding in his mind, he knew this time they would not get him far.

"Does that mean you've learned?" Enma asked, crossing his arms on his chest. He walked up to the fireplace, one hand reaching out towards the sparkling flames.

Watari watched the god out of the corner of his eye; the nearly flawless, smooth movements, all but suave, misleadingly gentle and calm. In the light of the fire before him Enma looked eerily beautiful, caught in the dance of light and shadow on his pale face. For the first time since he remembered, Watari found such beauty repulsive beyond thought.

"Have you?" Enma turned his head, expectation etched onto his features even as he seemed suspended in both time and space.

Calmly now, Watari wiped any and all emotion away from his face. "You wish," he uttered; not bitterly, without challenge, just matter-of-fact.

Soft laughter echoed in the room; Enma gave his head a shake, perhaps of disbelief, his long hair shimmering in the warm light. "Truly, now I have to wonder, myself: boldness, or stupidity."

Annoyance settled in, hushing guilt and questions, but its rising surge threatened to take control and Watari found it to be bothersome as well. Of all things, the casual attitude and the cruel words combined into a god – devil, he thought, had to be more like it - boiled the blood in his veins.

"Maybe both. But, think about it. You put me in a situation with no way out of it. Either way it goes, if you win, I lose. Isn't that what you have planned?"

Enma's face seemed frozen as Watari met his eyes and their gazes locked; measuring, assessing, trying to see through one another's makeshift masks and read behind intentions that seemed crystal clear. Watari had learned early and long ago; trusting that illusion would be a mistake he could never fix.

"Since it came to that," he said slowly, half-turning towards the door. He watched Enma follow suit, curious now, the momentary silence a sign of slight surprise. "Don't bother," Watari's voice held a cold note as he inclined his head in a polite bow. "I'll let myself out."

"Is that a 'no'?"

One hand on the door knob, Watari stopped and closed his eyes. He exhaled slowly. He did not turn to face Enma again as he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "It is."

In the dimly lit hall, the air was still and thick as it had been before. Watari slipped around the edge of the doorframe smoothly, careful not to show that his legs felt weak in the knees and his head was spinning just a bit too much for comfort. The dead silence rendered him uneasy; the thick carpet would have muffled the sound, had Enma decided to follow, but Watari hadn't really expected the god to do that. Not just yet.

Once more, he had gotten away easily; too easily for his dismissal to have been anything but feigned. He had been there, once; at the point of decision – a yes-no answer that, he had hoped, would have set him free. But back then, he had begun to realize it was but a diversion – a stretch of his leash to put his mind at ease. Tonight, he had made the same choice; but this time, his trust in it having any sort of value had grown even less.

As he made his way back down the curving stairs, he couldn't help but hear those loathsome words echoing in his thoughts all over again. Can you forgive yourself? Enma's distorted voice mocked him, and Watari cursed his inability to come back with a retort.

Then again, he knew, there wasn't much he could have said to that. He had pushed that guilt away and never dwelt on it lest it swipe him down a self-destructive path. He had learned to understand that the part he had played brought about consequences he just had to bear. And bear them he did, having once prided himself on knowing every weakness that threatened to crush his strength. He had managed to avoid confrontation on that ground for twenty five years.

Now, he thought, each of the past choices had finally surfaced to catch up with him. Determined to keep the upper hand and fulfill his plans, Enma DaiOh had made sure he no longer had an easy way out.

Any way out, for that matter, he thought bitterly.

Lit by candles alone, the hall downstairs was a stage on which long shadows danced a silent pantomime between the wood-laden walls. As he looked around, Watari wondered if any of those candles there could have stood for human souls. It seemed foolish; in such an open place, where a passing ghost of another undead could blow it out by chance, the flames were nothing feeble; they kept burning strong and true. It had almost amused him once, when he had seen a room filled with candles in this very place, how brittle they were and how well it corresponded to the human lives. From one second to another, people lived and then they died, and it took but a gust of breath to bring about their end as their candle died.

Some of them died slowly, he knew – over the course of weeks, sometimes months, the light would dim as they sorted out their earthly cares, said goodbye to their families and friends. Other times they lay alone in the dark and wondered what took death so long to relieve their pain. He remembered his own death; a flash of transition and the thought – the last and the first – that it was not fair, too soon, that life had been too good to have been true and what mistake had he made, anyway? Almost thirty years had passed, and it puzzled him still. What at first had made him want to stay, why he had refused to let himself die, was curiosity, of that guilty sort, to find out how and why. But between his new job and the existence that turned out to have been more complicated than he would have thought, that investigation had been pushed significantly down on his priority list.

He had heard a tale, once; from a guardian who moved on soon after Watari had come to work in the Shokan-ka. Even the Shinigami, he had said, had their candles somewhere in the labyrinth of the Count's domain. There were times when Watari wondered if that indeed was true. He'd had a dream once, where he stood in a shrine-like place where the candles were black, and he stared, in brittle silence, at the one that bore his name. Would he die again, he wondered, if he blew it out?

As he turned a corner, Watari started at a distant sound of footsteps pounding on the floor. Stopped dead in his tracks, he listened as a far-off squeak of a door swinging on its ancient hinges echoed through the hall.

A candle flickered to his left; the flame exploded, for an instant, with fire so rich and bright it was almost blinding – strange, Watari thought, it seemed so small before – and then it went out with a hiss, as though someone quenched its wick.

Chief!

He spun, with a frown. The familiarity of the voice startled him. It had been twenty five years since the last time he'd heard it, and yet he would not have mistaken it for anything else. A few more steps, and he stood before a large door. He shook his head. It could not be.

Chief... Watari-san!

"Impossible," he muttered under his breath, one hand reaching out for the door handle but a wave of uncertainty held him back as it crashed down on him with a memory of the person who called out his name.

Watari-san!

"Akane..." he whispered. His heart pounded hard in his chest, blood rushing through his ears. His chest felt tight with tension that held him in an iron grip, even as he forced his feet to move and take the last step towards the door. A part of him screamed against it; subconsciously he knew that he should never, ever open that door, but the urge to see with his own eyes whether it was just his mind that played tricks on him again proved too hard to resist.

Watari-san... please...

Hesitantly, he pulled open the heavy door. Inside, the bright light spilled all around; a cold light, that of large, halogen lamps, not unlike the ones in his own lab. Watari blinked twice, unsure how he could be seeing what lay ahead of him.

In the center of that room, a young girl with long, straight dark hair stood, alone, wringing her hands. Almost deafened by the sound of his own heartbeat, Watari took two hesitant steps inside.

The door behind him shut with a loud, hollow thud; the sound echoing across the hall beyond. He turned his head as the breeze of air it blew into motion rushed past him, then the soft sound of weeping urged him to turn back again.

"Akane?" Still unable to believe his eyes, Watari wiped them with the back of his hand.

"Chief," the girl whispered, her hazel eyes fixed firmly upon Watari's face. "How could you?"

Frowning, he took a step back. "What?"

Akane shook her head. "How could you?" she repeated.

She's long gone, Watari told himself sternly inside his head. She's not real. It's not real. Forcing himself to step forth again, he looked around. The lab looked familiar; the Five Generals Headquarters, it had to be. It had been twenty five years since he had last seen it, but in his memory it was as clear as though it had been just the day before.

"Don't you have anything to say?" Akane's voice took on a sharper edge now that she was moving – slowly, tentatively – across the marble floor to where Watari stood, momentarily at a loss for words.

"I don't understand," he said, eyes narrowed, suddenly feeling short of breath.

"But you do." Her words came quickly now, all but angry, accusation flashing in her eyes, radiating from her posture even as the small traces of tears still shone faintly on her cheeks. "You killed me. How could you"

"What?" Watari snapped, instinctively tensing even though his lungs had already begun to burn from the lack of air. "I didn't." He shook his head, denying. "It was your choice. I didn't ask for--"

"You killed me," she repeated sternly. "You wanted to escape. You wanted it so much. But you couldn't have just stopped there, could you? You had to get even. Revenge, you said. For what they did to you. And you used me."

"You did that because--" Watari broke off, screwing his eyes shut. She's not here. Not real. This place shows what I can't—-what I don't want to see.

"You used me because you knew I cared."

A step away from him, the girl stopped and looked up, her eyes locked on his as her hand came up and she pointed a finger at him. She trembled with anger; it threatened to burst through her slender frame.

"Was it worth it?" she asked, unblinking, her voice all but a screech now and her eyes, he realized, were empty like those of a shell whose soul had long since departed to a better place.

Watari stumbled backwards, breathing hard, feeling behind him for the door handle with one hand but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the ghost. Akane's accusing finger was still pointing at him, even as her illusionary form began to dissolve. As she crumbled into dust at his feet, he heard a sob resonating in the lab; a piercing howl filled with agony, saturated with power he hadn't heard before. The windows trembled with the sound vibrating through the room, as did Watari, as he stared down at the sapless dust.

He curled his hands into fists, willing himself to ignore that pile of ash. It's not real, his mind went on, but the sight in front of him, so eerily real, argued otherwise. Carefully, he stepped past the ashes and walked across the room; touching the tables – not real – moving a chair that stood in his way – an illusion – brushing one hand across a monitor – but it's real-- inhaling the familiar scent – it can't be real! - shaking his head in a frightening blend of disbelief and grave curiosity.

"Disgusting."

His head whipped around at the sudden sound; Watari caught the edge of a table behind him to steady himself and frowned. At the far end of the lab, a young man in a torn, singed lab coat stood, his hands resting on his hips. He measured Watari, carefully, from head to toe.

"Takahashi?"

"In the end," the man seethed through his gritted teeth, "you've sold your head and your body to the JuuOhCho."

Watari swept his glasses out of the way, then wiped his eyes. He heard the man's quickened breath but the sound merged with his own heart speeding up again in a cacophony that caused his head to spin.

"It's not real," he whispered, blinking to will the illusion away but Takahashi only took a step closer towards him, that angry look in his eyes all but setting them ablaze.

"Go to Hell," he uttered, waving one hand; his eyes narrowed further and another step took him closer still. "You make me sick."

Watari looked around, desperately, at once realizing that he'd have to get past the man, his colleague once – such a long time ago – to get to the door and somehow, that thought almost knocked him off his feet. It's not real, he kept telling himself, watching Takahashi's every move, half-expecting him to strike – or another illusion to appear out of thin air.

"We all worked towards the same goal," he heard himself speak and even the realization that he'd taken to deliberating with a ghost – if that – didn't help his cause.

"You were so blind," Takahashi said in an angry whisper, circling around him like a cat ready to pounce his prey. "It was always just you and Mother; only Mother, Mother, Mother – not the people, not any of us. We didn't matter, did we, Chief?"

Watari swallowed hard; he remembered that day, when Takahashi had left – did he? You knew better – and the argument that took the dispute to a level from which there was no return.

"I stood by your side," he went on, "but you wouldn't listen. And he got rid of us, one by one, because we interfered. Because we were still human enough to hold ourselves, and him, to a decent standard. Because we saw what you refused to see. You could have stopped it!"

Takahashi was shouting now, shaking with anger and the inner voice that told Watari not to listen, that it wasn't real, was completely lost on him.

"You could have stopped him! You had the power! But no, you were a puppet, and you were proud of it, right? Right!"

Watari screwed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to cover his ears, if only to shut out that voice; to turn away and run, if only not to see that face, for he couldn't deny the truth in Takahashi's words as he had done for two decades, and a half.

"Was it worth it!"

It no longer mattered whether he'd have to get too close or not; Watari pushed past the man – through him, he half-registered – the illusion yielding as they clashed and Takahashi melted into the air.

"Was it worth it?"

He still heard that voice behind him as he made for the door, fumbling with the handle that seemed stuck – or maybe his hands were shaking too hard, he couldn't tell. He cursed under his breath, fighting to clear his mind and remember it was only that place; it somehow knew what he feared, what he'd refused to remember, what he--

Out of the lab, Watari leaned against the wall and breathed deeply, a slow labor to calm down his shaken nerves.

"You lied to us."

His eyes snapped open; Watari gasped. Braced against his desk, Tsuzuki watched him with narrowed eyes, with that horribly pained look on his pale face.

Watari took a step back, the first instinct – that's not real, either – but the wall behind him left him with nowhere to run. His wide eyes swept a quick look around the room; their office, or was it? It sure looked like it, he could swear it was real if he failed to remember that it couldn't be.

Dead-set on ignoring the puny imitation – not quite so puny at all – he took a deep breath, and another, making a conscious effort to relax before the illusion shook him out of control.

"Twenty five years, we've been friends." Tsuzuki's voice trembled, violet eyes swimming with tears. "You're the smart one, Watari; give me the dictionary definition of friendship, will you? I must have missed the memo when it changed."

His stomach turned, but Watari clung to that one thought – not real – like to a life-saving rope, the only rescue for the one hanging head-first down a bottomless pit. Yet that voice, so cold, sliced through him like a shard of ice.

"We trusted you."

Another one, and he couldn't help but look – so young, yet the undertone reflected the horrors Hisoka, for it was his voice that startled him anew – had endured in his too short life.

Watari shook his head, hard-pressed to respond, despite the logic, and the tightrope trembled beneath him as he swayed.

"With our bodies and our souls," the boy continued, slow steps taking him to his partner's side. Tsuzuki was all but shaking, still leaning against the desk; the first tears had spilled and shone on his face in the artificial light above his head.

"I never--" Watari started but he bit his tongue. Never lied to you? But I did.

"All those years you've been saying, 'Don't worry, Tsuzuki, it's not your fault Enma won't let go. Just keep going.'" The older Shinigami stared into his face; his voice a mockery of Watari's own tone. "And I did. I believed you. Did you even mean that? You're such a liar, Enma's puppet. I'm so sorry I've ever called you my friend."

Enough, Watari's mind wailed; he turned around, eyes shut, hands pressed to his face. He heard the sound of footsteps behind him, growing distant until it was but an echo far away, dissolving into silence that pierced through his mind.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he realized that he was shaking; leaning against the cold wall, his arms braced against it. He wondered how come he could still stand straight; his body felt numb, somehow both burning and cold, and his heart beat hard against his ribs.

His eyes opened slowly; one hand slid down the wall. A small crack in it came into focus; he stared at it, willing his eyes to track each line, every tiny dent and rough edge, until his breath slowed down. With a heavy sigh he brushed one hand across his forehead and he laughed; a harsh, bitter sound.

He had not anticipated that sort of a surprise, even though he'd had a taste of Enma's wicked ways many times before. He almost expected to see him, to hear that mocking voice right behind his back. But as tension let go and he laughed again – half cried, was more like it – there was only silence to answer him now. So he laughed; a horrid sound in his own ears, biting down on his lip until he knew that if he bit any harder, he would taste blood.

"Yutaka?"

"I'm not here," he answered, chuckling quietly, to himself. "I'm an illusion, just like you, so don't even bother."

A heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder; finally he turned around, his broken laughter slowly fading off.

"You're not real, Tatsumi," he said tiredly, waving him away. "Nothing's real. Everything is just royally fucked up, that's all."

"Don't say that." Tatsumi took him by the shoulders, a gentle caress, and pulled him close against his chest.

Watari didn't resist. Oddly even to him, he found that he no longer cared. If dolls had spirits, he mused, he could be one of them. It had to be easier, being one; you could be taken into a loving owner's arms, or thrown away like a useless toy, and it made little difference, if any at all.

"Are you hurt?"

That soft whisper was soothing, he thought, so pleasant to hear, even while his mind continued to warn him it could not be real. He shook his head, suppressing another laugh – what did it matter, anyway? He was dead. He could be hurt or die again and it would still be all the same.

He took a sharp breath as Tatsumi's hand slid down his arm, slowly finding way to the small of his back. A soft puff of air tickled his ear; and that warmth, he could drown in it, fall asleep and never wake again.

"It doesn't matter," he slurred, half to himself, under his breath.

Then his eyes snapped open as soft lips brushed against his neck. "Tatsumi?"

"The question," the other whispered, running the tip of his tongue along Watari's earlobe, "is not whether you want this. You do."

Pinned to the wall, Watari gasped for breath. Go away, he thought, but he found himself unable to speak.

"The real question, however..." Teasing, soothing; long fingers brushed the golden strands away from Watari's face. "...is whether you can forgive yourself."

His heart seemed to stop for a whole eternity, or more, the moment Watari caught a glimpse of black, silky hair weaving down the arms that held him in a tight embrace. He pushed those arms away, stumbling to escape, to be anywhere but there, with anyone but him.

Enma pulled back. He tilted his head. "Can you?"

---

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Author's Note:

Akane and Takahashi are original characters, but not: they are based on the nameless people featured in Watari's memories in Yami no Matsuei chapter 58, published in Hana to Yume. Akane's "Chief--Watari-san... please, come back..." and Takahashi's "In the end, you've sold your head and your body to the JuuOhCho. Go to Hell, you make me sick!" lines are not mine - they're from the manga. As for Akane, the explanation of why she accuses Watari of using her (and what he means by 'it was your choice') can be found in Absit Omen, a side story to Against the Wind (see my profile for the link), which covers the events of twenty five years prior and fleshes out her character a bit more as well.