"Fine." He threw his bass in its beaten black case and left, not taking the car, he didn't have a right to it, they all shared the ancient vehicle and it wasn't his that weekend. He walked, it was starting to rain but Iori didn't care much. He liked rain, it washed away everything, the fight, the broken strings he so painstakingly replaced, Kyo laying on the couch in his apartment, triumphant that he had found something to fight Iori with. Rain took everything away. It stuck red hair to his face, soaked his hooded sweatshirt to his arms, flooding over the sidewalk and running down the stairs that led to his studio apartment. The roof leaked, his landlady's kids were racing paper boats with his neighbor's small, loud children in the rivulets of water, dirty bare feet the same color as the walls. Iori didn't actually have a problem with the kids, with kids in general, they tended to think he was some sort of monster and leave him well alone. He gave them a short smile, which one of the kids returned, waving. So Iori waved back, and started up the stairs to his room. At least someone was wiling to be friendly.

He fumbled with the broken lock of his apartment. Apparently Kyo had deemed it pertinent to lock it from the inside, which was the only way it actually worked, ever. He dug around his gig bag for the key, and shoved it in the lock, twisting and pushing until the door gave way with a loud crash, which he assumed was part of the lock mechanism. He wouldn't call the landlady about it. The door swung open, and Dickface was immediately around his ankles, begging for attention. He knelt and lifted the cat into his arms, scratching the top of his head and behind his ears. Kyo hadn't moved, and if he had, he had gone back to the same spot on the couch he had been occupying since he arrived. He didn't look up at Iori.

"Long time to go get strings."

"Went to band practice."

"Thought that was on Tuesdays."

"Why do you care?"

"Don't. Just wondering if you were coming back. Did break that fuckin' instrument after all." He sounded proud of himself.

Iori sighed and placed his instrument, still in the case, beside the bed. He sat down, facing Kyo, letting Dickface run across the bed.

"Why haven't you gone home? You can obviously walk again."

"What, don't like my company?" He dripped with sarcasm.

"Actually, I do."

"Huh?"

"I like having you here, Kyo."

"Fuckin'… Callin'… Its Kusanagi."

"Its Kyo."

He watched Yagami cross the room, approaching him on the couch. He sat across from Kyo, reached out. Kyo flinched away. There was something in his brown red eyes, something Kyo had never seen before. He looked down, but both arms wrapped around Kyo, pulling him close. Kyo was shocked. Too shocked to move, but he couldn't bring himself to admit it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Yagami was warm, and his hands splayed over Kyo's back and he buried his face in Kyo's shoulder. Kyo could feel his heart beating against him, together, changing pace to beat as one. All of this happened in a single moment, time slowed down and it felt like far too long before he found it within him to shove Yagami away. Yagami couldn't meet Kyo's eyes, he looked everywhere else, the cat, the couch, his bed, the guitar propped up in the corner.

Wimp. If he was keeping Kyo here because he wanted him, if he wanted him here from some misguided affection, some sense of caring for him he could at least do something about it. Kyo had spent this whole time daydreaming about their one night stand, the way he walked, slim black jeans that perfectly framed his fighter's physique. He wondered sometimes if he had a single pair of jeans that didn't have something hanging off them, some hole or zipper bringing attention to his long legs and slender hips. He was wearing a faded black shirt with something about Sex Pistols on it. Kyo had no idea what that was, but it seemed vaguely offensive. His bare arms were taut and lined with muscle, long fingers finely boned, calloused, tough. Kyo was aware of the fact that he was beautiful. There were dark auburn roots sticking out from under his bright red hair, his one long bang hiding one brown red eye. Kyo found those eyes, moved the fringe to one side. Yagami's eyes flicked over Kyo's face, then focused on the buttons on his shirt. His face was soft, conflicted. Kyo's hand hovered close to Yagami's face still, trying to get his attention, make him look up. He was a warrior, but he was scared.

"Whassa' matter Yagami? Scared to get what you want?"

"How do you know what I want?"

"I've got an idea."

"Do you now?"

Yagami's hands twisted in his lap, he looked down. Kyo knew Yagami wanted him, cared about him, there was something strong in the way they obsessed over each other. Kyo had been trained to kill this man, Kyo had been told that he was the devil himself, or close enough to count. But he couldn't hate him. He could drive himself to kill this man, he could force himself to hate, to be cruel and callous and ignore the growing feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him perhaps this man was not the demon he thought he had known. This was a different Yagami than the one he saw in the yearly tournaments, the cold sadist who ruthlessly killed his teammates almost regularly and laughed as the others fell before purple flame. This wasn't the heir to the Orochi, he couldn't imagine this man tearing into the flesh of helpless fighters who were unaware of his reputation for cruelty. Kyo couldn't think that they were the same man. He had never seen this Yagami turn a cruel hand to him, or to anyone. It wasn't the same person. Same body, but someone he thought could care for. Kyo reached forward and touched his hand to Yagami's.

"I think I know exactly what you want."

"But are you willing to give it?"