A/N: Please note that this part specifically is rated at least M for sexual situations. All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue.

As you may have come to notice, these are more like linked stories than chapters, so please feel freeto skip this one, if you prefer; if not, you have been warned; proceed with caution.

Thanks again to all who have reviewed; they are both encouragement and reward, and I sincerely treasure each one. And thanks to you for still reading.

Chapter 4: Learning Joy

Aya was angry with Kritiker, sometimes, for taking Ken. For all of them, but for maybe Omi and Ken most of all. Omi, for taking a traumatized child and twisting and forging that into something they could use, and Ken—Ken, for taking someone so innocent—and yes, for all his passion and bluster, Ken was still the most innocent of them all, too trusting and defenseless in all the ways that matter—for preying on the vulnerability of a betrayed and pain-wracked young Ken, and capitalizing on that moment to create a killer out of the gentle nature. He and Yohji had both been adults when they'd started, but Ken and Omi ... they'd been orphans, and they'd been kids.

But he knew that but for Kritiker, he may never have met Ken, and although he hated himself for it, that idea seemed like too much of a loss for him to be anything but deeply disturbed by the thought.

Catch 22. It seemed his whole life had become a series of them.

Still ... he was sitting in a soccer field, contentedly watching Ken shout instructions at a group of small boys, and he refused to think too deeply about any of it. The sun was shining. It was quiet, and peaceful, and he was enjoying himself, watching Ken.

Things were the way they were, and despite everything, he had found a measure of happiness, and he wouldn't worry about whether or not he deserved it, wouldn't worry, not right now, about whether or not it would last.

Ken jogged over, and ducking discreetly behind a convenient copse of trees, kissed him, not long, but hard and deep and Aya smiled despite himself, as Ken as swiftly turned back to the kids who were steps behind him. Ken may have been inexperienced, but he was learning, it seemed.

And it seemed that Aya, who couldn't stop smiling of late, well, he was learning too.

"Aya?" asked Ken, one night, late. They were alone in the mission room, and Ken's voice was lazy—the voice he used when he was just filling space. Aya had come to recognize it, this satisfied, intimate, comfortable voice.

"Ran," he said, in answer. "Ran."

"What's that?"

"My name." Aya smiled, just slightly.

"Oh," said Ken, confused, and processing. Ken could be a little slow, sometimes. "I ..."

"Aya is my sister's name," he interrupted, his tone deliberate. "Mine is Ran. You can use it, if you want."

Ken was still muddling. "I'm ... just so used to thinking of you ... as Aya."

Aya laughed suddenly, surprising them both. "I am too, now. Not at first. At first, I used to have to remind myself to answer to her name. I'd forget, all the time, until one of you became annoyed enough to remind me that I was supposed to answer to her name. But ... when we're alone, if it's ok, I'd like it, sometimes, if you could ... call me by my own name. To remind me. Call me Ran." There was a shy note in his voice that he hadn't intended, and couldn't control. Ken looked up, then, and there were a dozen unasked questions in his eyes, and a strange and worrisome look Aya couldn't interpret, and Aya didn't know what Ken was thinking because Ken didn't say anything at all.

The clock ticked, in the background.

Then abruptly, Ken lunged forward, and kissed him, hard and deep. "Ran," he said, his voice low and deep and possessive, and Ken smiled. "Ran. You're mine, Ran. You're mine."

"Ran, whispered Ken, in the dark of Aya's bedroom, with the only light that of the moon filtered through thin curtains, "Ran, what's wrong?"

They had been kissing, and touching, and generally making out. But this was the first time Aya had invited Ken into his bedroom. The first time, in fact, he'd let Ken in.

In the three weeks since they'd confessed that that Sunday, in the three weeks since they'd ... well, whatever—in those three weeks, it had always been Aya calling the shots. Every now and again, Ken would do something surprising--something aggressive, something possessive—calling him "mine", initiating a kiss, albeit apologizing immediately after—but more often than not, he had been very careful to let Aya take charge. Just like the Sunday that had started everything off—Aya decided what, he decided when, and he decided if he was in the mood.

It made sense, thought Aya, trying to reason through it. He was the older one, the wiser one, the one with more experience. On top of that, Ken had all those unresolved issues from his previous relationships, desperate for a love that he had repeatedly been told he did not deserve.

So sometimes Aya worried—before that Sunday, Ken had seemed far more sure of himself, far more free—and now, he seemed more hesitant, more careful. But Ken was as considerate and caring a boyfriend as Aya had ever dreamed of having, and everything Aya had known having Ken in his life could be, and so he really didn't feel entitled to question anything. Although he wasn't even sure that he had the right to call Ken his boyfriend, because he'd never really talked with Ken about that, and Ken, in his cautiousness and despite his reputation for bluntness, delicately avoided even suggesting anything more than ... well, what did they have? Some groping, some kissing, some heavy breathing. Shared evenings and shared dinners. Indulgent smiles from Yohji, and happy glances from Omi. Wistful looks from Ken he thought Aya didn't notice.

Breathe, he told himself.

Aya didn't, in truth, have a whole lot more experience than Ken.

Aya wasn't a virgin, true enough—but he had been, when his parents had died. He'd been a mild-mannered sort of boy—obedient, thoughtful, polite. He'd been happy to be son, and brother, and student. He'd been happy.

When his world had shattered, that day ... he'd been introduced to a host of emotions that he never knew existed, that he'd never thought to experience, that threatened to overwhelm him. That almost did overwhelm him, if it hadn't been for Kritiker, if it hadn't been for the training, if it hadn't been for the opportunity to focus. He traded emotion for control: for the sake of Aya, for the sake of vengeance. For the possibility of absolution, one day.

Then he'd failed, even at that, and so he'd joined Crashers. And except for the kid, Naru, they'd all been older than him, or seemed so. And they'd all been more ... experienced. Harder. More demanding.

They'd demanded. Each of them, and one of them, and Aya had given in, because it scarcely mattered, and it was foolish, as he'd been told, to have blood outside, and not allow it inside.

So he had. And it had been humiliating, and painful, particularly that first time, he remembered. But it had been over quickly, and he knew what the mystery was about, after. It hadn't been that interesting. Just uncomfortable, and distasteful, although it left him feeling a little more balanced, a little clearer, a little less wild. He wasn't very good at it, said Masato, after, although he'd deserved everything he'd got. Aya—Ran, at the time—couldn't really disagree, because it was no less than the truth. It had gotten marginally less painful, the few other times, with the few other men—some mission related, and some not—and he'd grown to enjoy it, to welcome it, to need the release—but it was always somewhat distasteful to him.

But tonight, he'd asked Ken to come inside, and one thing had led to another, and they'd made out, kissing and groping in the dark because Ken hated being less than fully covered in the light, and Aya had learned that despite Kase, who had insinuated and suggested and manipulated Ken into thinking Ken was using him while badly using Ken, Ken was still very, very inexperienced, and very, very nervous, and Aya was treading carefully.

"Ran," said Ken again, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Aya, panting a little, because making out was, after all, always involving, at least. "Nothing at all, I—I always get a little tense," he admitted, prompted by the sincere concern on Ken's face.

"Oh," said Ken, "are you supposed to?"

"Well, if we're ... I mean ..."

"Oh," said Ken, pausing for a moment; a thoughtful, considering look in the dark eyes. "Are we?"

"We could," replied Aya, wondering why it was that Ken invited such absolutely inane conversations. Rook had never spoken, either before or during. Just after. And then, nothing more than a few grunted comments, if that.

"You look like you're waiting to be hurt. Or like you're going to hurt someone." Ken's words were blunt, honest and slightly accusing.

Aya cringed inwardly, but outwardly he smiled, trying to deflect Ken and get back to what was supposed to be the natural, logical progression of their relationship. Ken was not supposed to be the over-analytical one, damn it. "Love is pain."

Ken drew back, and he was frowning. "I don't ... Aya, I don't know, but I don't really think it is supposed to hurt. Not like that."

"I've just ..." Aya shrugged, helpless. "That's the only way I've ever known it."

Ken blushed. "I ... I asked Yohji. I didn't want you to think ... I mean ... I didn't want to do anything wrong, and so ... I asked. Kase and I ... well, we'd never, so... anyway, it doesn't matter. Yohji said ... he said it shouldn't. I mean, he's straight, but he knows a lot. He said if it did ... I would be doing it wrong."

Aya raised an eyebrow. "You asked Yohji?" His tone matched the chill of his expression.

"He said it shouldn't be that way," insisted Ken, unphased and undeterred.

"I don't know any other way," said Aya, helplessly.

"Well ..." said Ken. "Maybe we should find another way." A smile lit and warmed the dark eyes. "I'm sure we could figure it out."

And Ken, for all his reputed clumsiness, had a surprisingly gentle touch and it turned out, in the end, that Yohji had been unaccountably right. There was no blood, and no pain.

In the end, there was only joy.

On to Chapter 5 ...