He did not come to him when he had needed him. alone, afraid, lost. he had been alone, afraid, and lost. holding on to his thin arms to a point where he could bend them, if he chose to. Biting his lips until blood flowed into his mouth, until tears mingled with that blood and the hurt drowned his thoughts, and he became nothing but a numb stillness, afraid in that aloneness. He had not come to him when he needed him.

He had not come, so he had forgotten. Buried. Destroyed. Erased. Forgotten. It was not really gone, this he knew, but it was buried and nothing of him could remember this or him or the fear or the faces, because only that part of his inside that had buried it was the only part of him that really knew reality. It hurt, this he knew, but the hurt became forgotten as well. Lost in that darkness.

Ping. The toaster rang its strange bell as the toasts burst up. The Boom sang from the cassette player placed on the counter, buried between tons of messy cassettes. Some owned their boxes, some were but shinny pieces of plastic arranged in no order. Aya usually kept things in order, specially his cassettes, but Aya wasn't there to make sure The Boom and Globe did not become masses of mess between Shai no Shai, Hipster, and Marilyn Manson. Aya would be furious, but he had wanted to listen to The Boom.

He tossed the notebook he had been reading to the farthest seat by the corner. He table next to it shook a bit and the gladiolas on top danced like some sort of Jell-O. He sure wish he would be more careful, but he was tired. Ken would kill him if those pots would Jell-O themselves into the ground, gladiolas and all, and spill. He had spent days getting each wrapper ready, each petal perfect, for the customer who had called over the phone and demanded a whole shipment of the reddish flowers. The voice had sounded angry, but it was just a voice. Who knew the sort of feelings that raced through the woman's mind.

"Water the plants inside the arboretum."

He crumbled the paper in his hand and tossed it into the wastebasket. He smiled as he got up, glad that his duty took him away from his schoolwork. He really did like Shakespeare, but he just didn't want to concentrate. He should have known he would not be able to keep The Tempest concrete if The Boom was droning away from the boom box. He laughed as he picked up the notebook and set it next to Ken's gladiolas. With one movement he picked the water pitch and headed towards the arboretum.

It was not that he had chosen to forget. It was that he forgot. One night, lying on his bed, shivering and sweaty, he had opened his eyes afraid that his nightmares had become reality, and found that he could not remember. He could not remember anything, but it brought him calmness. He had lain back on the pillow, closing his eyes, and gone to sleep. It was easy really, not complicated at all. It was harder to unfold plant leaves with two fingers, while being careful not to bruise the tender petals.

When would they be back? He shifted his weight from leg to leg, taking a stray strand of his hair away from his face. His favourite song was playing. Aya's favourite song was playing. Ken always sung to this song when he watered the plants and KJFR played the song, among the many insults that the DJ gave the callers, and it always made him start a silly conversation about DJs and how "wholesome" stations made him want to scream. Too much wholesomeness, Omi supposed. He was always quiet whenever the two would start to talk about such things. There was never anything much he could say about such topics. Aya never sang to any songs. Still, he and Ken always went on to difficult topics, branching from the DJ's insults and complicating the odds and facts and becoming heated like fire. Then Yoji would rise from wherever he'd be under the tables dealing with whatever plant lay on the floor, and speak something totally irrelevant or sing out a song that had popped into his head. Aya would look away, returning to his quietness, and Ken would want to kill Yoji. Omi would lower his head. Aya hardly talked at all.

He had wanted to bury Aya many times, but that was a lot harder. One time night time had brought the redhead to his room, the thunder in the distance raging like he shadows in his nightmares. Aya had closed the windows and said, in little else than a whisper, that Tokyo looked beautiful when thunderstorms lit it up. Omi had looked at him, not wanting to let his covers go and wondering about the way the redhead's voice bounced off the walls. They must not be used to the sound of him or the feel of him, and this made Omi laugh. Aya had looked at him then, blinking in the half light and every time the lightning would crash, his face would light up and disappear, like the faces in Omi's memory. But, Aya's face would not disappear.

"Ken san," he said into the receiver as he picked up. The soccer player laughed on the other side. "I am so bored with homework. That's all. I've been at it all afternoon. No. No. I watered the plants… Gladiolas? They're fine. Just fine."

He placed the water pitcher on the table, rolling the cable of the phone on his fingers. Ken laughed and told him he'd be there by six, granted that he could escape the meeting that had come up and granted that he could get fertilizer in the Chinese store on the way back. It didn't look as if he would be home early and it didn't look as if he knew anything about where he other were. Omi wanted to scream at him to get home, that he could kill the gladiolas or break the toaster or make some silly mistake teenagers are prone to do, but he kept his silence. That was something he knew how to keep extremely well, his silence.

"Don't be silly, Ken san," he said. "I'll be all right."

He hung up. Aya would not be calling. He sighed as he walked back to the couch and let his head fall into the folds of fleshy comfort it offered. He could not expect anything from him, that much he knew. It was not that Ken's call wasn't what he wanted nor that it left him empty, but that he knew ken was all right. he always knew ken was all right, just as he knew Yoji would be somewhere wasting time and money getting some utterly unnecessary object that whim had begged him to buy right before showing up for the kill. It was Aya whom he wanted to know where he was. How come he was not back in the store and helping him, not that he ever spoke to him or showed him humanness, but that Omi wanted to hear the keys move at the door and see the redhead walk into the kitchen. Complain about his cassettes, ask where his missing Lindberg CD was even if he knew Omi could not tell him. Anything.

Omi closed his eyes, pushing his body deeper into the plastic cushions. Aya remembered when he buried him. Aya remembered him.

Lazy 10:00am flowed into 12:00 am and into 1:00pm like slugs. drowsiness overtook his body and wrestled him away from the strength he had possessed in the early morning to get up and do things just to get away from the book he had to read. by then, he had rushed through the house simply looking for things to do, a pot to replace and a plant to rejuvenate. he had even tinkered on the computer for a while, switching from one mainframe to another just so he could test the areas the machine could take him without complex codes. he felt the need to test himself every now and then, to see where his so called wits could take him and decipher problems he knew only real intelligent people could do. every now and then he wanted to prove to himself that he was as intelligent as his files said, if only to himself. still, the hours had crawled much too slow and his eyes began to fold themselves into each other as sleep arrested him. he rubbed his eyes and slapped his cheeks and decided to try out the computer games. he only used those when he was really tired.

The flower shop fell asleep with him.

The people inside the trash can remember how they deposited the body and how the arms and legs refused to stay inside the can. or so he believed, because there never had been any people inside any trash cans and there never had been any body. because, no body came. nobody came when he needed him.

Aya…

The drip of the water that ran through the ceiling woke him up. he uncurled from the fetal position he must have taken in his sleep. blinking, he turned his head sideways and looked at the tiny drip that fell from a crack on the ceiling and hit the table. a spoon had been left by one of the boys, probably Aya, and the drip beat against it. the clock droned its slow ticking on its quiet place in the sill by the window. a grey rain had begun to fall and ran down the window panes in silence as if almost afraid to wake the people in the houses. every now and then a car would pass by and the sound of its tires over the wet street would come to his ears. it seemed unreal, as if the sound somehow became ten times louder.

Omi let his body fall from the couch where he had fallen asleep and lay there, listening to his heartbeat. his shakespeare book lay half open on the counter by his notebook and some seeds. he knew he should get up and do something, anything, if he wanted to stop thinking. too much thinking could hurt him and he didn't want to hurt. he closed his eyes, hearing his mind urge him to get up. one movement, just one movement would allow him to jump to his feet and perhaps get himself something to eat.

He gasped. there was someone in the kitchen.

"Aya…?"

Omi brought himself to a sitting position beside the couch, bringing his legs under his body. the windows that lead towards the kitchen were misty, the rain causing the humidity to dampen the glass, but he could see the shadow of the slender young boy through the mist. the red on the boy's head mingled with the light from the pots and kettles on top of the stove, glimmering here and there on the gary silhouette. he did not answer. perhaps had not heard Omi speak at all.

Aya walked into the room, closing the kitchen door with his foot and being careful not to make noise. he was not looking at anything in particular, not at Omi or at the plants, and only carried a small bowl in his left hand. Omi felt himself blush, wondering if Aya had been looking at him as he slept and imagining the silly positions he must have taken up, and was about to get up.

"Iya," Aya said. "Stay there."

"How long have you been back?"

Aya set the bowl before the blond and placed chopsticks beside it, his hands moving with a melodronic slowness. he had made chicken broth but they looked too watery. still, their aroma flowed up to the ceiling and their heat caressed their faces just like the rain on the windows. Omi did not know what to say, wondering why Aya had cooked for him.

"Eat this."

Omi waited until the boy had moved away from the table and drew closer to the bowl. Aya was no cook, but the chicken smelled good. one time, he had burned the chicken and ken had told him never to cook again, what sort of person burns stew? Aya sat on the couch on the other side, his head tilting backwards as if he were tired. The rain beat harder against the panes and wind rushed stronger through the empty garden arboretum.

"It's raining all over Tokyo," Omi said. "It's been raining all morning. I saw it on the news."

Aya ran a hand through his hair and turned his head towards the windows. The lights of cars glimmered on the grey mist. Omi ate slowly, not wanting to make any noise that would annoy the other boy and cause him to leave. Sometimes, it took so little for Aya to decide to get up and walk up to his room where he locked the door. Omi wondered if the red head wanted to do that right now and was only waiting politely for him to finish so he could clean up.

The sound of the TV set floated through the quiet drone of the drops. The Rocky Horror Picture Show flashed in the black and white surface, shimmering in and out as static crumbled the image. Ken had never fixed the set. Maybe he should go get a new one. Omi blushed, aware that even his unspoken childish desire could be picked up by the boy before him. If Aya heard him, he would surely frown and say that there was no need for a new TV set in the house. Yoji would joke that he rather liked to watch the images distorted and colourless, even if he got a desire to puke after two hours of watching. Aya would say that it was better that way, less TV watching. Ken would promise to fix it.

It was so easy to slip into the comfortable routine the four of them shared.

"I know I promised to read beyond chapter three, but I could not," Omi said, filling his spoon again. "It became rather convoluted once Caliban began to speak." He looked up at Aya. "You ever read The Tempest, Aya?"

"No."

"In the story a storm washes a ship onto an island where this wizard named Prospero lives and the ship has a creep called Antonio who stole the throne or something from the wizard and-"

"You have a fever."

Omi felt his face blush crimson and he shoved the last bit of broth into his mouth. He looked away from the red head, wondering why he even bothered to speak to him. There was and image in the back of his head… a man inside a trash can…

Aya got up and picked up the bowl and the chopsticks. Omi did not look up at him, feeling the hot liquid burn his cheeks. The red head carried the empty bowl to the kitchen and dumped it into the sink. Omi heard the sound of running water and the squeeze of the half empty Shikee Dish Soap bottle. Aya lowered his head, the bangs of his wild hair covering his eyes as he rubbed the cleaning rag over the utensils. The sound of the water became one with the drops that drummed over the panes and the voices in the TV.

Omi closed his eyes, feeling his head shake with the feverish pain, but he held it in place with his left hand. Slowly, he got to his feet and walked away from the couch. He should get up to his room. He half stumbled to the staircase and leaned into the sofa, just a few steps away. He shook his head, wondering why he had not felt the fever come on him this morning, wondering if too much computer had not caused him to get sick. Computers did such things. He felt his legs buckle from underneath him.

"You should not be walking."

Omi gasped as strong arms caught his falling body. He blinked, forcing his eyes to focus on the tiles on the floor. He had not even noticed when his body rocked sideways. It all seemed like a blur of darkness, but he felt Aya’s fingers closed around his arms. The blond straightened and smiled.

"I'm OK," he breathed. "Honto ni…"

"Iya. You look like a twig on a river."

Omi felt his head much too heavy and when he swung his arms to get himself free, he could see them flail like branches on a wild wind. He reached and steadied himself on the wall on the stairs and closed his eyes. He felt so weak.

Aya nudged him and moved him upwards, half carrying the boy's body on his own. Omi felt his head fall backwards, but he did not want to lean into the boy. He felt his face redden and wished he wasn't so shy, so he could ask Aya to stop helping him. But, he didn't want to… He closed his eyes, feeling his body melt away into the darkness around him. He heard the door of his room swing open and felt Aya grunt as he dragged Omi's weight into the room. The lamp in the closet went on. One afternoon, Aya had programmed an old, red lamp, the kind with hanging beads tied to the shade, to flick on once the door was opened so people wouldn't need to search for a switch in the darkness. Yoji had laughed himself silly as the quiet boy had found that he could not reverse the program. No one, not even smooth tempered Ken, could de-program the damn thing afterwards no matter how hard they tried. It shone inside the closet, which had no doors but two huge, red curtains draped from top to bottom, and cast the eerie shadows of the clothes, shoes, and boxes into the curtains. Aya sighed as he helped Omi sit by the edge of the bed.

"Thank you," Omi whispered.

"Iee. Doitashimashita."

"Aya," Omi said, feeling his forehead with his palm and sensing the heat. "I didn't do anything to get sick. I wasn't out in the rain. I was just in here, alone, watering the plants just like Ken said and playing with the computer. I didn't do anything to get sick."

Aya looked at him in silence, the light in the closet casting dark shadows that ran through his nose to his ears. The red in his hair seemed faded, like the worn red of the curtains in the closet. His eyes regarded the young boy with stoic quietness. Omi wanted to look away from those eyes.

Omi let his heavy head fall into the pillows. He reached out towards Aya, his hand feeling much too small and frail, like his hands when he was a young child. When he had been alone and afraid and the stillness had become the darkness, before he forgot. He moved his hand, wanting to grab onto Aya's shirt and drag him closer, not let him go. Could he see? Couldn't he see how much he wanted him to stay and talk to him and chase the nightmares away. He wanted him to open the lid on the trash can and look inside, and drag the body of the man out. He wanted him to help him shovel, help him shovel the dirt and find the man. Just find the man.

In the darkness, the rain drops become tears that flow over the bodies of the dead and the living, much like the snow and the sun. Only, the sound of the rain beating on the window panes become a still melody that drowns out the memory and become dirt that covers the past, like shadows and fog. the rain helps to forget, takes the images with it.

"Why did I forget?"

"You chose to."

"I don't want to anymore. You hear? I don't want to anymore… but, there is nothing but nothingness, thickness and hollowness, like a void and the harder I try to remember the harder it is to think."

"You chose to create that darkness."

"Shikashi! I don't want it now… I want to remember! Please, allow me to…"

Incomplete. A person is incomplete without memories, and after a few years of surviving without these he soon begins to realize that this is all he has been doing, surviving. That is the moment when he realizes he is incomplete and useless, wasted.

"Your fever is getting worse."

Incomplete.

"Stop hurting yourself."

Empty.

"I can feel your body crumbling."

Silent.

"Omi!"

Silent.

"Omi!"

Silent.

His strong hands pinned his body down against the pillow, still it was his eyes that quit him. Omi opened his eyes and found Aya's face close his own, his red hair caked with sweat and falling like strands of wet rag over his features. Omi's face was covered with sweat, his mouth gasped for air and his chest heaved in madness. Aya released him as the boy's eyes found his, the blue in the irises growing into a deep sea ocean colour.

Slowly, in the darkness and the silence, in the shadows that tilted over the walls created by the lamp in the closet, the red head reached down, his arms finding their way through the covers, and brought the young boy up, against his chest. The boy had no time to gasp, his breath becoming even in his chest. He could not even whisper. He felt Aya's hand cross his back, holding his bare neck and pressing him into his chest.

Omi closed his eyes and pressed his face against the boy's black T-shirt, smelling the strong scent of Clorox from one too many washings. He buried his face deeper into Aya's body, feeling his tears flow down his cheeks and wet his T-shirt. He would not like that.. would not like that at all…

"I can't remember, Aya… I can't remember…"

Aya's hand brought the boy's head backwards, moving him away from him. Omi sobbed and watched the redhead as he drew himself some distance away, but remained sitting on the bed. Aya ran a hand over his wet hair and struggled to bring the strands to a descent position, but he failed. The young blond swallowed his sob, reaching up to removed the falling tears. He hated himself for crying, for being so silly as to cry. The room was much too cold and soon it would start to feel big and ackward and like craziness. He reached down and wiped his face with the bed covers. Aya had taken his shirt of. His throat hurt, it hurt so bad.

"I just can't… remember… anything… Aya…"

Aya did not answer. In the dark room, as the rain drops beat against the windows and the red curtains moved feebly in the wind and the arboretum in the floors bellow created a strange, hollow sound, both young men looked at each other.

Silence.

And in that silence, Omi felt himself gasp, his voice nothing but a whisper in the darkness. Aya was crying. A tiny, thin tear ran down his cheek to his mouth, unspoken. His white lips swallowed.

"That's the way it should be… I don't want you to remember… I don't want you to…"

The sun was completely gone by 7:45pm when the flower shop’s door swung open and Ken walked in. Yoji waltzed in behind him, speaking loudly about the rain and the way traffic had been slowed down all over the city. Tokyo, he said, would need to build more roads and highways specially for rainy days. It was a crime, he complained. A simple crime. And, who the blazes left the TV on, didn't they know it was bad for business to waste money on electricity when customers were so few? Ken walked to the refrigerator, feeling the cold of the floor run up through his feet.

Yoji removed his coat and flung it into the sofa and sat down in the couch that was before the TV set, wondering what was on this late in the afternoon. He crossed his legs over the table and leaned back into the plastic fluffiness as drowsiness took over his body as a rerun of TV Land flashed among the distorted images.

Ken smiled to himself, removing his coat, and walked up the stairs, not wanting to make much noise. He heard the TV flicker and saw the long, funky shadows it created over Yoji and the walls. Careful not to make a sound, he touched the door of Omi's room slightly, and pushed it open. The two young boys lay asleep, Omi's head resting on Aya's chest, their legs and arms twisted with the covers and pillows. The light inside the closet shone across the small, crystal beads hanging from its shade and reflected on a shoe box that lay beside the lamp, and cast sparkling shadows like stars on the ceiling.

Ken closed the door gently, and continued on to his room. He heard the shrill beep of the kitchen clock. 8:00pm.
 

December 10th, 7:39pm

Didn't actually HTML today... just pasted the story together from disks and Email files. So here it is. Drop any mail off at  Omi's Shoe box, and the crazed author will look up from his picture book project long enough to answer your letter. Assuming doing the Time Warp hasn't driven him insane yet...
 
 
 

 
@ November 30th, 1998 Team Bonet Weiß Kreuz is @1997 Takehito Koyasu and Project Weiß. This story is dedicated to my best friend, Aya. He inspired the thing, so it should got to him, even if it is a sad story.