Omi was sitting in the stairwell and moping and Ken didn't like it. Cheery Omi with blue beaming tea-saucer eyes had been sitting utterly silent and unbearably still for close to five hours now. At least, it seemed like five hours, though in fact it had only been five minutes, the five minutes immediately proceeding his exit of Aya's room. But Ken's perception of time was never exactly accurate. All he knew was that Omi had been sullen for much too long and that his own impatience would not allow him to endure it any longer. He would just have to ask Omi what was wrong.
Not that he couldn't guess. After all, just that afternoon he'd thought Aya was going to kill the boy. Just run him through right on the spot, no questions asked. It seemed that a name qualified as excellent justification for murder in Aya's book. Ken was actually surprised Omi had been brave enough to confront the redhead at all, and alone! Perhaps he had just been naive. Either way he was still intact. At least physically.
However Ken knew the Aya's tongue was just as deadly as his katana. Worse even, sometimes. Because if he attacked and wounded a teammate, chances are he would have been wrong. Then Aya could get reprimanded, even punished maybe, injured party loaded up in an ambulance, shipped to the hospital, sewn up, doused with heavy painkillers and everything's just peachy. Not so when Aya was the one doing the reprimanding. Then he was always right.
Not that Ken really thought that Aya had been lecturing Omi on anything, heaven forbid as he seemed to hold the monopoly on that privilege, but he was sure Aya must have said something to make Omi upset. And he was going to find out exactly what that was.
"Hey Omi," Ken began, cautiously cheerful, as he approached the top of the stairs. He had been standing outside his room, having noticed Omi leaving Aya's room just before completing his return journey from the kitchen. A quarter-empty bottle of gatorade was clutched in his hand.
Omi glanced slowly up at him, his saucer eyes expanding to at least a third of their usual size. But he didn't say anything.
Ken sat down beside him. "You, uh, you want some of my gatorade?" A pathetic offer, but he didn't want to just confront the kid and demand outright that he tell him what his problem was. That would be entirely tactless and exactly what Aya would do.
"No," Omi said coldly, staring off into space ahead. He paused and then murmured a barely audible, "Thank you."
Well at least he's acting somewhat like his usual self, being polite and such.
"Are you sure? It's lemon-lime, good stuff!" Ken exclaimed, thrusting the bottle in front of Omi's face.
"I don't like lemon-lime," Omi declared irritably, pushing Ken's arm away. "Besides you backwash."
"I do not," Ken said with feigned indignance.
"Yes you do!" Omi retorted. "You gulp down half the bottle, swallow as much as you possibly can and spit the rest back! And half of what you spit out ends up on your chin!" His eyes brightened.
"Oh does it?" Ken attempted to demand while he struggled to contain his laughter.
"Yeah! You look like slobbery dog lapping water from a bowl!" Omi giggled. A soft, reflective giggle, lacking his habitual merriment, but a giggle all the same.
"Ah-hah!" Ken cried triumphantly. "See, I've got you smiling now!"
Omi sighed still half-smiling. He shrugged and tilted his sandy-blonde head to one side. "I guess you have." The smile faded and he rocked back, resting his weight on the heels of his palms.
"Hey Omitchi," Ken began cautiously, "you wanna tell me what's wrong?"
Omi looked at him. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came and his head snapped about to gaze over his opposite shoulder. He drew his knees up close his chest, curling about himself and rocking slightly. Ken couldn't tell if he was just uneasy or actually crying.
Damn that Aya! To make Omi so upset he won't even talk about it? What the hell did he say to him? Not that Omi ranks among the toughest people I know, poor kid could probably literally cry over spilled milk, but all the same, Aya should show at least some consideration for people's feelings! Or at least demonstrate that he's aware that people have feelings.
Ken clamped a hand over Omi's trembling shoulder, squeezing it tightly out of sympathy. "Hey Omitchi, it's okay. Aya can be a real bastard sometimes. Whatever he said to you, don't let it get to you. H-"
"It's not that Ken," Omi interrupted, looking over at him once again. "I just, well . . . I'm just a little shocked. Yeah, I still can't quite believe that I'm a Takatori. That's it." His voice quavered with uncertainty and there were tears in his eyes. He was lying, and poorly.
"Omi, that'-"
"Ken," Omi interrupted again, grabbing hold of the older boy's hand on his shoulder. "That's all. I'll be okay in a little while. I just need some time to let everything sink in."
"But Omi are you sure there's nothing else wrong? I mean, you were certainly down this afternoon, but you weren't this upset before you went to see Aya. What did you talk to him about?" Ken asked, more insistent than before. Omi's attempt to suppress his emotions was seriously scaring him.
"Yes, what?" a third voice chimed in. Ken immediately recognized that it belonged to Yohji and looked down to see the eldest member of Weiss climbing the steps. He sat on the step below the already seated pair, beside Omi's sneakered feet.
"It was very brave of you to go all alone to see him, Omitichi," Yohji commented, placing a hand on Omi's free shoulder, and peering up at the boy's now downcast face.
"Yeah!" Ken piped up. "He was really scary, and I mean that honestly. I've noticed before that just mentioning the name 'Takatori' makes him mad. I just can't understand why."
"Me neither," Yohji agreed eyes darting from Omi to Ken to Aya's closed door and back again. "I wonder . . ."
"I asked him," Omi said weakly. "That's what I did when I went to see him. I went and asked him why he hated the Takatoris so much. What they did to make him hate them." He choked back a sob. "But- but, he wouldn't tell me." He buried his face in his palms, a pointless attempt to conceal the fact that he was crying.
"Oh Omitchi, it's okay," Ken said, wrapping an arm about the boy's shoulders. "Aya doesn't ever tell anyone anything. He's just like that. A real jerk."
"I don't want it to be this way! I don't want Aya to hate me!" Omi cried. He flinched away from Ken, wrapped his arms about himself and cried openly.
"Omi, Omi don't cry. Come here," Yohji commanded gently. He moved up onto the step next to Omi, situating himself against the wall and took the boy in his arms, rubbing his small, quivering back. "Aya doesn't hate you."
Ken wanted to agree. He wanted to comfort and reassure his weeping friend, but he couldn't. Not when he was unsure himself. True it seemed unlikely that Aya would actually hate Tsukiyono Omi, but Takatori Mamoru was an entirely different story. And since Aya probably never really liked Omi, since clearly he didn't like any of them, it was not unbelievable that Aya would detach Omi completely from Mamoru and hate Mamoru while remaining indifferent towards Omi. And hatred was a far more prominent sentiment than indifference.
"Right KenKen?" Yohji's voice questioned, drawing the brunette out of his thoughts.
"Uh . . . yeah," he agreed hesitantly. "And who cares if he does any way!" He fixed his eyes on Aya's door and suddenly felt like crying himself.
He can't be allowed to do this to people!
"Ken, don't say that!" Omi scolded, lifting his head from Yohji's shoulder. "We're all Weiss and we're all each other has. We can't hate one another!" He leaned his head back down, closing his bloodshot eyes. He clung tightly to Yohji. "I wish we could go back to the way we were. I wish I never knew about my family. Wish that I could just be Tsukiyono Omi and not feel any longing to be Takatori Mamoru."
"Hey, you'll always be our Omitchi," Yohji proclaimed. "Knowing that you were born a Takatori doesn't change that. You're still the same person you were yesterday."
"Yeah!" Ken chimed, voice ringing with his sincerity. "Omitchi we still like you, so don't worry about Aya." He never cared about any of us anyway.
"That's right. Never mind what Aya thinks. The two of us are always here for you," Yohji declared, tilting Omi's chin up to meet his gaze. "The three of us . . . we'll always stick together. No matter what. We'll look out for each other."
Omi smiled slightly. He looked over at Ken who nodded his agreement.
They stayed like that for a while, Omi secured in Yohji's embrace, Ken right beside the two. All three full of sadness. All three trying to hope, trying to believe they were happy, that some day they might be. Forget before, understand now, and maybe enjoy tomorrow. And it was clear that there was a 'they'. That each individual was part of a single whole.
What a strange family we make, Ken mused.
Omi was right. They were all each other had. They all felt something for one another. Love, friendship, sympathy. Whatever it was, they felt it, felt connected and depended on it for survival. Physically and emotionally. But Aya didn't seem to understand that. He clearly was convinced that he needed no one but himself to survive. Give him a katana and someone to kill and he's set.
They all felt something, but Aya felt nothing. The 'whole' was incomplete.
Maybe he is different. Maybe he doesn't need people. But people believe they need him and he can't toss them aside.
Yohji took Omi and put him to bed. Then he went into his own room. He didn't notice Ken still sitting at the the top of the stairs.
Something had to be done about Aya and Ken was going to personally ensure that something was. He wasn't sure what he planned to do, exactly, but he was going to take action. He was angry, angry with Aya for making Omi cry, angry that he scorned them all, angry that he didn't need them. Angry because he was angry and Aya made him so.
He strode deliberately to Aya's closed door, opened it and marched in. He hadn't bothered to knock. Adding a second item to his list of his most likely meriting a punch in the stomach bold acts, he flicked the light switch. Eyes dazzled by the sudden brightness, he continued half blindly across the wooden floor until he guessed he was about two yards from Aya's bed.
His depth perception was not entirely functional.
Instantly, Aya was on his feet, calves touching the edge of the bed and barely a foot from Ken. He was still in his jeans and, despite the hour and the darkness, had clearly not been trying to sleep. Violet eyes narrowed, but not in reaction to the light. Rather in reaction to the one who's finger upon a switch had conjured it.
"Hidaka," he growled, "what are doing here?"
"What is you problem Aya?" Ken demanded, holding with his current brash attitude.
"What the hell are you talking about?" the redhead snapped back.
Ken glowered, annoyed. As if he doesn't know. Figures, he probably thinks I don't give a damn about Omi, since he doesn't. "You know what I'm talking about. Omi. Our comrade. My friend. Cute little kid with enormous eyes. What the fuck did you say to him to make him so upset?"
Aya glared silently for a moment. "I didn't say anything."
"Bullshit. Omi wouldn't cry over nothing," Ken retorted. "Unless he asked you something important and you didn't answer him. Is that what it is? He asked you why you hated the Takatoris so much and you wouldn't tell him anything?"
"I am not obligated to reveal any of my reasoning for my personal opinions to anyone."
"No of course not, and even if you did it would take a grand total of maybe five minutes." Censorship had been officially abandoned.
"Are you suggesting, Ken, that I have insufficient justification for my feelings?"
"No. What I'm suggesting is the only feeling you have is your hatred for the Takatoris and other than that you don't give a damn about anything so you'd have nothing to talk about!" Ken paused, becoming slightly less impassioned. "So now that he's a Takatori, do you actually feel something for Omi? Do you hate him?"
"I do not hate Omi," Aya replied cooly.
"So you still don't feel anything for him," Ken declared.
"I didn't say that, I said that I didn't hate him."
"So you just dislike him."
Aya shifted irritably and advanced a step towards Ken. "I do not dislike Omi."
"Then what is your opinion of Omi?" Ken asked, determined brown eyes meeting Aya's wrathy stare. "Or Yohji for that matter, what do you think of him? Or me?"
"What are you getting at Hidaka?" Aya asked, voice callous and monotone.
How like him. He's asking me a question only to advance the conversation so it can come to a conclusion and I can go away. He doesn't care about my actual answer. How could he care about what comes out of the mouth of someone he never thinks twice about? I could say anything. He probably won't notice.
"I want to know, Aya. I want to know what you think of me."
And that was the truth. Oh yes he was angry at Aya for making Omi cry, but as far as he could tell, the reason Omi was crying was not, per se, because Aya wouldn't answer his question, but because he was afraid that Aya hated him. Because he didn't know what Aya thought about him.
"What?" Aya questioned in a tone remotely resembling confusion.
"I want to know what you really think of me. No. Not what you think of me. I know that. You've told me about a million times that I'm stupid, clumsy, incompetent and bad tempered. What you feel for me."
Aya scowled. "You're being ridiculous. Go away, I was trying to sleep."
"No, not until you answer me." I need to know. If I don't, then I don't know if you feel anything for any of us. And I can't help Omi.
But this was no longer about Omi. It was about a brief but ardent history of temperamental outbursts and almost-brawls. It was about screw-ups and sermons. It was about wanting to cry, about Ken knowing that every criticism Aya had of him was true, but not knowing why he made them. Ken wanted, needed, to know why.
"Leave," Aya commanded.
"Huh?"
"This is my room. I never gave you permission to enter it. Get out and let me go to sleep."
"You're just avoiding my question!" Ken exclaimed.
"I said get out."
"No!"
"Yes."
"Dammit Aya!" Suddenly overcome by his unruly temper, Ken thrust his fist at Aya's face. And hit him. Squarely in the jaw. It was the first time since their initial formal introduction in the flower shop near six months ago that one of his punches had actually connected.
He stumbled back, astonished. The perfect porcelain skin was pink where it stretched so thinly over Aya's angular jawbone. It would bruise, and badly if it wasn't iced. But Aya showed no indication of pain. His head turned slowly forward and Ken winced in anticipation of the consequences he was about to face. Physical or verbal punishment was due. But he was sorry, really, sincerely sorry, and ashamed of his inability to control his temper.
Aya lunged at him and he braced himself for a blow. But Aya did not hit him. He kissed him.
It was a vicious, biting kiss. The rough contact of lips, Aya's tongue savagely forcing its way into Ken's mouth, a surprising click of teeth. A lemon-lime flavored kiss. Lusty and deep, oxygen and thought depriving. Ken collapsed against Aya and would have crumpled helplessly on the floor were it not for the redhead's viselike grip upon his shoulders.
There was a dampened thud as plastic collided with straight woven wool. And Ken had one thought. He was drowning. He was drowning, but he was not underwater. He needed to breathe, but he couldn't, because he didn't know what was stopping him.
Then he was on the floor, knees bent, calves curled beneath him, leaning forward on his wrists, gasping for air. Panting, breath choked and irregular. As the gasping subsided and breathing evened, some semblance of organized thought restored. It occurred to Ken that he had fallen to the floor, that he was not there by choice, and that he had not been physically pushed. But his shoulders hurt. And then he remembered Aya's hands gripping them. Not so unusual, they fought quite frequently, and sometimes physically. Then he remembered.
It was Aya's fault that he was on the floor. But not because he had punched him, or even simply pushed him. Because he let go.
Ken brought a trembling hand to his swollen lips. He shuddered involuntarily and closed his eyes. Aya had kissed him. The thought was overwhelming. Unreal. Ridiculous in fact, and Ken was certain he must be dreaming.
Aya, who doesn't feel anything for any body, kissed me. Right. He almost laughed. It was amusing really. Crazy, but amusing. And nice. God was it nice. He wanted it to be real.
The kiss had been passionate. Frenzied, desperate passion, void of affection, but passion, feeling, something. It proved that Aya could feel, did feel. Something. And for Ken. Even if it was just a physical desire to dominate, to assert authority, to render submissive, it was there. Or would have been there had the kiss happened, but it didn't, so it wasn't.
Ken looked up. Aya stood before him, towering, ominous, sour as ever. Tight, muscled legs clad in stone-wash, lean chest concealed in layers of fine white cotton and loose green linen. Broad and sculpted shoulders. Glowing cold violet eyes. Red hair nearly touching them, fiery against flawless white skin. Flawless but for the soft pink patch swelling on the jaw. Ken was acutely aware of an irresistible quality to Aya's appearance. Dumbfounding physical desire. He wanted the kiss to be real and he wanted to be kissed again.
"Aya," he began softly, but stopped realizing there was nothing to say. Aya didn't kiss him. Couldn't have. Not with those wan and sneering lips. Never. Much as he wanted it.
He stood and left the room in a hurry, rushing to his own, near slamming the door, and falling back against it. He pinched himself for good measure. And it hurt. He told himself to wake up, but he didn't. He pinched himself again, harder this time, and cried out. He wasn't dreaming.
Confusion set in. Aya had kissed him and he wasn't dreaming. Not a chaste little peck on cheek. A deep, passionate, tongue warring, saliva swapping kiss. Not some mark of brotherly affection. No. Something else. He was elated. He was frightened. What did it mean?