A/N: All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue.

Quick but heartfelt thanks to everyone who has reviewed thus far. I was really nervous about the last part in particular, and the encouraging comments are very much appreciated. Individual thanks will follow at the end of the story, because these notes are already too long!

Thanks also to authors Tokagemusume, whose very fine series inspired a piece of dialogue in this bit, and Brelyna of the gorgeous drabbles—I read as much as I can, and sometimes it strikes me later that I have been influenced, although it's more just the idea of something that strikes a chord. Hope you aren't offended.

Also, because I am indulging myself with long author's notes this chapter, you may have noticed that I have glossed over details better authors than I would not. I have no idea where this is set in any timeline, or if there is one, although Ken is definitely 19 at the beginning of this fic. I don't use any Japanese words, either, because this is an English language fic, even if it is set in my very own fake-fandom-anime-Japan. And, remember, this is a fic set in a world of death and underground evil, so it may be disturbing; be warned and avert your eyes now ...

Sorry for the delay in posting this part and apologies in advance with respect to the next. Must remind myself never to post an unbeta'd WIP again—it always seems like such a good idea at the beginning, but I am usually made of sterner stuff ... although I guess at this point, in for a penny ... I did try to rush this part when I could, and so it's kind of choppy-- I may revise the entire thing when I'm done. Who knows? Only the ... well, never you mind who knows. Reviews will influence future revisions! Or sequels! Or speed! Or all of that! And that brings me to ...

As always, all reviews and comments most welcome, Please note both positive and negative feedback is appreciated, and if anyone wishes to send a private e-mail instead, you may do so at mockorange7 at yahoo dot ca.

Chapter 5: Finding Balance

The next morning, of course, Aya started thinking, and that's when things went wrong.

Aya woke alone, to the faint sound of the shower, and a still warm indent beside him in the bed.

Ken wandered in then, a few minutes later, towel wrapped around his waist, another being used to rub his hair--just as Aya had decided he'd made a huge mistake. Ken took one look at the non-expression on Aya's face, and dropped one hip to sit on the bed in that unconsciously graceful way he had whenever he wasn't thinking about it.

"What's wrong?"

"You shouldn't use two towels for your shower," snapped Aya. "Only women do that. It's wasteful." The words were out of his mouth, and while he hadn't intended for them to be so harsh, he was inexplicably angry, and Ken was ... there. And right now, Ken was irritating the hell out of him.

"It's ... wasteful?" Aya watched Ken's expression cloud, watched the anger spark in his eyes and a hint of hurt twist his features, and something dark in Aya leapt in glee.

Then Ken's eyes narrowed, and the piercing look in those deep brown eyes made Aya extremely nervous. Aya had almost moved to get out of the bed when a damp hand clamped down hard on his wrist, pinning him in place. "Ran. What's really wrong?"

And Aya looked up at Ken, gentle concern on Ken's face, and sighed. All the thoughts he'd had about Ken destroying his focus, distracting him ... his admonitions to himself about concentration and responsibility and ... with Ken looking at him, sincere and anxious, those thoughts no longer seemed so important. They no longer seemed to matter.

Aya took a breath and let it go, and looked up at Ken, and smiled. "Nothing." Aya smiled, grin broadening at the doubtful look Ken gave him, and all of the darkness bled away. "Really, Ken. I'm ... sorry." The words of apology were almost awkward from years of self-imposed training to admit no regret, no weakness, no .. sorrow. But he genuinely wanted Ken to know he was sorry—to know he hadn't meant to snap, and hadn't meant to cause even that faint shadow over Ken's dark eyes.

Because right then, in spite of everything, Aya could almost believe, almost believe that life was bright and good and worth bothering for, and as quick as the anger had been to rise, it faded away, leaving only that scary, frightening happiness. So Aya leaned forward, and kissed Ken, and told Ken, without words, that Ken was good, and beautiful, and wonderful, and perfect, and all kinds of things Aya didn't say and knew he could never say. And in the shape and taste and feel of Ken's mouth, in the joy and wonder of Ken, Aya managed to forget that he was happy, and that he was not permitted to be.

Because right then, except for Ken, nothing else really mattered.

So as the last days of summer melted into fall, Ken was reluctantly forced to confess--to an openly teasing and secretly delighted Aya, that he could no longer sleep properly in his own bed. He'd taken to sleeping in Aya's--or sleeping on the mission-room couch, Aya had noticed, if Aya wasn't around.

Until a standard mission involving corrupt politicians, on which Ken and Yohji had reportedly found in a basement room three small, charred bodies in early stages of decay. Yohji had told him about it quietly, in flat tones; at the time, busy with wrap-up, Aya had dismissed it. He didn't know why Yohji had bothered to tell him; it was Kritker's business, and Kritiker would figure out who the victims were and why. But coming back, there had been a look in Ken's eyes that caused Yohji to look worried and had flat-out scared Aya, and Aya was grateful to the older man. Ken wouldn't look at Aya, at all, the whole drive back.

Had immediately gone upstairs--and locked the door to his room—the moment he got home. Had spent a long time in the shower, while Aya waited, hearing the faint sound of pelting water, exchanging a glance with Yohji as he passed Aya on his own way upstairs, until Aya got tired of waiting in front of Ken's door, and went to his own room to take his own shower.

And still Aya had waited. But Ken didn't come, and didn't respond to the telephone, or to the soft knock at his door.

And eventually, Aya had crawled into bed; alone, hurting, and worried for Ken.

And had woken instantly from a light, fitful sleep to the soft knock at the door, revealing, when he hurried to open it: Ken, standing there, pillow in his hands, and expression ready to flee. Eerily reminiscent of a time, many months ago. And just as he'd done then, Aya had backed away, not wanting to spook him, sensing that anything could. Anything would. So he'd backed away, and let Ken come to him. Let Ken call the shots. And breathed a sigh of relief that Ken did.

And when Ken leant forward, searching in the dark, and kissed Aya, it was soft and sweet, his hair silky and shampoo-scented, his skin warm. But Ken's muscles remained tense underneath, and expectant, and there was a desperation to his movements. And still Ken said nothing, moving gently over Aya, his touch soothing, his lips restoring, and under him, Aya soared and shattered and then lay quietly, the sound of Ken's heartbeat in his ears.

They lay together afterwards, for a time, in the dark.

"Promise me something," Ken said suddenly, seriously, into the darkness; the first words he'd spoken all night.

"Right now, whatever you want, you can probably have," answered Aya, languid and sated and Ken's serious tone not really penetrating. "Except my Porsche. That's mine."

Aya's voice was as lacking in any inflection as it usually was, but Ken heard the humour in it, and made a half-hearted attempt at a playful swat in response. "Idiot." He paused. "No, really, Aya."

"Whatever you want, Ken." Suddenly alert, Aya's voice was now just as somber as Ken's own.

"I ... if anything happens, I want to know, I want you to ..."

Ken suddenly found himself lying on his back, violet eyes glinting fiercely down at him. "Nothing is going to happen, Ken," Aya growled angrily. His voice was determined, as if Aya could prevent anything bad from happening by sheer will alone. And Ken knew that if anyone could, Aya would be that person. "Nothing at all."

Ken faltered slightly in the grip of that icy glare. "I ... I know. But ... just in case ..."

"I don't want to talk about this," said Aya, with finality, rolling over and turning his head away. Ken moved tentatively behind him.

"I ... Aya, I do. I want to know ... Ran, I need to know. If anything happened to me, I need to know you'll move on. I want you to promise. Anything can happen. Especially ... well, we're assassins, Ran. I don't want to feel guilty while I'm with you. I can't worry when I'm ... not with you. I don't want to feel like, I'm with you, and you will revert back to where you were after Aya and ... I just want to know you'd be okay and ..."

"I don't want to talk about this!" Aya got up, and started pulling on his pants. Movements agitated, any hope of a peaceful, restoring sleep shattered.

Ken sat up too, climbed out of the bed. "Please, Ran." He reached out a hand towards Ran, where he stood frozen in a patch of moonlight, the pale light glinting off ivory skin, and Ken shivered. In the dim light, Aya looked beautiful: exquisite and remote, like a statue of hard marble.

And Ken started speaking again, babbling, barely coherent, his voice low and almost incomprehensible. "I ... I know you Aya. I know what you were like when you first come to the Koneko, and don't even want to imagine what you'd been like when you first went into Kritiker. I ... I don't want to. And ... if I couldn't, I ... I don't want ... " And Ken didn't want to imagine the state Aya had been in, at that time, to accept the bargain Kritker had offered: to kill on demand, in return for money to keep his sister alive. Deep down, Aya was gentle, and noble, and idealistic. "I know, and trust, that Yohji and Omi would help you, look after you, if there was ever need. And you'd do the same for them. But ... I need to know, too, that you'd cooperate. I need you to agree to let them."

A tear glinted suddenly on Aya's cheek, and he turned his head. "Fine," he snapped suddenly. "If you are such an idiot as to get yourself killed, you have my assurance that I won't waste my time mourning you."

Ken smiled, a little. Aya certainly could be dramatic, and he loved him for it. "Aya. That's only part of it. I also want you to promise—if anything happens to me, and I'm ... well--you won't stay with me out of pity. I don't want ... I would hate to burden you like that. You ... you already have your sister, and ... " Ken's voice shook a little, uncertain. He looked away.

This was the harder part. This was the part that was difficult to imagine. Death was easy. It was almost familiar, a part of his life—the knowledge that he dispersed it, and that it could disperse him. But ... the idea of living—disabled, or maimed—that was also real, and that knowledge was, at his age and with his love of life—well, as much as they all danced with death on a regular basis, he really tried not to think about it. Kritker, though, they usually killed agents who were no longer useful to them, Ken was pretty sure. So maybe there wouldn't be much of a difference. He didn't like thinking about it, all the same. The point was, he might not always be around, and he needed to know ...

Then Aya's lips were on his, and this kiss was warm, and soft, and soul searchingly deep, before pulling back, looking at him intently. "Ken. What brought this on?"

Ken shrugged, slightly, trying to look away. "I've just been thinking ... "

"Well, stop." Aya's fingers had grasped his chin in a bruising grip, and Aya's voice was equally hard. "I'm not sure if you are trying to scare me or yourself, but either way, it's too late now. So I'll say this once. You can't scare me off, Ken. I love you, as much an idiot as that makes me. So. The first I've promised you. The second I won't. One thing I can promise you though, is this: I would never stay with you—or anyone—out of pity. I do not love because of pity. Do not demean me—either of us--by suggesting such a thing ever again."

Ken, looking into those glittering, rock-hard eyes, could only nod in agreement, completely stunned, and repeating the words in his head. Aya loved him. Aya loved him. Aya loved him.

Aya loved him.

"You love me?"

"Fool. Moron. Dumbass. Do you think I'd put up with you otherwise?"

Suddenly anxious, and although Aya didn't look like he was waiting, Ken babbled the words in a panicked rush. "Aya ... Ran. I love you too. You know that, right?"

Aya glared, but it was softened by the threatening smile. "Idiot. Of course I do. It amazes me that you did not know the same."

But wrapping Ken in his arms, brown hair soft against his cheek, and holding Ken safe through one more night, it was a long time before Aya found sleep.

They'd never discussed it again.

In the early days, Ken had gleefully and stubbornly clung to the fact that they were in love—which should have made everything so much better. He'd thought that until Aya had finally snapped at him one day—in the middle of a screaming match which had involved, of all things, Ken's messy room and Aya's constant re-organizing of Ken's things--to stop expecting bliss. Several missions later, in the middle of a chilly November rainstorm, Aya was injured—when he very prosaically slipped while jumping from a water-slick fourth-floor window onto a lower roof below--and broke three ribs, and didn't say anything until they were back at the Koneko six hours later. So aside from the painful shivering and the broken ribs, Aya got a tongue-lashing from an irate and worried Omi, a serious of bitingly sarcastic insults from Yohji, and angry and reproachful glances from a fretful Ken, all of whom were immune to Aya's by then fevered and slightly unfocussed glares. Between the three of them, Aya found himself stripped, washed, taped and medicated, before Ken half-dragged, half-carried him up to bed, where he had threatened creative and dire bodily harm if Aya even thought of getting up before Ken had decided it was okay. And it was right around then that Ken completely gave up on bliss, and decided he would settle for anything less than constant irritation.

Turned out Ken needn't have worried about Aya going anyplace, because by the next morning, it was clear that Aya had also developed pneumonia. It wasn't that he hadn't tried, Ken defended himself to himself, it was just that Aya was sick, and Aya was horrible when he was sick—unlike Ken himself. Of course, when Ken had been sick in the past, Aya had been quite horrible—nagging and pestering and condemning—without foundation, Ken added to himself as he reached yet again for some magical source of patience that was rapidly growing thin—so you'd think he'd be angelic himself when he was sick. But no. When Aya was sick ... he never listened, never acted sensibly, was snappish and critical and demanding and unreasonable and overall just so damned annoying ... And Ken, who had tried to be patient and tender and helpful because, well, he had naively thought that was what a good lover should do, had finally made a decision and told Yohji—albeit after Yohji had stopped laughing at Ken's belief of what a good lover should do--that if Aya yelled at him again, he was going to give up and leave Aya to the two of them to deal with.

Armed with this decision, and climbing the stairs to Aya's room to check on him during his break, Ken quietly pushed against the closed door, smelling the rank odours of sickness even before he entered, and listening for sound within. There was silence, but approaching the bed, he saw Aya was awake.

And dressed. And standing. When Ken had told him, in no uncertain terms and quite a few certain ones barely a half hour ago, that Aya was not, under any circumstances, to get out of his bed until the next day. Ken saw red.

"What are you doing?" he almost screamed at the redhead.

"I'm fine. I don't know why you insist ..."

"Aya, you have pneumonia. One extra day of rest won't kill you."

"This mission would not be that difficult."

"It's almost winter, it's cold, it looks like it is going to rain. What part of you have pneumonia did you not understand? Besides, tonight we're just gonna be outside staking out the building—which will likely take the best part of the night. If you ask me, you are proving how sick you are by even suggesting you would be willing to waste your night out there being cold and wet and not asleep when you have the perfect excuse to get out of it. Just ask Yohji. He's been complaining all morning that he's had to take your place."

"Unlike you, I need the money."

"God! You can have mine."

"I won't take your money," said Aya stiffly, the very image of injured pride on his face.

"Aya, you're being impossible! What is freaking wrong with you?"

"Nothing. As I keep telling you."

"Fine. Do whatever you want. See if I care." Ken, almost as quick to temper as Aya and losing the precarious grip he had on his, threw up his hands in disgust.

Then Aya started coughing. Loudly, and helplessly, and painfully. In a breath Ken was across the room and holding him up, preventing him from collapse, helping Aya to sit back down. Slumping carefully and exhaustedly on the bed when he was done, Ken beside him, neither man spoke. Minutes passed in silence.

Finally Ken sighed. Moving around Aya, he brushed hair gently off Aya's face. "Let's get you settled back in. Fuck Ran, you're still really hot. I'll get some aspirin, another painkiller. You want some water?"

Aya didn't say anything, and Ken just waited. Patiently, as patient as he was with those kids he coached. Eventually Aya turned his head and spoke, in a voice blurred by exhaustion. "I ... I was supposed to visit Aya today."

"Oh."

"I always visit her on Wednesday, Ken. I bring her flowers, pink ones. She always liked pink."

Ken, not knowing what to say to that, sat carefully down again beside his drooping boyfriend on the bed. After a moment, and as gently as possible, he asked the only thing that he could think of to say, "Why Wednesday, Ran?"

"It was on a Wednesday."

"Oh." After a moment, Ken asked, "So, last Wednesday, when I wanted you to come with me to see the game ..."

"I went to see Aya."

"You could have told me. I would have understood." Instead, thought Ken, a bit hurt, Aya had bluntly refused to go to the game, and said several disparaging things about both Ken and his favorite game that had angered and upset him, and they hadn't spoken for two days—until the mission, and then Aya had gotten injured. And then fallen ill. Aya had been so pathetic, Ken had forgotten—until now—why he'd been mad in the first place. But thinking back to Wednesdays past, the pattern fell into painfully obvious place, and made so much sense, Ken felt stupid for not having noticed it before. And deeply hurt that after all these months, Aya hadn't told him.

"Ken, please, I ... I need to go. I worry ... I worry that ..." And Aya bit his lip, looking away, as if whatever his fear was, he couldn't voice it aloud.

When it became clear that Aya had no intention of continuing, Ken, asked, "What do you worry about, Aya?"

Aya didn't answer for a minute. Then he asked, "Ken ... when did Omi last sweep?"

Ken understood immediately what Aya meant. Kritiker bugged their building—it was, after all, owned by Kritker, as were they. The Koneko they could do nothing about, but Omi routinely swept their private living quarters for bugs. It might not make any difference, and probably didn't, but it made them all feel slightly more secure. And Omi insisted. "Yesterday, I think. Everything is spotlessly clean. Omi's good that way."

There was a moment of silence, and then Aya whispered, so quietly Ken could barely hear it. "I worry that ... they want to keep her sick. That they would make her sick, if they needed to. Because it binds me to them."

Oh, Aya, thought Ken, helplessly. Because, while he didn't seem the type to think it through—and while he wouldn't have put it past Kritiker to harm Aya's sister if it helped them—and while even though Aya rarely talked about the sister he lived for—he knew it really wouldn't matter. Whether or not they were treating her properly, the point was already moot. Aya's life—both Aya's—had been forfeit the second that a young, heartbroken Ran had signed his life over to Kritiker. And while it had crossed Ken's mind that Kritiker might not be providing the best care for Aya's sister—well, it had actually been Yohji that had raised it, one cold night when they'd been—

A small sound from Aya, that could have meant anything, really, broke into Ken's thoughts. "I wish ... I wish you could have met her, Ken. She's like you, a lot, in a lot of ways. She loved life, loved living, was always so active. Unlike me. More like you, really. I think ... I think you would have really liked her."

He was speaking in past tense, Ken noted, and didn't know what to say. Didn't know if there was anything he could say. Silence fell over them both again, until Ken couldn't stand it, felt he had to say something—anything--just to get Aya to talk again. "Last time you saw her ... how was she?"

"There had been no change." Aya's words were deliberate and flat. This time, Ken didn't dare say anything, even to break the painful silence. Instead, he reached out and took one of Aya's cold hands—such a contrast to the fevered heat of the rest of him--in his own.

After a time, possibly seconds, probably minutes, Aya spoke again. "If I don't go today ... she'll ... she'll think I forgot. She'll think I don't care anymore."

"Aya ... " Ken still didn't know what to say, how to make it better, if there was anything that could. Aya is in a coma, and probably doesn't know what day it is, was definitely not the right thing to say. He wished, for one wild moment, that Yohji were there—Yohji always knew what to say, and how to say it. Aya was obviously not thinking clearly, and was obviously in no state to go much of anywhere, but he was so upset.

"I could go for you," said Ken slowly. "I can ... Omi will make an arrangement, for Aya, if I ask."

"It's late. Omi's probably doing homework, or ..."

"He'll do it for you, if I ask."

"She doesn't know you."

"I'll tell her I'm a friend of yours, a good friend. I'll explain you are sick, and couldn't come yourself. I'll tell her you love her, and miss her. I'll explain it for you, Ran."

"I don't know. I ..."

"I'll tell her Omi made the arrangement, and that even though we don't know her, we all love her and are waiting for her to wake up."

"Aya and I were always honest with each other. Don't lie to her." Aya's voice was sharp.

"I won't be lying, Ran," said Ken gently. "We all love her. For you. We all love her for you."

Looking up into Ken's eyes, finding himself somehow lying down and carefully covered with blankets, Aya wanted to protest, wanted to argue; but the sincere, matter of fact tone of Ken's voice and the concern in Ken's eyes stopped him, and Aya found himself merely nodding. He was tired, he was aching: but the sheets were soft, the blankets warm, and Ken's touch was so, so soothing.

"Pink flowers, Ken. Roses, if you can. She likes iris, too, and sometimes, lily, if you can manage to get some. It's out of season right now, but ... " He was so tired, exhausted really, and even after four days the bullet wound in his left shoulder ached and burned, but his voice was urgent, anxious. It was very important to make sure Ken knew everything, to make sure that ...

Ken's hand had reached over to turn off the lamp, Ken's fingers were stroking across his cheek. "Relax, Ran. It'll be beautiful. It'll be perfect. Now go to sleep."

"I've never let anyone else go instead before." Aya's voice was slurred with sleep but still anxious.

"Trust me. Now really, go to sleep."

And most surprisingly, Aya did.

Aya knew something was wrong the moment Ken slammed through the door. He was obviously angry, to begin with, and he tracked mud across the kitchen floor for seconds—not unusual for Ken to do so, but he usually did make some attempt not to.

"Ken ..." began Aya, tentatively.

"I'm the one who always sweeps up, so shut up, all of you."

None of them pointed out that none of them had actually said anything about the mud.

"What, you think you are all so perfect? Well fuck you."

Ken slammed upstairs. The other three exchanged glances, and then Aya got up to follow.

Knocking on the door to Ken's room, Aya opened it before Ken could answer.

"Ken?"

"What," he snarled. "I haven't brought my dirt to your room, ok, and I won't so leave me the hell alone. This is my room."

"Ken ..." A small voice in Aya's head told him he'd spent the last ten minutes saying nothing more than Ken's name. Not the first time, however, the voice pointed out, and hopefully not the last, and Aya almost grinned. The wicked voice in his head cackled and wondered if repeating Ken's name counted as conversation.

Suddenly, Ken had tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. "One of the kids on my team, he's eleven. Eleven, but he's so good. And his parents, they're going to send him away to camp, and he was asking me about J-League today, asking if I'd ever wanted to go, why I didn't, did I think he was good enough. I told him I didn't want to, and even if I did, I wasn't good enough.. And y'know what, Aya? That's the truth. I wasn't good enough. I ... oh, never mind. Who cares, anyway? Get out."

Somewhat stunned, Aya didn't know what to say. He ached to touch Ken, but Ken looked so brittle, and he wasn't easy with touch—even now, even with Ken. So he said the only thing he could. "Ken. I love you, Ken."

Ken's eyes were still closed, but a tear leaked from behind the dark lashes. His voice, when he spoke, was a whisper. "I ... I know. I know you do."

Somehow, right then, it wasn't enough.

Helplessly Aya turned and left Ken alone, standing still in the middle of his room. Ken's eyes were still closed.

Ken slept on the mission couch that night, and went out early the next morning. Aya, who had the morning shift, quietly asked Yohji to cover after the morning rush, and went to find Ken. He found him at his usual haunt in the nearby soccer field, just as the game was ending.

Aya paused in the shadows for a moment, just to watch Ken, laughing in the sunshine until he had turned away, mobbed by a swarm of kids. Looked like his team had won, then. Kids and parents were swarming the field, and Aya hung back from the chaos and watched the parents of all the kids began picking up their kids, hugging and kissing and congratulating them on their efforts. He remembered, long ago, when his parents had done the same for him at a school science competition, praising and smiling while Aya ran around in exuberant joy. Then he blinked, and the scene was replaced again by the trees and mud and pale sunshine around him, Ken still hidden by the milling mass of people.

As the last of the children filed off the field, tossing back their farewells at Ken and chattering rapidly to whoever would listen, leaving Ken standing behind, waving enthusiastically at the kids alone on the field, Aya saw an unguarded expression, almost hungry and forlorn, cross Ken's face just before he turned to pick up. It made him frown, and cross over the field quickly, startling the younger boy.

"Hi," he said, quietly, giving Ken a moment.

"Hey, Fujimiya!" said Ken, all false cheer, still not quite looking up. "Aya, did you see that? We kicked butt! Did you see ..." True enthusiasm overshadowed the melancholy as Ken remembered the joy of the game, babbling on about the shot Yuki made or the goal Akira saved or the volley ...

"I only saw the end, really," Aya interrupted the soccer-babble, knowing that Ken would otherwise feel free to reprise the entire game for the next hour or more.

"Oh," said Ken, a bit deflated, and busied himself with picking up balls and net, turning his face away. Aya immediately regretted interrupting him. Soccer made Ken happy, he thought angrily at himself. How much would it have hurt you just to listen?

"So," tried Aya, "did your family meet you, after, when you played?"

"Hmm? Oh! No, I didn't start until I was eight." Ken's voice remained distracted, the enthusiasm again forced, and he was deliberately looking away from Aya.

Ken's parents died when he was six, though Aya. He cursed himself. Idiot.

After a moment, everything gathered up, but looking hard at the ground as he walked, Ken said, "I ... always thought, that, maybe they'd have been proud of me, too, if I guess, they had seen me. I mean, not now, I know, but maybe then. I worked hard at being good, Aya. I did. I ..."

And uncaring of where they were, on an open road and in broad daylight, Aya reached across and yanked, before tilting Ken's face up and kissing him, hard. "Of course they would have been proud, Ken. Of course they would be."

And just for a moment, Ken clung to him, out in the middle of the city; burying his face in Aya's neck and letting himself, for that brief moment, be comforted.

End of Chapter 5 ... on to Chapter 6. Thanks for reading.