He could hear her footsteps. Always her footsteps. Trailing behind him, everywhere he went. The soft scuffle of black mary janes against the sidewalk. Wait up, she says. Why do you always have to walk so fast? The cars rush past him and honk away, exhaust drifting up towards the dirty grey sky, tall office buildings and banks and empty glass and steel and concrete clawing at the thinning clouds. Her footsteps turn the corner with him, the soft sigh of her mary janes drowning under the blaring car stereos of the late afternoon. Run across rush hour, reach the curb. Lights change and the cars pull out. He sees his hands reach out, frail and thin, much too pale. She's in front of him, long dark braids beating against her back. Aya. He hears her footsteps beating against the asphalt, tires screeching along his nerves, the bone jarring jolt of realization. Aya! His hands reach out again. Come back. He doesn't want to see what comes next. He knows how the story ends. He's seen it a thousand times. He can't hear her footsteps anymore.
 
 
 
 

"Young man?"

He hears the voice as if from far away. He sees the prim white silhouette from the corners of his eyes, but his body doesn't respond. His fingers tighten around the pale hand he holds in his own, its pulse a faint flutter. Gossamer wings beating slowly, dying out even as he strains to hear it. He doesn't want to let go.

"Young man, visiting hours are only up till two. It's almost two thirty..."

He hears himself sigh as he stands up. The figure in the bed lies as still as ever below him. Still, asleep. He reaches down to brush away a stray bang, tucking it behind her ear, his fingers trailing down her unkept braids, lingering before he draws away and allows the nurse to lead him out of the room. The young man at the reception desk smiles at him faintly, the smile fading away as the gesture is not returned. He leaves in silence, as he came. He walks home in silence. He hopes the others will still be at lunch.

The three o'clock traffic is in full swing as he steps out into the sunlight streets. Above, the Tokyo Bullet speeds by, streams of pedestrians rubbing shoulders and bags and nerves along the sidewalks. He melts into them easily, without a backwards glance at the hospital. He has walked this route almost every day. It's a part of him. He has no doubts that he could walk across it with his eyes closed. Sometimes he wishes he could really walk with his eyes closed. Just shut out everything and everyone. But not today. He listens to the siren from a fire truck, the static blare from Walkmans and the excited chatter of students walking back home, book bags slapping against their knees. The sounds echo in his head, remaining only for a moment before new sounds chase them away. A horn honks. He crosses the street. It's only a few more blocks before the Koneko no Sumu Ie comes into view, its rows of white plastic buckets and red flowers a blinding rainbow in the sunlight.

"Well, well, well, look who walks in at last. If it isn't the ever talkative Aya of the red ear tails." A grin stretched out across his face, Yoji Kudo salutes with his water pail, artificially blond, way hair drawn back into a ponytail. "Where'd you go for lunch? Ho Chi Minh City?"

"I lost track of time."

Aya leaves his jacket on the counter, turning to flip on the lights to the green house at back. Yoji's eyes follow him. He can feel the questions hanging in the air, can almost reach out and touch them. An uneasy silence stretches out between them. He always though he'd get used to it after a while: evading questions, keeping silent. Yoji pried too much. He raises his eyes, his lips thinning. Yoji had leaned back against the counter, arms folded over his chest. His head tilts to one side, green eyes deepening in thought. Aya can't tell whether it's curiosity or concern. He doesn't care either way. He only wishes Yoji would turn away, maybe just leave the store. Just leave him alone.

He sets down the pail. "Are you gonna watch me water these all day?"

Yoji shakes his head, reaching up to bring down a pair of lime green shades. Expensive. Silver chrome lining. Pure Yoji. "Nah. Too boring. Maybe if you put on an interesting polyester number and dyed your hair green. But I'd doubt it either way, eh?"

He pushes his glasses up his nose and heads towards the front of the shop. The sound of a hose spray over flowers drifts in, the clatter of drops against empty white buckets and Yoji's shoes as he removes them and slips into soggy, worn sandals he keeps out front. Aya sighs. The gardenias look up at him in silence. Row after row of violet. Row after row of violet light, reflected off the bar stools. Lines of chairs and the silver coated cash register at the end and the shimmering pulse of overhead lights as he turns and sees himself reflected in the mirror. Good morning. The manager wants to see you. Something about the fax machine out back. Row after row of clear wine glasses, piles of dirty dishes and his apron hung from its peg in the corner. Row after row of violet. Violet to match her new skirt. What do you think? she says. Like it? Of course he likes it. Row after row after row of violet skirts.

"Yo! Aya! Come over here and gimme a hand with these bloody palm trees of Ken's. Damn heavy things nearly tore my knuckles off!"

Yoji is bent over as he steps out, hands placed beneath a tilted cement pot. The palm lies on its side, green leaves drooping and crushed and soaked. He bends down beside Yoji, both of them grunting as they straighten the pot and try their best at straightening the palm. Aya pulls off a wilted leaf. He hears Yoji bend down again, scooping up the lose dirt and patting it back into the pot. Sunlight glimmers within the water drops running along the leaves and he turns the one he holds over in his hands. Rows of violet lights...? Why am I thinking about that...? The memory is already fading, chased away by the harsh afternoon sunlight, the push and pull and pop of Yoji's soaked sandals against the asphalt.

"Aw, man, Ken's not gonna like this. He loves that damn palm tree, you know? Shimatta..."

"Tell him a passer-by knocked it over."

He hears Yoji splutter as he steps back into the store. The bells hung from the door handle jingle violently as the bleached blond stares at him, mouth hanging open. He looks melodramatic. Almost comical. "You're kidding, right? You? Fujimiya Aya, suggesting that I, Kudo Yoji, lie to Ken? The Hidaka Ken, all but legal father of that exotic shrub?!" Yoji's hands drop to his sides, his mouth twisting into a puzzled frown. "Man, I don't know where you went for lunch, Aya, but you sure must'ave had something weird."

"I didn't have anything weird. I just lost track of time..."

He shuts the door to the green house behind him, locking Yoji outside. He can see him over the rows of gardenias, green eyes puzzled as he scratches his head. He sees him check his clock, his lips moving quickly as he mumbles to himself and steps back outside. Aya looks at the clock by the back exit to the green house. 3:56pm. Ken and Omi would return at four. He smiles, a pale little shadow that pulls at the corners of his mouth.
 
 
 
 

"And that's all there is. There isn't any more."

He closes the book slowly, placing it against his lap as he lets his gaze drift down to her features. Her smile seems to soften for a moment. It shifts a bit, stretches towards the sides. She remains immobile. No reaction, no spiritual aura drifting about the room. He reaches for her hand, squeezing lightly before he gets up. He leaves the book by her bed side table. Madeline. She loved Madeline. She could read it in French. He never could. He had walked to the corner store to buy a cheap copy in Japanese, the bag looming in the corners of his eyes as he ascended the steps towards her room, elevators and wheelchairs and the sharp smell of antibiotics rumbling past him. He doesn't know why he had wanted to read her Madeline. He never had before. He doesn't like French.

The elevator is empty as he steps in, his clock beeping out three o'clock in unison with the ring of the bell and a pale white hand that reaches out to hold the elevator doors open. A dark brown head peers in over the corner of the lift. Clear brown eyes in an oval face.

"Going down?"

He moves to make space, not quite aware that he is bowing as he does so. "Hai. Please."

The doors close with a hollow ring. He looks at the floor, his fingers curling and uncurling inside his shoes. The white silhouette of the nurse raises its hands above its head, stretching and letting out a contented sigh. It's a young girl, not very tall, curly brown hair framing her face. She's looking at him. He can feel the urge to make small talk growing in between them. It's always the same. He looks up at the floor numbers as they light up: nine eight seven. She sighs again, leaning back against the elevator rails.

"You come here often, don't you? Maa, maa, no need to answer. I know you do. I work on floor nine. You're the young man that visits that young girl in roo--"

"I was asked to come."

He looks away, his reflection a watery silver ghost in the elevator's chrome surface. She's apologizing, one hand at the back of her head as she bows over and over. Reflected behind him in the chromium, she looks familiar. A gesture he's seen before. Countless of times. Only he's never seen it. It belongs to the rows of violet lights, long mirrors falling from the ceiling to the floor and trays placed along the edge of the counter. Don't mess up the order this time and he's bowing, one hand behind his head, bowing rapidly. Up and down.  Ah, hai, hai. Wakatteru yo. Got it. He shakes his head.

"Oi ne... I'm sorry. That was dumb of me." She reaches up to rub at the back of her head, her smile sheepish and lopsided. He wants to refute her words. It's a mechanic action. No, no, it's my fault. Her hand shoots forward, palm ready for a shake, her smile expectant.

"Kunikawa Tomoko desu. Hajimemashite. Terror of the ninth floor while no one's looking. So pleased to hear you talk."

He blinks. His hand rises slowly, meeting hers only half way before she wraps her fingers around it, shaking it up and down quickly. "Ah... F-Fujimiya Aya desu. Douzo yoroshiku..." Her smile widens at his words, her eyes round as she releases his hand.

"And you're perfectly all right with a girl's name, hm?"

He blushes, looking down at his feet again. He tries to frown, to shake away the heat he feels crawling up his cheeks. He can see her from the corners of his eyes, covering a smile as she shifts her gaze to the mirror lined ceiling. The elevator rumbles beneath them, the doors sliding open at the reception lobby. He hears himself sigh, head ducked into his chest as he steps out. He hears her call out.

"Oi, wait up there! I was gonna buy you a drink!"

He makes his way towards the exit doors, the people around him becoming blurs in his haste. He can feel the blush in his cheeks, the cheer impotency of thoughts as he tries to escape. A hammering, dizzying sensation. He doesn't like talking to people. He doesn't like eating with people. His hands reach up to pull at his hair, twisting around his long side burns. His hand reaches out to push the doors open. Her reflection looks back at him. Brown eyes, oval face, disappointment and embarrassment. He sighs, her shoulders lifting and falling once. She's rubbing at the back of her head again, turning away. He stops. He hates eating with people. He hates having to talk to them. He hates being with them.

"Ch-chotto matte..." She stops in her tracks, her curls obscuring her eyes as she tilts her head in acknowledgement. "Thank you. I... I'd like that very much." She turns around completely. She's smiling, her hands clapping together. So happy. It's always the same. He closes his eyes to her smile.
 
 
 
 

"I hope you like ocha because I got you some and it's hot so be careful, ne?"

Moving aside her nurse's jumper, Tomoko took her usual seat at the tea shop across the street from the hospital. Outside the street lights turn green and a yellow truck pulls out from the curb, thick black smoke drifting back towards traffic. She dips her spoon into her cheesecake, licking her fingers as bits of frosting get on her hands. She orders a different cake every day. She says the Tiramisú is the best. Light and fluffy. He doesn't care much for cakes. He watches her eat in silence, as usual, sipping at his drink and looking out at the streaming pedestrians. An Asahiya bookstore stands at the corner, young girls coming in and out, giggling and pouring over magazines. He watches them walk by. One is wearing braids. Long dark braids.

"Mou, this is the fourth time I take you out for a drink and you're still so quiet." She sighs. "Although I guess it's my fault... I'm just a motor mouth. Jabbering on. I haven't even asked you where you're from."

He looks across the glass at the heading on a newspaper, the article turning the corner and disappearing as the reader reaches the curb. "Kanagawa. I'm from Kanagawa."

"So I guess you've heard about the shootings, huh? At that high school. Ne, did you know any of the victims? The news say almost fifty people were killed. That's sad. People are so... so crazy. Why did those two boys kill all those other kids...? It doesn't make sense."

He gazes at her in silence. She's apologizing again, hand behind her head as she bows in her seat and begs forgiveness for bringing up something that must hurt him so much. He doesn't know anything about Kanagawa. He sees blood. The odd angle of a head and the dirty brown puddle that stretches out from beneath them. Heavy bodies crashing against his own. The pop and a dislocated bone and the shivers that run through his veins as he twists the sword and slices through and pulls it out. Push them aside, keep running. Thousands of bodies. Red blood, dark blue skies. Row after row of blasted chairs, twisted and burned. Rows of shattered glass and there's blood in his hands and there's blood on the floor. Aya... doko ni iru...? Where are you...? Are you all right, Aya...?

"Are you all right, Aya...? You look a little pale... Mou, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have brought up the shootings and.... Cheez I'm such an idiot!"

Tomoko's shape comes into focus. Her curls bounce up and down as she bends across the table, her hands over his. She looks concerned. He can't tell why. He moves his hands away. He feels a little dizzy, but that's nothing to be concerned about.

"I'm all right. Don't worry. I didn't know anybody at the shootings. I don't know anyone at all."
 
 
 
 

Yoji is waiting for him at the corner, cigarette and lime green shades and bright yellow leather pants. Second skin and smoke powered vision. He exhales as Aya steps onto the curb, the smoke curling around his face.

"So. At least now I know why you seem so strange when you come back to work." He shakes his head, flicking the cigarette to the floor, grounding it under his boots. "You surprise me, man. You really do."

Aya says nothing. He walks past him in silence, hands in his pockets. Yoji sighs as Aya walks away, pushing his shades up to his forehead. "Hey, aren't you even gonna tell me who the young lady is? Gotta admit, she's pretty cute. If you like cute. I prefer classy. But cute's fine. Not you exactly, but fine, you know?" A horn honks, cars pull out. He sees Aya become lost in the sea of traffic. He pulls his shades back down to his nose and pulls out a new cigarette. He holds it between his teeth, the flame of the lighter warm against his skin. Aya is framed in the smoke. Walking slowly. Walking by himself. He's not there to see the young lady. Yoji's no idiot. Not the most brilliant person he knows, but certainly not an idiot. He exhales.

"You really do surprise me..."
 
 
 
 

There isn't much space left in the windowsill. He pushes back a pot of gardenias and places an identical one in its place. He doesn't know why he brings the flowers anymore. It's mechanic. He grows them, he waters them, he brings them to her room. He doesn't want to think about what it means. He pinches off a dead leaf and moves to sit beside her bed. He looks for and finds her hand. Pale, white. It tastes like hospital as he presses it against his lips. She already smells like hospitals.

"I brought you some flowers. Gardenias."

Her hand feels limp in his own. Limp and lifeless. She's on her side, a thick puddle of blood stretching out from beneath her temple, and her hands are limp as he presses them against his own. Hello! Anybody? Hello...! The crowds are pressing closer. The smell of sulphur is in the air, burning asphalt underneath him. A babble of voices call out. He knows somebody's out there, somebody bending over a body, crying. He hears sobs. He sees a flash of white, a pair of bright headlights. Everything is red. Something's ripping through and hurtling him back, impact and blood and bone on the asphalt. He hears crying. Please... anybody...? Hang on, Aya, hang on...

"Thought you might like them."

He stands. Her forehead feels cold and clammy as he presses his lips against it. He can't remember when it felt warm. He doesn't think he ever kissed her forehead when she was awake. He remembers a street corner, a ring on her finger. The memory is blurry. He rides the elevator down and tries to remember clearly. He sees the spit marks on the pavement, but he can't remember her face.

"Hey."

Tomoko steps aside, a clipboard held against her thighs. She smiles at him, a pale fluttering that lights up her eyes. He forgets to return the smile and watches her hand rise up to rub the back of her neck. "Um, look, I know I probably said something really dumb yesterday... about the shootings at that Kanagawa high school... I didn't meant to. I talk too much. I'm sorry..."

He pushes open the doors leading to the street. "It's all right. I didn't know anyone at that high school. I'm not insulted." He hears her breathe a sigh of relief, clipboard thudding against her skirt. She smiles and waves as he steps outside. He finds that he's waving back. He can't tell why. He figures it's mechanic. Like bowing. Like apologizing. His hand drops to his side and he finds that he has been waving without smiling. He watches her step behind a counter and disappear down a pale pink hall lined with mint couches.

Yoji's waiting at the corner again, looking pissed and exhaling smoke at his boots. He greets Aya with a cock of his head. Aya walks past him again, hands buried deep inside the pockets of his jeans. He hears Yoji step away from the curb and follow him. His boots ring out hollow and material over the asphalt.

"Hey, listen, Aya. I know it ain't none a'my business, but you've been acting really weird lately, man. You keep coming to this hospital..."

Aya stops. "Do you question Ken and Omi like this as well?"

He hears Yoji scoff. He doesn't say anything, merely walks on ahead, his bleached blond hair bouncing against his shoulders. Smoke rises above his head, and Aya follows him in silence, their footsteps echoing in his head. Cars speed past them. Coming, going, grumbling to themselves. A bus whistles to a stop behind him. Passengers. In, out, shattering along the curb. The noise drowns out the sound of Yoji's footsteps, the exhaust fumes drown out the smell of his expensive cigarettes. Cars speed by them. The curb appears beneath his feet.

"Yoji...?"

The older boy stops, cigarette pinched between his lips.

"Look both ways before you cross..."
 
 
 
 

Tomoko breaks off a bit from her sandwich and flings the crumbs at the ducks. They squawk and scramble over each other, pecking at the ground, waiting for more. She breaks off a new piece and watches the scramble begin again.

"Isn't it funny? I mean, when you think about it...?"

Aya raises his head. Tomoko comes into focus slowly, pale pink jumper and white nurse's uniform. She's twisting her sleeves, pushing and pulling at them as she talks. She looks at the sky, at the pond, at the ducks. Never at him. He prefers it that way. "Think about what?"

She laughs, one pale pink sleeve twisting out beyond her fingers. "Well, no one feeds humans the way we feed ducks." Her voice drops. Her sleeve twists back. "Well... it's not all that funny at all. Maybe humans should be fed like ducks... Just... fed, you know? A loaf of bread. Not a waste of money when you throw it at the ducks."

He can't think of anything to say. He doesn't think she expects him to say anything. She's talking to herself, murmuring about hunger and excuses and Jean Valjean. Her voice becomes a hum in the back of his head. She had caught him as he stepped outside again, invited him to lunch. He found he couldn't say no. She looked so alive, so healthy. Her curls bounced around her oval face as she talked. She wasn't hooked to an intravenous tube. Food cursing through her veins. It's all about food, isn't it? Always telling me to eat at home, taking a job at this restaurant. She smiled as she said it, waiting patiently while he untied his apron and hung it in the storage room and stepped back into the purple lights and the rows of chairs and glasses. You're too thin. But she knew he thought she was too skinny and she didn't pay any attention to him.

She lost too much blood, they told him. Her frame can't take that kind of stress. She wasn't...? No, she had no type of an eating disorder, but her body is still too weak. Too weak. He had told her to eat more. He made her toast. She liked toast. Had probably eaten toast that morning. Toast on an empty stomach pumped full of intravenous tubes. Liquid.

"Aya...? You're staring into space again."

His head snaps up. "J-just thinking..."

"About that girl?"

"No. About the ducks. I think humans would be too proud to be fed like ducks..."

She laughs at his comment. He doesn't know why. It's not funny. She stands up and takes his hand, pulling him up. Her hand is warm, a thin coat of sweat nestled around her thumb. He withdraws his own slowly, buries it in his pockets. She's walking ahead of him already, heading back to the hospital. He's thanking him, twisting her pale pink sleeves, dark brown curls framed against brilliant patches of emerald against blue. Trees, sky, the soft pad of her rubber shoes.

"Hey, you seen Tarzan? Good movie. I'm not a big Phil Collins fan, you know, but I can't seem to stop tapping along with those songs. It's funny. Stupid, really. I think I'm in love with that big black gorilla fellow."

He looks up and sees her. Dark brown curls, pale pink jumper, framed by the blue skies and shinny silver chrome buildings. He hears the screech of a car, tires skidding over the asphalt as she turns around to smile at him. A car, shooting forward into his vision. Tomoko standing on the road. The car speeding closer, a blinding flash of white, unatural light. Seconds, and he feels something snap inside of him. Tomoko, he's calling out her name, the sound ripped from his throat as his legs push him into motion. He can feel the asphalt beneath his feet. He's rushing forward. He can see his hands, too pale, too skinny, reaching out to her. Aya!

A spasm curses through his body. He can feel the world reeling underneath him, feels the bite of concrete as the sky spins out above him. He's holding her tight. Tomoko. Aya. A car screeches and swerves violently to the right, smashing onto a incoming van. A scream goes out into the air. He can't hear anything. He can't hear the cars. The world is heat. The heat of the asphalt, the car fumes, the sweat running down his face, and she's beneath him. He can feel her breast rising and falling.

"Aya..."

She's crying. He can feel her tears against his cheeks, sliding down. Hot. They slip into his mouth and her hands rise to press against his cheeks. She's trembling. Voices are rising around them, crowds pressing closer, murmuring. That car almost... Yes, that young lady... The boy rushed out... I didn't even see them step out, I swear...

He lies over her, his head buried against her earlobe. Her tears are still wet against his cheeks. He can't see her very well. His vision is blurred, spasms subsiding slowly along his body. The voices ask what's wrong. The driver shouts out again that he didn't see her. But the driver isn't there. Nobody's there. Everything echoes in his head. Everything threatens to become darkness.

Tomoko's voice steals into his subsconcious. "Aya... you're crying... Aya..."
 
 
 
 

They took her to the hospital. The nurses said shock had as much to do with it as anything. They let me stay there, but I never knew what was really happening. I was in shock too, I guess. I couldn't focus. She was strapped to a stretcher, and I didn't want to believe it. I had been at the restaurant. It wasn't supposed to be that way. The restaurant. She couldn't be in a hospital. Strapped down. They said she had slipped away. I didn't want to understand. A coma. She slipped away. That's all. She was there, but she was only this empty husk. Nothing inside her. Her forehead's cold and her hands don't move. They tell me to talk to her, that she knows I'm there. I bring her gardenias. I read her Madeline. A coma. She slipped away. It wasn't supposed to happen.
 
 
 
 

"They took her to the hospital."

Yoji exhales, a long, thick line of smoke that curls around his shades. "Is she gonna be all right?"

"Yeah. Just minor bruises. She's just in shock."

Yoji exhaled again. "No fucking kidding, huh? You were in shock yourself a while back, mah man. You sure you're OK?"

Aya stands, hands buried inside the pockets of his jeans. The sun is too bright, reflecting off Yoji's shades and shinny leather pants. Too bright. It seems obscene. Tomoko had been rushed back to the hospital. He can't remember anything else. Someone else had handled the crowd. Someone had pried him away from Tomoko, led him to a bench, told him to wait. Yoji had found him walking around the park. He can't remember what he had told him. He probably hadn't said anything.

"I'm all right. Just thinking..."

He hears Yoji scoff. "In my opinion, you do too much bloody thinking."

"Sometimes I don't think there's anything else to life... It's just... thinking about things."

Yoji looks at him in silence. Aya can hear the curiosity rumbling behind his eyes, the questions. The elder boy exhales again, dropping the cigarette to crush it beneath his boots. He seems about to speak, his mouth working silently as he clapped his hands over his knees.

Aya holds his gaze. Something wants to come out. Something he wants to say. Words forming and collapsing in his head. He had told him already. Thousands of times. In his head. It festers inside of him, spinning within itself. Rows of violet. Rows of violet chairs. Glasses tinkling against the mirrors. Blood gathering beneath her temple. Yoji... it wasn't supposed to happen... she slipped away... a coma... It hurts. Hurts to keep it inside. To sit by her bedside and hold her hand and the world isn't out there. There's nobody left. No one to tell. Nothing to tell.

"Yoji..."

The blond stands up, bony hands scratching his stomach, hunched into himself. His eyes look strange under the lime green shades. "Yeah?"

Aya takes a deep breath. The words swirl and contract in his head. He can still see her. Crumpled in her own blood. Waiting for him at the hospital. A pair of ghostly footsteps. He can hear them now. Always her footsteps. Always there. She's always there.

"Wanna go for a drink...? My treat."
 
 

August 14th, 1999.     I started this story way back in april of this year, but a lot of things got in the way and I couldn't finish it. But here it is, after much speculation and daydreaming. I want to thank my good friend Deena and her good friend Jien for asking for a new Weiß story. That and schlepping out of bed at 1:00 am to watch Millennium. Lack of sleep inspires me, I guess... The character of  Kunikawa Tomoko is based on both Kamikawa Tomoko (Utena's seiyuu in Shoujo Kakumei Utena and one of my favourite female seiyuu) and my good friend Deena, jumper sleeves twister extraordinaire.

 If you'd like to send in any comments, drop 'em off at: Ken's Y2K Hoarding Box  He's giving out free sausage cans now, being as not much happened in the way of the world ending and all. Heh.
 
 
 

@April-August 14th, 1999 Team Bonet. Weiß Kreuz is @1997 Project Weiß and Koyasu Takehito. Although we're pretty sure Kamikawa Tomoko fully belongs to herself, Kunikawa Tomoko is @1999 Team Bonet. Thank you for reading!