Scattered light and the end of a long day, a serpentine alleyway that stretched away in tired jazz and the flickering glow of a cigarette. The sound of feet clicking over the payment and spinning triangles of orange light. He stepped over them carefully, a side step and keeping his head down. Keeping to the shadows. He wanted to get home early for once. Just crash into his bed and hope that the telly was still there, plugged into the back wall where his bookcase used to be. He took a slow, long drag from his cigarette and looked up at the sky. Frail starlight clawed through the high rise buildings, stretching its way across the balconies and rusted stairways. He flicked ash to the floor, watched the smoke curl up around his face. He could hear the slow crawl of a car behind him. He sighed, the cigarette dropping from his fingers as he turned and smiled. The car was stopping, of course, slowing at the corners of his eyes. The door cracked open, and he could see the suede interior beckoning to him. As always.
 
 
 

"Do you want to leave your stuff here? You know, while you wait. It'll be a while."

Aya turned around slowly. His eyes travelled over the crude interior of the room. Peeling paint, rusted metal, broken tiles. The tired, putrid smell of content and misery in content. He lifted the edge of the futon he could only assume was to be his with his foot. Darkness. The tiles underneath hadn't seen water and soap for as long as the futon had been there. He wondered if he could just buy a new one. The young blond who had led him up laughed. He ran a hand through his dirty, mousy hair, making his way to the centre of the room.

"No, man, that's my futon. Yours's in the closet." He grinned, pushing at his mousy hair again. "By the by, my name's Sink. It sucks to be Sink, but it sunk in." He laughed soundlessly at his own joke, rubbing his hands over his tight, blue plastic pants before holding one out to the other boy. "And you are?"

No hand was offered. Aya placed his bag on the coffee table at the centre of the room. "Red. They call me Red."

"Heh. No fuckin' kidding. The hair? Well, what the Hell, eh? Like I said, it'll be a long wait, so just leave that bag right there and make yourself at home. I'm gonna go grab a bite to eat before my shift starts."

Sink's footsteps rang on the stairs, the clank of his boots remaining with Red even after he heard him come out onto street level, the young boy's raspy voice rising in casual greeting to no one in particular. Voices came and went below, the honk of a car drowning out a spatter of laughter. Feet, hands on the rails, exhaust fumes, a bright orange sun sinking in the horizon. The shadows stretched along the floor, crawling slowly to where Red stood. He pulled open the closet. A long, silver backed mirror hung in the darkness, his features lost in the dim light. His face lay in shadows, obscured under his bangs. They were getting much too long. He ran a hand under them, feeling the grease and sweat on his forehead. Already. Already he felt dirty. He shut the closet door, turning away.
 
 
 
 

Ken Hidaka spread out four photographs on the coffee table between them, his fingers holding them in place. He had seen thousands like them. A twisted, serpentine body, the long trail of blood, copper red and glistening. No face. No shape. A massless atrocity. He cleared his throat, looking up at the others gathered around him. Omi had leaned forward, his brows knitting together as he studied the images one after the other. Ken could hear the questions and motives clicking in his mind. One puzzle piece connecting to the next. Slow and methodical and at lightning speed. Beside him, Yohji removed his shades, his lips thinning as he turned away from the images. Dismissing the evidence. Not bothering with the obvious. Ken expected nothing else from him. He looked across at Aya. He had crossed his arms over his chest, lavender eyes fixed on the floor. His eyes revealed nothing, his hands merely tightened around his elbows. Ken sighed.

"Nagahama Shigeru. These were taken at the port, where his body was found. Manx has done a background check: delivery boy, worked at Hasawa's off the main intersection of the Tobu Line, technical school student majoring in computing and virus detection. Turns out our friend here was also a male prostitute. Went by the name of Kritious Boy."

Yohji scoffed, the sound accompanied by a stretch. "Sounds like a clothing brand."

Ken ignored the comment, leaning back in his seat. "This is the fifth boy killed in the past week who's also turned out to be a prostitute." He looked across at Omi, his eyes sliding off towards Yohji. The blond raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Ken's eyes then came to rest on Aya. The red head raised his eyes. His hands unfolded, reaching up to run through his hair, stopping at the nape of his neck. Ken could sense the tension in the boy's body, the taut pull of his muscles, strung and ready to snap. Ken gathered the photographs, lowering his sight, keeping Aya's eyes from his line of vision.

"Persia has ordered that we look into it."

Yohji groaned, his long legs spreading out over the table, leather pants crinkled and shinny in the overhead light. He directed his frown at the floor.

"Pretty smashing venture Persia's sending us off on this time. Saving male prostitutes with frustrated clothing brand names. Sounds rippin'. What a gloriously rippin' waste of time."
 
 
 
 
 

The door to his room burst open. He heard the metallic screech of keys, a silvery loop spinning past him across the floor before it crashed against the wall. His eyes followed it, the moonlight on silver splitting into iridescent pockets of light. Circles and bubbles, spinning and crashing into each other. The colours blinded him, immersing the reality at the corners of his eyes in darkness. A voice came from the doorway. Apologetic, frantic. Young. Sink.

"Aw, man, shit. Sorry. Didn't know you had someone in here. Salty Lime said--"

The shape above him shifted, lifting itself up on one shoulder. The pressure increased against his hips. He turned his head, his nose brushing against his hand, pinned above his head, pinned above his body. The smell of his own flesh kept him grounded in reality, the silvery bubbles melting away as the shadow from the doorway moved and swayed in the half light. He heard the shape above him speak, a throaty, interrupted bass.

"Then just get out," it said. " I'm almost done here."

The door closed. The keys remained. His flesh smelled like sweat and saliva. His hands were pinned above his head, his legs spread underneath him. Somewhere down there. The pressure against his hips increased. The keys lay in the darkness. He turned his head. He could still see them, a silvery loop against the wall. He felt his body rise. Heard the bass rise. Heard his own voice rise. His hands were pinned above his head. Smelling like flesh and salt and saliva and grass. The bang of his head against the futon and the bang of his hips against flesh and his legs wrapping around a dark shape and his head had thrown itself back because he would be done soon. Soon. Yes. And he heard the shape smile and felt the shape congratulate itself and his body rose and his back arched. Soon. Yes, yes. Sooner. Yes. Yes. He would be done soon. Yes, yes! Bakayarou!

"You like it, don't you little boy? You love this."
 
 
 
 

"Hey, Red."

Red raised his head. He had forgotten where he was. A curb, wasn't it? Granite bit into his back, the sharp smell of waste and vomit and asphalt creeping towards his brain. He couldn't shake off the smells anymore. He stood for hours under the shower, scrapping at his skin, the water biting at his flesh, but he could never smell like anything but trash on the street. He cursed himself. Cursed everyone. Cursed the figure making its way towards him, tight leather pants and a silver mesh shirt and a slightly cocky walk. Hazel coloured hair, blue eyes. He looked so out of place. He looked so comfortable.

"What do you want?"

The figure sat beside him, drawing its legs under its chin. "Nothing. Some creep's lighting up a cigarette over there. I thought I'd come over here to get away. I reason you won't light anything."

"Yohji smokes."

Ken sighed, his hands playing with the shimmering pockets of light forming over his leather pants. They were too tight. "Yeah, but Yohji doesn't smoke weed. Or whatever the Hell they call that drug." He picked up a pebble, tossing it out onto the street. It bounced against the hood of a beat up cadillac, rang out and hung suspended in the space between them. "I'm getting really tired of having to pretend that I know about drugs. It's shit. This is all shit. That cadillac out there. Some jerk from Kansai that wants us to think he's rich. Asshole."

"We don't have to do this."

Ken stood up. He seemed taller, much too skinny. His head cocked forward, his neck long and white against the moonlight. Red looked at it in silence. White flesh, long, pale against the darkness. His eyes narrowed. He could feel a familiar drowsiness coming over him, a sense of the darkness behind his pupils. It was black there, black and comfortable. It was pale flesh there. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He saw Ken strecht, his arms rising above his head, slowly. He seemed so languid. So at ease. Always at ease. Always out of place. Red pushed himself up.

"Hey, where're you going? Red?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't make his throat work. There was something there. It crawled up his neck, spreading over his cheeks. He knew what it was. A blush. A bite at his cheeks. The drowsy disorientation he was growing accustomed to whenever a costumer was at the door and he was on the floor, smiling, waiting, pretending to be a virgin. He hated it. Hated himself. You like this, don't you little boy? He picked up his pace. He could feel his body sinking into a rhythm, slowly, from side to side. He heard a high pitched wolf call. A female voice. He turned his head. He was smiling. He could see Ken standing in the curb, could see his clear blue eyes and the pale slit of his neck against the moonlight. He turned his steps towards the wolf call, his body sinking deeper into its rhythm. Side to side, head cocked to the left. He could tell she wanted him to be younger. His smile softened. Barely fifteen.

"I wouldn't. If I were you."

He stopped in his tracks. His eyes shifted slightly, the rythm broken. He wasn't fifteen anymore. He stood still, eighteen, feeling ridiculous in neon yellow plastic leather and a shimmery red shirt. A boy stood before him, his back to him, short dark hair barely grazing the nape of his neck. A pair of luminous green eyes turned towards him.

"That lady's got AIDS. No one here'll touch her but Vash. He's got AIDS too. So you just walk away and pretend you've never seen her, all right? There's plenty of older women to go, if that's your drift."

The young boy turned towards the woman, a flash of finger and a tongue chasing her away, her lips curling in derision as she turned from them, high heels clicking over the asphalt. The young boy's hand reached out and twined around Red's own, leading him away. Red's eyes narrowed. He looked towards the curb where Ken had been.

Empty. The lights played against the granite wall, shadows sinking into the sewage.
 
 
 
 
 

Yohji cracked open the fridge. A bag of carrots from Tokyo Disney, half a carton of milk, and lemon juice looked up at him in silence. He grabbed the lemon juice and promised himself to throw out the carrots tomorrow. He made his way down the apartment stairs with a shuffle, drinking his juice straight from the bottle. He could hear the frantic clatter of keyboards even before he reached Omi's room. The younger boy was bent over his desk, gazing intently at the PC screen. Behind him, Ken dosed in a chair, arms draped over the backrest. Aya hadn't shown up. Yohji had knocked on his door and departed with a kick when a throaty go away had greeted him that morning. He finished off his juice and threw the bottle in the trash. Maybe it was better that Aya wasn't there.

"So. What we got? More dead nobodies?"

Omi frowned. "One more. Last night. Kanou Miki. Went by the name of Vash."

Yohji took the photographs Omi held out for him. Ken was frowning at the floor, his lips thin and taut. Yohji flipped through the pictures quickly. They looked the same as all the others. He still didn't see the point. Morbid. It all seemed so morbid. A fashion show of death. He tossed the photographs on the computer desk.

"Any closer to why?"

Omi shook his head. Ken's chair scrapped against the floor as he got up. He squared his shoulders, rubbing at the back of his neck. He left the room in silence, his hand lingering over the door before he shut it behind him. Omi watched him leave with tight lips. He gazed up at Yohji quietly, his eyes narrowed. Yohji could only look down at him and wait for the younger boy to say what he wanted to say. He could see the words trembling on Omi's lips, just waiting to come out.

"Ken knows something, and I don't like this," Omi said at length. "Not at all." He lowered his head, biting at his thumb nail. He looked up at length, his eyes clouded. "Yohji? Do me a favour. Wake up Aya. I wanna talk to him."
 
 
 
 

"You know what I love about this line of work?"

Red didn't answer. He played with the buttons of his jeans, pulling at the seams and twisting his fingers into the buttom holes aimlessly. The blush in his cheeks was subsiding, the disorientation that had sunk into him after love making fading away slowly, taking the tingle he could still feel running through his legs. He doubted he could stand up and leave, even if he wanted to. His legs still felt like water. The young boy across from him smiled, a sweet upturning of the lips.

"The hypocrisy. The whole denial deal that goes with it. I hate myself. Every day I do this, every time I do a person and send him on his way, I hate myself. But still..." He pushed at his bangs, clear green eyes locking on Red's own. "Don't you sometimes feel as if there was nothing else you could do? Not even that exactly. More as if you didn't want to do anything else. A special sort of kick, you know?"

"No."

The boy laughed. "No you don't know or no you don't feel that way?" He stood up from the bed, padding over to the corner to pull on his pants and run a hand throw his hair. He bent before the mirror behind Red's door, straightening his hair and rubbing his face clean of sleep and sex and semen. He turned with his hands on his hips, a pout on his lips.

"I guess it's both, huh? You look like the both type. Red, right?"

Red ceased his play with the buttons of his jeans. "Yeah."

The boy bent down close to him. He reached out to comb the hair away from Red's eyes, his fingers lingering over his cheeks. Red could feel a slight blush travel over them, the warmth of the other boy's flesh tingling against his own. The boy was smiling again. Sweet. Possessive. "My name's Kurai. Darkness. I didn't feel like taking on something like Sink."

"Sink's all right."

Kurai leaned back, his fingers sliding slowly off Red's face. "Yeah. Sink's all right. He's friendly at least. The others... Well, they all act like customers are the last scrap of meat in the desert. I guess that's how it goes. But my pimp's a nice creep. He gets a kick out of me himself and doesn't really care if I bring in much money. Ain't that wild?"

Kurai  was smiling again, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. He had drawn his legs under his chin, bony and long even though he was really short and healthy. He seemed different from the others. Fresh and naïve. The others seemed tired, worn out, content to sink into tough and pitiful and derisive laughs. Kurai seemed new to everything. Only his eyes looked old. Old and tired, but never tough, never derisive. Red coughed, hoping to draw Kurai from the train of thought he could see building behind the boy's green eyes. Kurai looked up with a start.

"Oh. Sorry. Got a bit lost there, huh?" He chuckled, pushing himself up again. "Come on, Red. I'll buy ya a coke. You drink coke?"

He shook his head. "Acerola juice."

Kurai smiled. "It'll take a while to find that. But sure. I'll take ya to the ports."
 
 
 
 
 

They walked through the city quickly, melting into the sea of faces with ease. Kurai had pulled on a pair of worn jeans, a plain grey shirt, and beach sandals. Regular. Normal. Just another student tagging along with another normal looking student in jeans and a white T-shirt and hair dyed red. They made their way towards the dock without a backward glance. At a corner, they came upon a flower shop. A tall blond stepped outside as they waited on the curb for the light to change. Kurai waved, coupling it with a friendly grin that caused the blond to wave. Red said nothing, simply tucked the two long momiage at his sides behind his ears. He looked at the flower shop in silence, lavender eyes deepening before they turned back towards the ground, muting. They crossed to the other curb.

"I'm guessing you worked at a flower shop?"

"No."

Kurai sighed. "Okashiku nai. Seems everything I ask you is answered by either yeah or no. You don't get out much, do you? Wait, wait. I know the answer. No, right?"

Red smiled to himself as he passed Kurai and walked ahead. "No." He heard the boy laugh, his sandals slapping against the asphalt as he rushed to catch up. His hair was light brown in the sunlight, his bangs barely obscuring his eyes. He wasn't really Kurai in the daylight. He could have been anyone. Omi, maybe. Rushing ahead of Red and clapping his hands together because he had found a Nichirei vending machine with cans of acerola juice lined up behind the glass. Happy. He was calling out to him, waving his hands over his head.

"You're in luck, Red, here's your acerola! Safe and sound and hopefully cold."
 
 
 
 

Cold. The asphalt felt cold beneath his feet. Ken wrapped his arms around his body and walked on. His last customer had stumbled away drunk, singing to himself. He hoped he would choke. He had been in such a hurry to leave the arse that he had neglected to pull on his shoes. They were probably gone by now. They were vultures, those prostitutes. Every one of them. He tightened his arms around his body and looked up at the stars. Maybe Yohji had been right. Everything was just a waste of time. These boys could care less that they were being killed. They could care less about anything. He had no idea where Aya was. He wanted to care. He usually did, but tonight he just felt tired. Tired and alone and angry. He heard footsteps behind him and swirled around.

"Find yourself another cock sucker, arsehole, 'cause I'm--"

"Woah! Relax! I'm one of you."

Ken blinked. A young boy stood on the curb. He looked strangely familiar. Dark hair, green eyes. He frowned. It was that boy, from the night he had talked to Aya on the curb. He turned away, walking on. He heard the boy sigh, the click of his boots following him. Ken wanted to shout at him to just go away, but he felt too tired.

"Are you just gonna walk around?" There was no answer, just the soft slap of bare feet against the asphalt. Kurai rubbed at the back of his head. "Um, look, I don't know what I did to you... Red sent me to look for you. Well, I think. Are you Azalea?"

Ken stopped in his tracks. Kurai gave a start as Ken turned to face him, edging away slightly at the anger he could see reflected in the older boy's eyes. He composed himself quickly, his lips thinning as he straightened. "So you are Azalea. Hey, I'm getting good at this." He smiled. It annoyed Ken. There was something about the boy, the look in his eyes. The little secret he seemed to harvour, to way he pronounced Red's name, as if he owned it somehow. It just set Ken's nerves on edge. He frowned.

"What does he want?"

"How should I know? He just said he wanted to see you. He's by that lovely dark curb over there. Blow job for a skinny little man in a blue suit."

Ken's frown deepened. He could feel his hands balling up into fists, the rage rising in his head. Kurai took one step back, moving out of the way as Ken shouldered his way past him, the slap of his bare feet against the asphalt rising in anxiety.

Kurai watched him leave in silence. He didn't like to get in the way of angry young men. They looked ugly, and could do ugly things. For a moment, he worried for Red. A boy like Azalea could hurt him. He had seen thousands like Red. He had that look in his eyes. The hurt. The darkness. The pleading and the promise that he could never be yours. Never.

Kurai shook his head. He heard a car pull out from the curb, the wheels slowing down as they came near him. He saw his face reflected in the window before it rolled down, green eyes and brown hair and he could hear Red's voice in the back of his head. Echoing, pleading. He looked up towards the curb Azalea had walked towards. He could almost hear Red as the little man in the blue suit held him pinned against the wall. Air exhaled through his teeth, body thumping against granite, the soft grunts. The doors of the car opened. Dark suede. A hand beckoned to him from inside. He couldn't say no. He could never say no.
 
 
 
 

"Do you like me?"

Red had never wanted to ask that question. It hung suspended in his lips, trembling within him. Flesh slid beneath his fingers, shivering. A young girl. The dip of hips and softness and nervousness. He drew out her lips with his fingertips and bent forward to kiss her. A young man. Long limbs that wanted to wrap around his own. My father doesn't know I'm a homo... he'd kill me. But I like you. He closed his eyes and trailed his fingers down his back. An old man. A man from Kanagawa. You're from Yokohama, aren't you? I can tell, boy. A woman who wanted him to call her baby and answer to Shiori. A skinny man who smelled like sake. A hip young nobody who fed him Pokki and thought it would be funny if they could enjoy some bondage and maybe take the chocolate covered stick and. He bit off the end and crunched slowly, teeth grinding over cookie and chocolate. He wanted him to lie on his back, to arch back further. She wanted him to call her mother. He wanted him to cry out louder. Don't be shy.

"I like you."

Kurai. Kurai was different. His smile was so warm. Red wanted to find him again. But he had disappeared. Red couldn't tell where he had gone. Ken wouldn't tell. Ken... He closed his eyes. They wanted him to thrust harder. He gripped the corners of the bed and thrust forward, heard someone cry out. He wanted to see Ken. Wanted to tell him about the man with the yellow whip that wanted to smell his clothe and came by himself while Red lay curled up in bed, blindfolded and unable to shut out the noise and the cries and the insults and he felt himself jerk and come and it was warm and wet and he had cried himself to sleep. Someone was dying out there. In the night. Choked to death with a pillow. Just push down. Harder. Harder. Do you like this, baby? A snap before darkness crashed down around him. He wanted to find Ken.

"I think I love you."

Kurai's hands slid off his cheeks and he closed his eyes. Kurai's lips were so warm beneath his own. He could taste the surprise, the tightening of all of the other boy's senses. His lips parted beneath his own, drawing in breath. Drawing in questions. Red wanted to tear at the covers. He wanted to cry out. Reach out and grasp something. His fingers flexed and spasmed. There was nothing there. He was groping in the dark. You're beautiful, baby. Kurai was kissing him again. Smiling again. Blue and comfortable. Cold and black. He could crawl in there and never come out. Crawl into the darkness. Aya was there. His sister, his reason, his excuse. Aya. You can't see me like this. Don't look. Please, don't look.

"My name is Ran," he whispered. "My real name is Ran..."
 
 
 
 

Yohji woke up with a start. Someone was banging at his door. Frantic. He heard a shower of splinters rain over the floor and he threw the covers off, rushing to open the door.

"Fuck. Who died?!"

Ken stood in the hallway, moonlight playing over his hair. He trembled slightly, his eyes blood shot from crying and holding it back. He was naked from the waist up, a pair of tacky orange pants pulled on in haste. Yohji cursed under his breath. He pocketed a roll of wire and slipped on the shirt he had pulled off before crawling into bed. He didn't bother about shoes. Ken was already running in front of him, the slap of bare feet leading the older boy in the dark. Yohji banged on Omi's door as they passed, a blush running over his cheeks as Omi appeared at the stairwell, dressed and obviously waiting.

"I sent Ken to get you."

Yohji rushed past him, Ken close at his heels. Leave it to Omi to think ahead even in moments like this. He didn't even want to think about how calm Aya would look. "Where's Aya gonna pop up from? He waiting in that car of his?"

Omi didn't answer. He lowered his head, his pace picking up as Ken pushed on ahead again. Light bounced off the walls, pulling at the corners of Yohji's eyes. A thousand lights jumped to life, the street lamps coming into view. Yohji felt his momentum sag, his legs coming to a sluggish stand still. Cars sped by. Cars moved away, roared into the night. Ken and Omi ran ahead. Orange and black uniform. He stood at the curb. Aya! Aya is... He lowered his head, a bitter smile playing across his lips.

"Fuck."
 
 
 
 

It was a while before he could see anything again. A photograph. Lying on the floor. Red bent down to pick it up. He could barely make out the features in the darkness, but he knew who it was. Sink. He had taken a photograph of Sink. Lying in blood, the same serpentine crack to the back as the Kritious Boy. He closed his eyes. A car sputtered to itself slowly behind him, the doors open. A flow of air conditioning drifted out, carrying the smell of suede and human flesh and sex. He could hear the lights blinking, the key still dangling from the ignition. He could hear footsteps. Rushing towards him. Coming closer. Closer.

"Ken, do you have any idea where you're going?"

Their footsteps thundered over the asphalt. Like the first time. They were coming for him. Like that first time. The enemy, the one they couldn't figure out. Red wanted to smile. He could smell the blood now, coming from inside the car. He could feel the fingers sliding off his back again. The smell of blood mingled with the disorientation he had grown accustomed to. The taste of his lips. The feel of his flesh. They were coming closer. He could feel it.

"Why? Why did you do it...?"

The camera felt heavy in his hands, alien. There was one photograph left. He couldn't waste it. He hoisted the device up to rest against his hips. It was an old camera. Kurai had told him it was very expensive. He hardly ever used it, he told him. Red bent to look through the peep hole and focused on the passenger seat. He could only see darkness. Darkness dancing before his eyes. Blurring and sharpening and he couldn't make out the shape. He could smell the blood. Could still hear him.

"Listen to me, please. You don't know what it's like. This Hell. There is no way out. They can't get out. People like him won't let us. I liked them. I like you... I have to..."

Kurai's fingers pressed against his cheeks. He was smiling. Sweetly, his mouth turning up at the corners. He looked beautiful. For once, Red could see the beauty in him. Could see the beauty in others. Could feel his limbs, his own, answer and plead and he wanted to. He felt his hands tighten around Kurai's back, the car driving past the night streets, the streetlights dyeing Kurai's hair a brilliant gold. He heard the laughter, sweet and gentle.

"I like you."

He wasn't crying. He hoisted the camera up on his hip and squeezed once. The flash burst out, the soft clink of the keys in the ignition echoing the hiss and the clatter of the photograph as it slid out and onto the asphalt. It landed at his feet. The footsteps had come closer. He could hear them as they slowed. The slap of bare feet against the ground, concrete beneath boots. He bent down to pick up the photograph. He heard Ken step forward. Red could feel his breath, the scent of him. Clean sheets. So out of place. So at ease. Even now.

"Aya...?"

He didn't answer. The photograph lay in his hands, an image appearing slowly. A man slumped over the steering wheel, Sink as a spasm in the back seat, lying in his own blood, Kurai's clear green eyes closed forever, arms clasped over his bloodied breast, where Aya's katana had dipped in and slid through the flesh and silenced Kurai's pain. Aya felt Ken's arms grasp his shoulders, could hear Omi as he stepped closer, Yohji cursing under his breath. He didn't want to cry. But Ken was so close. He wanted to tell him about the darkness and the car and the smell of his own flesh and Kurai and he wanted to tell him that it wasn't supposed to have been that way.

"It's all right. It's all right, Aya..."

A voice. Ken's voice. Kurai's voice. His own voice. We don't have to do this. You don't have to do this. He heard himself choke, reaching out. Ken's arms wrapped around his back, holding him close. So close. Aya closed his eyes. There was only darkness there. Darkness he could crawl into. Just crawl in to hide. Beckoning to him. As always.
 
 

May 10^th, 1999. I will admit now that this story was written as a means of letting out steam, frustration maybe. I know that maybe it doesn't make much sense. It's hard to explain why I wrote it. Well, but I wrote it in the course of one day, so it's a rough draft. Very rough. I wish I could say that I'm going to fix it... but it's not very likely. If I try to flesh this out I'll just lose the original idea. It's a whim thing. Heh. Sumimasen.

January 12th, 2000. Revised this story. I still haven't found a satisfactory way to reveal the mystery of the story, if there even is one... but I guess that'll have to wait till the 3rd revision, na?

If you want to leave any comments about it, feel free to let the Sink and Salty Lime Corner know. Otherwise known as emailing. Thank you for reading.
 
 
 

© May 10th, 1999 Team Bonet. Weiß Kreuz is © 1997 Koyasu Takehito and Project Weiß. Thank you for reading. Please do not use without permission.