Crushed Violets

By Murasaki Suishou and The Queen of Blueberry Toast

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


Prologue

"For her whom I love, I played the adult and sacrificed so that she 
might see her dreams come true.  For him whom I idolize, I 
submerged my self so that I might uphold his ideals.  For the last 
few years I've lived simply for the dead.  But now...I want to live 
for someone who is alive...And it scares me, because all he really 
wants is me, and I'm not sure who that is."  

"I hurt God if I hurt myself.  If you hurt me, that doesn't do any 
good! I know you're enjoying it on some level.  Don't deny it."

"I keep telling myself I don't belong to you anymore.  But every 
breath I take, I can sense you on the air.  Every time I look in the 
mirror, I expect to see you behind me.  This isn't freedom.  This is 
more compelling bondage than when you were alive."

"Who cares?  I don't--or at least, that's what I want you to think, 
what I so dearly want myself to believe.  You see, caring only 
leads to pain, and I don't want to hurt anymore.  I want YOU to 
hurt."  

"I made a grave mistake and you've never let me forget it.  I've said 
I was sorry over and over.  I tried to make it up to you, and yet, all 
you do is haunt my dreams, waking and sleeping.  I want you to 
leave me alone, and yet, I'd die inside if you ever did."

"I have the future at my fingertips, playing out hourly in the 
recesses of my mind. I can pick and choose the outcomes and 
shape it to my will like an all-powerful, untouchable wizard... If 
only I could truly be like that, instead of being simply me." 

"Who am I? How can you know if I don't? I need you to tell me 
who I am... I need you to help me breathe.  Here.  Now.  In the 
darkness that used to be my heart."

"I guess you could say I stand somewhere between believing in 
'good' and not caring.  Heh, there's no such thing.  It's only what 
you want yourself.  I like the way your thoughts taste, therefor I'm 
allowed to mess with your head."

*****

Part 1- Roses
[Version 2.0]

There came another crash of thunder and the rain began, sounding 
like a thousand fingers thrumming on the roof rather than mere 
drops of water. The window turned grey and refractive, and its 
light made the room look like it was sliding downwards in the pale 
haze of the afternoon. There was not much else to have been 
suspected of any day in late June, and indeed, Ken was hardly 
startled he would have to cancel his mentor appointment once 
again due to inclement weather. And he had so been hoping today 
would be different...

Just then, there came a loud hissing moan from seemingly 
everywhere at once. The gentian in his hand snapped in two as his 
fingers reflexively clenched around it, and it's petals went flying as 
he whipped around.

To find only that the window had begun to hum with the sudden 
wind.

"Not again!" he complained to no one in particular as the noise 
continued. He couldn't be expected to work with such a row, could 
he? Perhaps he'd get used to it in a bit...

"Sorry, Omi," he sighed to the absent companion of his, as he 
snatched up a block of floral support foam from the other boy's 
work space, and began to cram it into the gaps along the window.

... or perhaps not.

No, he couldn't exactly claim he fancied monsoon season, or that 
he wasn't proud of his quick and sloppy fix. If the rain couldn't be 
bad enough, he found himself in no mood to be bothered by the air 
as well. 

Ken scratched his head and watched the headlights flicker against 
the wet pavement outside. It simply didn't make any sense, his 
mood... But how could anything seem so still here in the middle of 
Tokyo, how could his thoughts be wandering erratically these past 
few days? It was only rain, it was only rain.

And that was his last gentian lying in a heap of green and white 
smears under his boot. The one he had crushed. Almost 
apologetically, he lifted his foot and stared at the ruined blossom, 
prone against the puddle of the window's light.

Even more apologetically did he observe his arrangement, which 
now sported a gaping hole in the left side, and what it had once 
worn.  The bloom he had crushed ended up in his dust pan, and he 
clapped for it twice once it had sailed into the waste basket

"Well, if I turned this part to the back... perhaps then It'd be OK!"

He tried this and met with defeat. No one would ever mistake the 
side for the front. "Oh goddamnit... I'll have to start all over."

With a grim resolution, he stamped back to his place at the counter 
and went to place his fingers on one of the stems to start dissecting 
his work. His hands never made it within five inches of the 
arrangement. He just couldn't do it. "Oh get a hold of yourself, 
Ken! You're bein' ridiculous! It's just one little bouquet!" His 
empathics were marked almost perfectly by lightning flickering 
above the neighboring shops. "C'mon! You're an assassin for 
crissake! Take the stupid..."

He trailed off not because of a particularly violent peel of thunder, 
but because he had glanced over to one of his companion's places 
and there noticed...

... a single white rose in with the red ones. "Hello..." Tiny was it 
and twinged with pinkl about its lips; barely more than a miniature 
bud, but it was lying among Aya's usual selection of explosive, 
crimson specimens.

"Forget why Omi and Youji ran off... what are you doing with 
that?" He asked his more enigmatic co-worker, who probably 
would have declined to answer, even if he had been present.

The white rose seemed to smirk at him, giggle like a baby. "Well... 
you're a mistake, aren't you? A perfect little mistake. Aya's going 
to get rid of you after all..." But as his fingers brushed the stem and 
caught a single, tiny thorn he gulped, "... or he ordered you special 
and is going to kill me for taking you."

And yet, something just seemed to go together in the arrangement 
as he added her. The plumes of baby's breath tipped to the right 
feathery postures, the two irises seemed even more purple and the 
remaining gentians did not appear jealous at all. "Well, it won't 
even be the first time he threatened to kill me this week!"

Just then, the door came flying open.

***

And a low, harsh voice muttered an exasperated curse. The wind 
roared in around the speaker's lanky figure as his rain moistened 
hands sought purchase on the clammy metal handle. The swirling 
gale was promptly shut out with an almighty wrench and a slam of 
the door. Aya glowered through the fogged glass at the swollen, 
near-black clouds, and then he turned around. Icy shards of violet 
took in the wind-rumpled room as he swept his sodden bangs away 
from his face with the back of his hand; crystalline beads dotted 
the whole of Aya's orange sweater. The frown he'd offered the sky 
still lingered when he settled the whole of his attention on Ken.

"No more deliveries today." Said because it was the truth...And 
because he wasn't about to go out in the rain again. If anyone 
called in with a last minute request, the other would have to go. He 
couldn't afford to get sick, in more ways than just in terms of 
money.

His eyes held questions, ones that wouldn't be uttered ever, more 
than likely. Aya glanced over at the two unoccupied workstations 
as he crossed over to his own, hands gathering the pullover's hem 
and lifting it over his head. He folded it neatly and lay it atop the 
end of his table, and untucked the tight black t-shirt he'd worn 
under it. The kind he wore under almost everything. 

He bent to turn on the little space heater he kept under his table, 
and then checked the list at the end of his table. Two arrangements 
he had to make before tomorrow. Aya walked to the refrigerated 
cases and took out a bucket of ferns, limbs twitching in a violent 
shiver as he did so. The door fell closed with a soft slurp, clouds of 
frost fanning across the steamy glass. Aya set the ferns beside his 
stool and then sat himself down as well. The radiating heat felt so 
good against the legs of his dampened jeans, and he toed off his 
sneakers and lay his stockinged feet at its mercy. 

A mound of long-stemmed, crimson lovelies lay before him, 
awaiting the touch of his skilled hands. But first, he had an 
important task to complete. An arrangement that hadn't been 
requested, but would have been appreciated he knew....If she were 
only awake to see it. She loved white flowers, and roses were her 
favorites, and Aya had ordered one. A perfect one, he'd specified. 
It would be surrounded by ferns and sprigs of lily of the valley, the 
vase tied with a pink bow...

Except...the snowy blossom was no longer there. 

Slowly, Aya leveled his piercing, amethyst eyes at Ken. 

"Where is it?"

***

"Where's what?" he asked. Trying to look nonchalant despite his 
numb legs, he stepped covertly between Aya and the flower 
arrangement. Would Aya fall for this absurd ploy? No...

Had he just called attention to the very spot he did not want Aya 
looking? Certainly.

There was a chorus of angels in Ken's head then, heralding his 
impending doom with just one word, sung over and over again... 
"Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!"

Too late now... if the fearsome Abyssinian even suspected his 
blooms had been tampered with, there was no chance for 
forgiveness. Handing it over would be like returning a ravaged 
fiance. Oh, I'm sorry I just raped this creature which is wonderful 
and perfect in every way. I didn't know she was yours, despite that 
she appeared on your doorstep.

Ken did then what had long ago become his last resort, on that day, 
and many days before.  He changed the subject. "Wow, man! You 
look real wasted. Damn Omi and Youji for staying away on such a 
rotten, awful day!" He found himself to sound more like a 
preschool book than anything. Maybe, if he managed to live 
through the next five seconds, he would have to lay off reading to 
his students. "Can I... I uh... get you some hot tea?"

***

Motionless, Aya sat, his line of vision falling to some point across 
Ken's shoulder. His imouto's rose had been snatched away for 
some other woman's arrangement, and there it would sit, nestled 
amongst the fragrant jumble to wither and die--more or less 
unnoticed. She would never know of the love with which it had 
been bought--all for a girl who lay silent and still in a cold, clinical 
hospital room, the air of which was ripe with the smells of 
antiseptic and bleach. The gush of a respirator instead of the chime 
of her laughter. 

No place at all for flowers. 

No place at all for pretty young girls. 

The urge to reclaim his property propelled Aya to his feet, to Ken's 
table. He would take it, yes, and he didn't give a damn if he 
destroyed Ken's handiwork in the process. Perhaps he would 
anyway...Or so his anger had driven him to think. 

He pushed past Ken, shooting the younger man a withering glare, 
and reached for the vase...And then he stopped, hand hovering. 
And he looked--really looked. 

Instead of mere flowers, he saw beauty. Care. True artistic skill. 
The arrangement was perfectly balanced, for all its profusion of 
blooms, and despite Ken's one error. 

Aya drew his hand back slowly and let it fall to his side. He 
couldn't destroy it, couldn't crush Ken's feelings like that; to do so 
would be a crime, he felt. He pensively regarded the pure white 
rose, reaching out again to lovingly trace its furled petals. 

"Aa. I want some tea." 

***

Relief fizzed over Ken like the suds of a most luxurious 
bubblebath. He sighed. He sighed harder than he had in years. He 
saluted Aya stupidly and scurried off to the kitchen upstairs, 
crying, "Uh... yes! Right away! Hot oolong comin' up!" 

Yet somehow between the pulse of the rain and his sudden hoard 
of 
nagging thoughts, it seemed to take him an eternity to get there.

/Aya always looks so damn cold, why should he freak me out 
TODAY?/

He hit his forehead as hard as he could. The hall blurred for a 
second. /Aya looked just how he always does... only... only... no! 
There was something not right about any of this!/ There probably 
never had been, but just the same... /The white rose... the rain... 
Aya... white rose... Aya... rain.../

Conspiracy theories cooked up by the most creative or stoned 
mystics had nothing in the fervor of work that began in Ken's 
mind. William of Occam had once said, "The simplest explanation 
is usually correct." In Ken's mind, and Ken did no know who 
William of Occam was, his mantra warped and soured to near 
madness, and the old axiom fell backwards into sweet, ironic 
doom. The most freakish, convoluted explanation became correct.  
It might only have been because of all his time alone, all his time 
in Weiss.  But that all ceased to matter- those events slowly 
became overshadowed by one another.

And of them, related only by proximity in time, all had to fit 
together. At least, they did to him.

The white rose.

He was still alive.

That look on Aya's face... the one that didn't quit fit, even the rainy 
day...

All this nagging at him like a shred of shrapnel in his skin.

"Now," he asked himself, quietly, as if some other object in his 
mind might overhear, or worse, Aya. "What do I KNOW for 
sure..." This being the foundation of any good detective novel. Ken 
wished he had a pipe, but only managed to turn up one of Youji's 
cigarettes. Pinching it was probably more dangerous than making 
off with the rose, but, needless to say, he felt lucky.

Sadly, the cigarette tasted... well... very, very, very awful. Still, he 
had stolen it and so he smoked it all the way down to the filter 
while the tea brewed.

"The rose... he knew the rose! He almost took it back... didn't he? 
That must be what he was after.  He was almost petting it there for 
a second when I booked it."

"Aya petting a rose, d'you know how dumb that sounds?"

"I've heard dumber."

"Still... hmm... what does a rose mean..."

"Well... Only way I could figure it out would be to look it up."

And then, both voices united.

"I gotta get to the library."

Just then, the teapot began to whistle and startled form his reverie, 
he snatched it from the burner and poured it into the most 
traditional-looking cups he could find. He didn't figure Aya would 
settle for less. He arranged them on a tray with a bit of rice cake 
and carried them down at once, one last consideration taking him.

/I want to go now. How do I convince Aya to leave during open 
hours?/

Well, that would require all his skill! Just like a mission.

Aya had returned to his chair by the time he reached him with the 
tea. "Here we are, just the thing for a cold day!" His lips said.

/Commence operation: the Name of Aya's Rose!/ His many inner 
voices asserted.

***

Aya had broken off his daydream with an inward snarl, and had 
returned to his table without so much as a backwards longing look 
at the lost rose. He'd slipped then, he knew it, and worst of all 
someone had witnessed it. And after he'd worked so hard to 
maintain his icy, uncaring persona around everyone, too. 

He hadn't openly noted Ken's return to the shop, just continued to 
work. Deft hands had only begun to pluck the lushest looking ferns 
out of the bucket, and lay them inside the vases to let them feather 
over their milky-blue mouths. He would have ignored Ken 
completely if it weren't for the tea, so embarrassed and angry at 
himself he was. But the smell of it, the sight of the steam wisping 
from its surface beckoned to him like a siren. He lay the fern he 
held atop the pile of roses and reached for the cylindrical cup with 
cold, water-stained hands. It was just like the ones his mother 
owned. Aya'd seen the set on display in some shop window one 
night as they were driving home from a mission in his white, 
inconspicuous car, and had gone back to buy them the next day. It 
was a splurge, yes, but a minor one and rare. And worth it. He 
wanted to remember what had been. 

He hoped he'd never forget. 

He blew lightly at the frothing, white clouds and took a cautious 
sip of the golden liquid. It lightly burned his tongue, his throat, but 
he liked it; he was as cold on the inside as he looked on the outside 
that day. Aya carefully set the cup aside, it's delicate peach-smoke 
flavor lingering on his tongue, and idly wiggled his toes in front of 
the space heater. 

"Arigatou, Ken." 

Violet eyes darted in his direction and hovered there. Something 
was wrong...He could see it now. Ken looked like he was up to 
something, and Aya couldn't help but wonder what it was he was 
scheming.

But the overly bright gleam in Ken's eyes wasn't as disconcerting 
as the cloying, stale perfume that was wafting from him; such as 
the older boy hadn't noticed over the aroma of the tea. Aya sniffed 
delicately at the air. It was a familiar odor, but one he'd never 
associated with him before. It was more the scent of Koneko's 
resident creature of the night than its athlete. The redhead frowned 
disapprovingly. 

"Have you been smoking?" 

***

"Yes... aw, c'mon!" Don't tell me you don't snitch one now an' 
then.  One won't hurt anything! Look, if you're pissed, I won't do it 
again, and if you think I reek, well, I'll go put on cologne until I 
stink of that, OK?" 

Having said his piece, Ken tugged his chair over and flopped down 
right next to Aya.  Well, at least as close as anyone would ever 
dare sit to Aya.  He took a long gulp of his tea, and burned his 
tongue rather badly.  Of this, he gave no sign of this save perhaps a 
momentary widening of his eyes... which doubtlessly came off as 
noticeably as a volley of fireworks to Aya.  After all, he had 
continued to fix him with his gaze... the violet chasms that came 
off clear as mirrors...

/He can read me like a damn book... Why won't be please let me 
have one second to think of something...? Just ONE SECOND.  's 
not much./

But... how to change the subject now that it had changed itself...? 

And then it hit him, "Look, I'm sorry Aya.  Really I am.  Saying 
the rain makes me a bastard won't excuse anything I know, but let's 
say I make it up to you, I'll take you out somehwere... or you can 
just lecture me anyway."

/'cause I know you want to.../

***

Aya had remained unflinching on his stool through the whole of 
Ken's unexpected tirade, periodically lifting his teacup up from the 
one clean space on the table top to his mouth. Face a scowling 
mask, eyes gleaming hard as diamonds. His mind, though, whirled 
with questions. Thoughts. It struck him as funny how easily he 
could get him worked up. Be it a look, or a remark, Ken would 
react, would speak his mind without fear.

But then, he figured that the boy had never really been all that 
afraid of him. Had too much guts, Ken did, for him to ever really 
be afraid of anyone. 

Aya fingered his jaw as if in memory of some old injury. And 
sometimes, Ken had gone a shade farther than merely speaking his 
mind.

Despite his firsthand knowledge of Ken's innate fearlessness, Aya 
had been surprised by his offer. It had been the last thing he'd ever 
expected to hear from his lips. 

"Make it up to me?" One fine brow arched up in a show of 
curiosity. Now, that was an interesting prospect. Ken had never 
been so bold as to offer anything such as that before, had never 
even shown much interest in him period. Not that he'd noticed, at 
any rate. 

Yes, it was an interesting prospect indeed. 

Rubbing his chin with the back of his hand, Aya thoughtfully 
regarded the heap of lush, dream-scented roses on his table, then 
glanced through the rain-washed windows at the grey sodden 
world that lay beyond them. Silent and pondering. He loved to 
watch rain fall, really, but had to have a damn good reason to get 
out in it before he actually would do so. 

And now, he'd unexpectedly found one. 

He contemplatively fingered one of the uppermost blooms, sword 
callused tips skating over glossy thorns and crumpled leaves, then 
abruptly pushed away from the table. Work could definitely wait. 

He tucked his dangling tails behind his ears as he bent to turn off 
the tiny, glowing heater at his feet. "All right," he replied, tossing 
Ken his pair of thick gardener's gloves, "put the roses in water and 
stick them back in the refrigerator case. I'll go get my coat." As he 
stood up to leave, Aya shot a glance at the still-damp, and no doubt 
clammy, sneakers that lay sprawled beside his stool, then he 
stalked towards the stairs, muttering, "And a pair of boots."

***

/This is too easy... waiiiii! Go Ken! Go Ken! It's my birthday! It's 
my birthday!/

Ken grinned, but just a touch, just a fragment of what he was 
feeling.  "Sure thing! Say, let's go to the library! They've got that 
huge glass gallery with those leather chairs? You can see the 
whoooooooole city form there.  And the place's gotta be deserted 
on a day like t'day! It'll be like we own it or somthin'!"

But then it hit him... he sounded a little too enthused about the 
books... /Damnit! Well, I did say I wanted to make it up to *HIM* 
We all kinda know he's a bookworm at heart... if I'm still lucky, 
he'll just think I think I'm lucky! Err... soemthing./

Ken did his best to hold in his hyperactive glee as he pulled on his 
gloves and began to tuck away the roses, one by one.  All the 
while, he watched the stairs with the utmost care, wanting to look 
calm and dignified as soon as Aya came back into view.  Once the 
roses were safe, he flipped the sign on the door to "closed", 
switched off most of the lights and left a heap of post-it notes all 
about the room for the other two members of Weiss: don't clean 
the teacup; I will.  Aya's roses- leave alone if you value your life.  
At his own arrangement- Cute, huh ^^? There were several, all in 
many interesting places, such as the bathroom 
mirror and Youji's cigarette case.  He figured they had to find one, 
sooner or later.

Sadly, Aya found him attaching the last one to the pot of one of 
Omi's freesias... so much for trying to pass off the occasional 
flurries of post-its as their youngest member's folly.

Ken just smiled, pulled on his jacket, and held the door wide open 
for his companion.  He opened it before Aya even had his boots 
on, and got what could be construed as more than the usual frown 
as a few cups of water found their way onto the nice, clean floor.  
"After you," his insisted and ended up almost slamming the door 
once Aya was out, as if to keep him form running 
back inside.  

It wasn't too cold outside, but the wetness made it seem so despite 
that the deluge had tapered off somewhat to more of a shower- an 
insistent, billowing one which rolled back and forth in the wind.  
Ken could feel his ears start to chill unpleasantly.  The 
swordsman's demeanor failed to change.  If anything, it only 
looked more appropriate, out here in the gloomy weather.  And yet 
the red of Aya's hair seemed brilliant, and his eyes much more 
violet.  

This boy looked as if he belonged with the rain as much as the 
clouds... 

Ken sighed, and pulled the cover off his bike.  "If you've gotta 
hood, you'd better pull it up..." And with that, jammed the key in 
the ignition and fired the monster up.  The radio came on, quite 
loudly, even beneath the erratic patter of the raindrops...

She follows me down to the sound of the sea 
Slips through the sand and stares up at me 
Is this how it happens? 
Is this how it feels? 
Is this how a star falls? 
Is this how a star falls? 

The night turns as I try to explain 
Irresistible attraction and orbital plane
Maybe it's more like a moth to a flame 
She pushes my face with her smile 
Forget about stars for a while! 

She melts 

Ken beckoned to Aya, and tried very hard not to sing.

***

The lisping rain changed direction at the whim of the wind. It 
tickled the back of his bare neck, whispered at his ears. Starred 
his lashes and crimson hair. He felt the damp sinking into those 
bits of his shirt that the coat left exposed, felt it wetting the 
legs of his jeans. His feet, now encased in well-worn black leather, 
were most noticeably chilled. 

In other words, Aya was miserable. And very afraid. 

The bike frightened him. 

He'd never been on it before. Had never liked to watch Ken ride 
off on it. Had always sat up at night in his room and waited for him 
to return when he did go out on it--no matter how late the hour. It 
wasn't until he heard the bouncing slap of oft-sneakered feet upon 
the hardwood that he would roll over under the safe cocoon of his 
blankets and go to sleep. 

After all, people were killed in motorcycle accidents nearly 
everyday. Killed or left in limbo. 

Just like she had been. 

In the end, it had been his reason that had persuaded him. He was 
the leader; it wouldn't do for Ken to see how unnerved he was. It 
wouldn't do for his pride. 

The library was his absolute favorite place to go; Every off day he 
had from the shop would be ended with a visit there. Perfect place 
to venture on a rainy day. 

And, also, he was growing colder temperature-wise, something he 
absolutely hated. And Aya had the idea that being so close in 
proximity to Ken would be enough to warm him. 

And that last was the real temptation. 

With a glare to cover his fear and a deep, quiet breath to steady 
himself, Aya swung a long leg over the seat and settled himself on 
the bike behind Ken. Pale hands clutched at broad shoulders. He 
caught sight of the undulating, rainbow-swirl of colors in a large, 
rain-and-oil puddle on the street by the back tire. 

Then he ducked his head down a little and closed his eyes. 

His voice came out in a strained near-whisper. "Let's go." 

***

Meanwhile millions of miles away in space 
An incoming comet crashes Jupiter's face 
And disappears away with barely a trace 

Was that it? 
Was that the Jupiter show? 
Kinda wasn't quite what I hoped for, you know? 
Pulling away, she stands up slow 
Around her the night turns 
Around her the night turns 

Ken's urge to sing was about to rise past his lips and go spilling 
dissonantly into the besotted air on his mediocre singing voice.  
Some songs just did that to him, almost choked him with their 
words...

What stopped him was the sensation of Aya's hands on his 
shoulder.  He might have been a fool, but he had had enough 
people behind him to know what one felt like when they were 
frightened.   And his companion was scared out of his wits.  

/He can't be... he just can't be... that's soooooo not Aya!/

But the tenseness of the lithe fingers, the awkward posture of the 
body behind him.  None of these lied. And then he too felt a sort of 
fear, a darkening at least of his spirit.  

Clouds overhead decided to play coy and rolled atop one another 
into a blue-grey darkness more akin to evening than an afternoon.  
His face was cold and fell.  If this would have been a friend like he 
had had once before, he would have petted Aya's hands and swept 
them onto his waist with a few gentle words.  If this had been 
anyone he'd once known in the J-league, he would 
have joked until he lightened up.  If this had been the soft hands 
with the wine glass...

Ken realized he had been stopped at the corner for many moments, 
but knew not how many.  Well, waiting would make it worse. 

He kicked off as gently as he could and pulled into traffic at just a 
bit below the wet speed limit.  No use in making the ride shorter by 
zigzagging between taxis and Toyotas at break-neck speed.  The 
music he turned up just a touch to try to drown out the whine of the 
engine.  It very well might have been that The Cure was not Aya's 
taste, but any noise was better than that which was the object of 
one's fear.
  
He made up his mind and broke the silence as they sat before the 
gleaming eye of a red light.  "Might not wanna hang onto my 
jacket there.  Leather gets kinda slippy when it's wet after all.  If 
you don't mind of course, s'ok if you do.  But puttin'em around my 
waist is probably a little safer..."

His tongue felt think and sloppy on those words.  Trying not to 
sound sorry for Aya, even though he was.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, that was it 
That was the Jupiter Crash 
Drawn too close and gone in a flash 
Just a few bruises in the region of the splash 
She moved to the sound of the sea 
She drifted away from me 
So much for gravity

***

Aya had no idea where they were exactly, only that they had 
stopped. The machine hummed and vibrated under him like a live 
thing, like it was in control of him and not the other way around.  
He tried to relax, forced himself to hear the song that was 
cascading from the speaker in an effort to accomplish that 
Herculean feat. English words wrapped in a cushion of curiously 
heartening, jangling sound. He concentrated on them, to catch the 
drift of them, and slowly, the knot gave way...Not much, but 
enough to allow him to open his eyes. 

"I'm fine," he ground out, gathering the buttery smooth skin of 
Ken's jacket in his slick palms. He was going to do as he wished. 
Ken would not see him crumble.  

Unfortunately, just as the light changed, Aya had an image of 
himself all broken angles and bleeding on the street, and his 
resolve fled from him like a startled bird. He released his hold with 
considerable effort, only to snatch at him again, his arms tight 
around Ken's waist and quaking hands clasping wrists. He wanted 
to bury his face in the curve of Ken's shoulder and blot out the 
world. But Aya settled for closing his eyes again instead. 

"Whatever," he muttered.

***

This had been the longest red light of Ken's life.  As Jupiter Crash 
wound down to a close, he'd been sure his few small words had 
somehow managed to spook Aya even more than the bike 
apparently had.  He'd said them in slow motion, watched their 
surroundings skim freezing and nearly still, waiting.  
Trying not to watch.  What did his companion look like curled 
against him on his bike? He felt at least like he was the only warm 
thing in the world.  And then the glint on his own goggles had 
turned to green and he's made their motion begin as delicately as 
he could.  

But then there was a split second of emptiness.

/What the.../

Followed by two arms clenched tightly about his waist.  The whole 
manner of their touch was utterly ingenuous.  He swore he felt 
them shudder around him for a moment and glanced down.  Aya's 
arms were clasped so tight to him the knuckles had gone white. 

And though the dark river of the road remained clear before him, 
Ken's mind elsewhere tumbled.  Some eerie familiarity.  A little 
wisp of deja... vu that curled itself around his shoulders, settled in 
and batted away the raindrops so he could no longer feel them.  For 
a moment Aya was gone to, and the hands in place of his were 
creeping into Ken's shirt.

/"What's this action."/

/"I'm just playing."/

/"Sure..." and then he'd take those hands, caress the fingers inside 
out.  "Gotcha I..."/

/No... It's Aya.  It's Aya.  It's just Aya!/

But that only made the presence behind him even more defined.

The parking lot at the library was bare and empty as a black glass 
desert, the lobby silent like a catacomb despite the ciphers of light 
that glossed over blue form the clouds came in faint as specters 
upon the floor.  Ken stood dripping in the entry way a moment, 
rubbing at his eyes as if his hands would 
scare away the visions that now unbidden came, one by one, from 
the fog of the day.

He sneezed.  Gave up.  Hung his coat and turned to make sure Aya 
had followed him.

***

/Oh, great.  He's sick now./ Aya frowned after him, beset by grim 
visions of Ken, restless and cranky from being confined to bed; of 
how he and Omi would have to bully him into taking his medicine.  

/His face is all flushed, bet he's slightly feverish.  Stubborn,/ he 
groused to himself, raking his fingers through his damp hair in an 
attempt at straightening it.  /Maybe we should go home./  Aya 
pondered that notion, weighing his choices:  a future full of an 
unmanageable Ken, or the present, which was full of lovely, 
precious books.  

It didn't take Aya long to choose the latter, realizing that he 
already had the former to look forward to, illness or no.  Without a 
word, he headed for the stairs to the second floor; when he reached 
them, he glanced over his shoulder to find Ken hadn't followed 
him.  

"Are you coming?"

***

Ken wiped his nose on the back of his hand before Aya turned 
around, hoping no one had seen. 

"Are you coming?" It general, he would have expected this would 
sound more like "Are you planning to cross me and thereby end 
you own life?" but somehow the voice so usually shot with ice had 
lost that very quality. In the context of the leader of Weiss, this 
nearly struck Ken as kind.  Sure, the words were faint, even in the 
fae stillness of the building, but still.  

"Ah, in a bit!" He gave Aya a wink.  "I was actually gonna go look 
something up quick."

No reply.  At least, not a voiced one.  But the air between them 
was rife with implications, nearly shimmering with them.

"Well, maybe not quick..." Ken corrected, taking a moment to rub 
his neck. "Something in the non-fiction section.  That's where I'm 
gonna be for awhile, if you care to join me..."

/I know you don't but that's not going to stop me from offering!/ 

"But you know, if it's not your thing, feel that's fine.  In fact, I bet 
motorcycle maintenance is boring to you."

/Now wait just a second! He's gonna think there's something wrong 
with the bike! You'll never get him back on it now!/

/Think of something quick!/

"Especially when it comes to trying to improve something that's 
already great and..."

/Congratulations, you made things worse./

"And the fact I've never even tried that before! I won't know where 
to look at all!"

It was all he could do to smirk and try to look knowing, while 
sensing with ever fiber of his being he had crossed the line 
between carrying the persona of a loveable goof and carrying the 
persona of a foolish, vapid twit.

And yet, his smile surely came out pure somehow, for there was 
bitter irony to this sugar coated idiocy.

Aya probably thought he was a foolish, vapid twit regardless.

Which made the way he'd wrapped his arms around his waist all 
the more tantalizing. 

***

Aya's expression had gone from a mere curious peek over one 
shoulder to a panicked quirk of eyebrows to a full-bodied, slightly 
bewildered stare. 

/He wants to improve the motorcycle, but it's already great, and 
he's going to search through the library's collection of manuals 
until he finds the one he needs...Yet, he doesn't really know where 
to look at all./ 

/Uh-huh./

Aya slipped his hands into his back pockets, head tilted slightly to 
one side and eyes narrowed in thought. Again, he felt like Ken was 
up to something, but damned if he couldn't figure out what. 

/But he...has a smile like an angel.../

Unconsciously, a tiny smile flickered over the redhead's lips in 
answer, warming his eyes just a fraction. Then he blinked and it 
was gone. He drew his hands out of his pockets and assumed his 
usual stiff-backed stance. 

"Whatever," he murmured, hitching one shoulder in a small shrug. 
Miyamoto and Lao-Tsu and Rimbaud awaited his presence on the 
next 
floor, and he didn't want to keep them waiting any longer. 

"Well, I know what *I* want." 

He turned away and headed towards the stairs, booted feet sinking 
into the cushy, dark blue carpet--only recently laid down from the 
feel of it. Aya felt a little like he was walking on springs. 

The conversation was clearly over...Or so anyone who'd been 
watching them would think. But then, just as said invisible 
onlooker might have turned away, bored, Aya twisted around to 
peek at Ken again. One hand on the rail. Voice as soft as before. 

"But if you want, I'll come back and help you look."

***

Ken gulped... and audibly too for the vast and comforting silence.  
Then he did something that felt like cuddling a teddy bear and 
tearing off its head at the same time.  "Nah, that's OK."  And his 
companion faded away.

It all seemed like he was only doing something to push Aya away 
for a million years, something not even the stars would take back.  
And Aya could not see, or didn't not care to reveal that he might.  
Like they were the last two humans left alive and split by a rift of 
space dust.  Yes, the leader of Weiss had sort of a cosmic nuance 
to his nature.  Pushing away, yet cradling 
interest, as if something in him treasured it.  It made Ken question 
his faith in roses.  

Had this happened... before?

He knew now.  Roses.  Books.  Looking.  He would be here 
awhile.

What would Aya read? What would he do and think and feel? 
What if he was only by himself and staring at the rain?

***  

In the sepulchral silence of the second floor, Aya wove through the 
stacks, sorting through the books he knew he wanted, and the 
previously unread ones that had caught his eye: 

A doorstop sized Haiku anthology; the aforementioned Rimbaud--
in both French and Japanese; Shelley. 

Miyamoto's treatises on the samurai code and way of the sword--
must reads for any practitioner of Kendo. Texts he'd read before, 
but always found himself turning to time and time again. 

And...hidden away amongst those weighty, intellectual tomes, was 
a book about one Lestat. 

The books hung in the hollow just above his hip, tucked in one 
arm. Comfortable, and real, and soothing. Books were his anchor. 

The idle thought drifted into the forefront of his consciousness 
then--Of his arms around Ken's waist. He would never have clung 
to Youji like that. Omi either. It would be ridiculous in both cases, 
him seeking solace from them. 

Youji would have laughed. Would have teased him unmercifully.

Omi would have either gotten all worried. He was more to be 
protected than protector...Or so Aya always secretly felt. 

But Ken? Aside from his initial balking of doing so, he had 
thought no more about being so positioned against Ken. It had 
seemed natural, somehow, that he had sought comfort from him. 
Just his presence was soothing at times. 

When he wasn't trying to argue with or hit him.

An unseen quirk of a smile flitted over his face as he moved over 
one stack, to where the ideas of Chinese philosophers and poets 
dwelt. Not an unfamiliar place for him to be, really. He'd always 
gravitated to this section every time he came to visit. 

Its cloth cover was torn along the back edge, and the kanji, painted 
down the front of it in fine, gold lettered brushstrokes, was half 
faded away from years of handling. But Aya knew what it was 
without looking any further than its red binding. The Tao. Lao-
Tsu's philosophical masterpiece. He'd read that particular copy 
himself several times, and always, he found a great source of 
inspiration. 

Centuries-old, life-altering wisdom bound up in a mere book. 
Advising non-action; acceptance. Freely bending to the will of 
Fate. 

He'd learned when he was a boy, when he first took up Kendo, 
how 
closely philosophy and martial arts were intertwined. At his 
master's encouragement, he had delved not only in Zen texts, but in 
Lao-Tsu's work, among others. He had tried to practice those 
philosophies in his own life. Had honestly thought he could. 

And had ultimately failed. 

The whole of his life now revolved around one point. One crushing 
moment, in which the things and the people he held most dear 
were 
cruelly snatched away. And he could accept none of it. 

Aya reverently fingered the book, running his fingertips lightly 
across the time-dulled, gold-leafed pages, and then he opened it. 
The sheets flipped lazily from cover to cover, kanji flowing in a 
blur of black print before his eyes. 

And then, the book softly fell closed between Aya's palms. 

Its message no longer held any meaning for him--except that it was 
an unattainable ideal. 

He gathered up his precious burden, then put the tome back in the 
gaping hole where it had resided. 

Then Aya walked away. 

***

Ken, frankly, could not find anything. Or was it that he had 
uncovered too much? The aura of still and voiceless raindrops was 
all that clung to his mind besides his task, and it had nothing to say 
to him.

Searching the catalogue for "rose" had turned up a morass of 
romance novels, and, although thoroughly embarrassed to have 
wandered into such a disreputable section of literature, despite no 
one being around to have pointed out his odd presence, he was still 
quite flustered by the racks and racks of women in the arms of 
liberally greased men in all manner of absurd costumes.

This brief foray had found him for a few moments in the fiction 
section, which was somewhat near literature itself, as opposed to 
the references downstairs. He thought he had glimpses Aya, a 
crimson and black shadow drifting like brilliant seafoam 
somewhere in front of the far window, but he had slipped away 
himself, praying he'd not been seen.

The mishap only affirmed one thing he had off and on been 
considering all day.

/This is going to be harder than I thought.../

Besides, everyone already knew that roses were a symbol of love! 
This unfortunate spell of being lost had taught him NOTHING! 
NOTHING!

And has he input search after convoluted search, he could not stop 
thinking about the mishap, no matter what he did.

/You had time to leave work and sneak out to the library to think 
about roses./

/Yeah! So goddamnit! I'm gonna think about roses!/

/OK, well what kinda love to roses represent?/

/Well... romantic of course. I think.  So Aya would be a... 
romantic?/

/Yeah, and you know what else? Youji's gonna pick up the prime 
minister for hot, body thumping sex, Omi's going to swear the 
varnish offa table and Persia will decide to have a picnic with 
Takatori somewhere in hell./

But Ken paused in the middle of a particularly complex line of 
anding. His hands felt very cold all of a sudden, yet they seemed 
damp. His eyes hurt. He wiped his fingers on his jeans and 
continued. One such little thing was no matter for a member of 
Weiss.

Again... /Why?/

/Why are you even here?/

/How come romance novels are always about a guy and a girl, why 
not two girls, or two guys. I'm sure someone, somewhere would 
read that kinda thing./

He had to smother a chuckle with his fist. Laughing out loud here 
just seemed like laughing at a funeral, or a very serious tactics 
session.

/Ok! So, why are any of us here?/

/And why don't you go thumb through these books instead of 
fighting this thing. I don't think you're problems are current enough 
for a computer./

Next moment, he chair was empty and crooked and a soft shuffling 
could be heard in the literature reference section. Anyone passing 
the alcove would have found a dozen volumes, all with indexes 
spread.

***

Pale of face as a specter, Aya glided slowly around the remaining 
stacks. Browsing as opposed to intently searching, pausing from 
time to time to lay his burden down on the odd empty shelf and 
pull yet another likely-looking book out for casual perusal. 

But then, he tired of that activity. He'd found what he'd wanted, 
after all, and he didn't have a reason to stay any longer. 

No personal reason that was...Except...

He didn't want to disappoint Ken. 

He'd been so eager to come here. Very eager. Thinking back on it 
now, Aya'd realized he'd never seen him so wanting to come to the 
library. Not that he wasn't one for reading--Aya'd seen him with 
some book in hand before. But...It was all so strange. As if he had 
a real purpose in visiting, and not merely to spend a few rainy day 
hours amidst the dusty stacks. 

No, it seemed he had a mystery on his hands. A minor one, true, 
but an interesting one.

And it was made even more so to the redhead when he ducked out 
of the endless row of the American literature section to go to his 
usual corner of the second floor. One little used by patrons, he'd 
found. 

Until today. Someone had had the same idea he'd had.

And Aya had a good idea who that someone was. 

Stealthily he moved closer to the book-strewn alcove, glancing 
around for signs of Ken, even up to the time he quietly set his own 
selections down to thumb through the open volumes. At once he 
recognized them for what they were; no surprise there, really, for 
Aya'd had used such things before. But that Ken was using them...?

He bent down to study the page of the volume before him, finding 
it in 'R'. 

/'R'? 'R' for what?/ Aya's finger slowly drifted down the columns. 

/'R' is for rainbows, and rice, and.../

/...Roses./

Aya shifted his foggy attention to the stack of yawning books 
above the one in front of him. Roses. Had Ken wanted to know 
about roses? 

If so, why?

He drew himself up, and drew his hand away, and then, he heard 
the soft, yet unmistakable sounds of someone moving about in one 
of the nearby stacks. The rasp of cloth against cloth as books were 
removed and put back. 

It was as drowsily rhythmic as a lullaby. 

Aya leaned up against the wall next to the cluttered table and 
waited, listening with eyes closed. 

***

Ken had become most wise in his quest for an answer to his 
nagging question, a veritbale living avatar of a very, very old 
maxim.  

Sadly it was this- it is a wise man who knows he knows nothing.

And Ken was by this point convinced he knew nothing.  He could 
not find a page that agreed with another page.  If all these writers 
were to be gathered in the library now, he supposed they should 
have fought among themselves until there was nothing left save 
scraps of their clothing that had been torn off in the fray.

A rose was indicative of the female genitals and nothing else, a 
rose was a symbol of purity, whoever had related it to 
unmentionable parts was a fool.  A rose was a left over Victorian 
ideal.  A rose was a just a flower and everyone else had better shut 
up.

He was thrilled to merely come upon someone who also found the 
myriad of meanings and dared not make sense of them.  

"The idea of calling my book The Name of the Rose came to me 
virtually by chance, and I liked it because the rose is a symbolic 
figure so rich in meaning that it hardly has any meaning left: 
Dante's mystic rose, and go lovely rose, the War of the Roses, rose 
thou art sick, too many rings around Rosie, a rose by any other 
name, a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose, the 
Rosicrucians.  The title rightly disoriented the reader who was 
unable to choose just one interpretation..."

Ken bit his lip and fumed silently.  /So I haul my butt out here in 
the rain and someone makes FUN of my problem? Someone... 
PLAYS with roses? Who is this sicko.../

He flipped to the spine for a moment and read, Umberto Eco.

/Why if I ever get my hands on him! Why I'll... I'll NEVER be able 
to look at a rose without laughing now./

Ken lifted his eyes from the page and stared at the ceiling for a 
moment.  He must have looked as if he was praying, there splayed 
out among a host of literary reference books, half caught by the 
lights and half by the slight illumination of the rain.

/Well, Eco-kun.  Maybe you know what to do./

And then he saw it.  "I remember that Abelard used the example of 
a sentence Nulla rosa est to demonstrate how language can speak 
both of the nonexistent and the destroyed."

He took a moment to rest the side of his face on his hand... he was 
just about to speak his conclusion to himself when he thought he 
caught the sound of someone moving nearby...

***

Some time went by before Aya realized the shuffling had ceased. 
He opened his eyes, half-expecting to see Ken, but, of course, 
found himself alone. 

But then, he usually was.

He leaned back against the wall, and gazed at the slate grey sky 
through the windows. Rain swished against the rectangular panes. 
The wind wailed around the side of the building, and Aya shivered 
in sympathy. 

He turned away from the window to look at his surroundings. 
Really look. And it only made him feel even more isolated than 
before. No humans. Only books. 

Ideas and logic and facts. 

Suddenly he felt so melancholy. 

He shoved his hands in his pockets and pushed away from the wall 
with one booted foot, leaving only a narrow black streak on the 
pastel papered wall as a clue. 

/Fuck. Where is Ken?/

He briskly set off down another aisle of books, feeling as if at any 
moment the shelves would tip, spilling their contents down on top 
of him. Crushing him. 

By the time he'd cleared it, his heart was beating in fright. He 
could feel it beating in his throat, as if it had leapt from its 
hollow in his chest. 

/I'm being unreasonable./

/I'm being utterly foolish./ 

He now stood in the center of another little walkway, stacks on all 
sides of him. Surrounded, as it were. And still, all he could hear 
was the distant gush of the rain and wind. 

No bad singing; no steady beat of a heart along with his own. 

/Fuck. Fuck. Fuck./

He took a few deep breaths to center himself, to force himself to 
relax, and then, after a time, he heard it: The faint flip of 
pages. Of books being pushed aside. He set off in the direction of 
the sound. 

There were desks there, he knew, and as he got closer the sounds 
of life grew louder. The rustle of clothing as its wearer moved. 
Low, exasperated muttering. One corner twitched upward. Yeah, it 
was Ken all right. 

Aya took his hands out of his pockets as he rounded the corner, but 
no sooner did he see Ken than he stopped in his tracks. 

He was that transfixed by what he saw. 

From the way he was sitting, Ken looked like a saint in a 
Renaissance painting, his face softly aglow with Heaven's 
radiance. Even though the light was actually more man-made than 
not. 

Then he moved, and he was simply Ken again. But that wasn't 
right 
either. There was nothing simple about him. Nothing 
commonplace. 

Aya watched him for a moment, then silently crossed the short 
space that separated them and came up behind his chair, a little off 
to the side. Peered over his shoulder at the texts on the desk, then 
back at him. Studied the strong curve of his jaw. 

"Why are you suddenly so interested in roses?"

***

The voice came up so suddenly in the otherwise quietude of the 
library, Ken rather jumped and nearly dropped the book he was 
holding. He managed to escape having only rather bent a page, but 
still... 

Grinning dumbly, he turned to Aya and spoke gaily, "There you 
are!" And then he also lowered his voice because it had become 
rather loud... or maybe that was but the reaction he would have had 
to any noise that was not raindrop related after having gone 
without them for so long. "I was wondering where you'd got to all 
this time. We can stay longer if you want I mean..." 

But the he paused and took a moment to really look at his 
companion, who wore presently the most peculiar guise... though 
he had been shifting through quite a few of them in the past hours. 
Longing in him lived now, reverence, all with a touch of fear and 
wonder. 

And he scowled presently. 

"Oh, right... about the roses, err... well, you know we do work in a 
flower shop and all and I was gettin' kinda bored just you know, 
looking at them, so I decided maybe I should think about 'em for 
awhile." he ended his sentence with a shrug, not to emotion the 
wondering of where his reply had come from. He hadn't exactly 
prepared for the question, and he hadn't expected he'd ever be able 
to fib so damn well without precognition. He chuckled, more for 
his own slyness. "Hey, are you ready to go maybe? Or are you just 
checkin' up on me?" 

***

The longer Ken talked, the more nonsense that spilled from his 
mouth, the softer Aya's expression grew, until the scowl had 
completely melted away. His face now donning a thoughtful mask, 
the swordsman merely looked at him. Studied him. 

So earnest was Ken in stating his reasons, that it struck the redhead 
as comical...So much so that he would have laughed outright--if he 
were Ran, and not Aya. 

But Aya he was, and so only one corner twitched in helpless 
amusement. He was just so...

So...

Aya pushed aside a few straying books, and set his own selections 
down in the lopsided patch of cleared table. "We can stay here for 
awhile longer," he said as he folded himself up in the chair next to 
Ken's. "I don't care. I mean, since you're so eager to learn about 
roses..."

Another twitch of his mouth as he flipped open one of his books 
and fingered down the table of contents, looking for a particular 
poem. A favorite one. 

"Of course, I don't know why you didn't just ask *me*." 

***

Ken indulged himself.  He had no reason not to.  After all, Aya 
certainly indulging in his own present absurdities.  Why, for the 
first he could recall with any certainty, Aya appeared to be, well, 
not especially enraged.  Oh, how Ken smirked.

"I have no idea, Aya old pal.  Guess I was just too absorbed in my 
research. Obsession is am amaaaaaaaazing thing."

Saying this, he picked himself up.  At least, himself and an 
armload of books, several of which tumbled to the floor and 
created some seriously nerve wracking crashes.  "But I'd say I've 
been obsessed enough for one day, not that I got quotas or anythin', 
but I'm about read to go."  This said, he began ladling the books 
back onto their shelves... or at least reasonable 
approximations of their shelves, with barely the tips if his fingers 
for the rest of him was quite concerned with keeping their brothers 
and sisters from falling to their metaphorical deaths.  Why hadn't 
he just left them on the floor and put them away one by one?

/Stupid Ken~!/

Either way, it was going to take a moment or two... or three... he 
just grinned, but when he came to the copy of The Name of the 
Rose, he took a serious moment to consider it.

"Ne, Aya? Can you do me a favor? I just remembered that I don't 
exactly have my library card..." /Because I'm a big, stupid baka and 
I left with out it of course!/  "... could you check that out for me? I 
swear I'll remember to return it on time."

***

"Aa, I'll check it out for you," Aya replied, making a beeline for 
him, his eyes trained on the book in question.  He'd read it long 
ago, and was surprised to find it as Ken's sole choice; he never 
thought Ken would ever be so interested in such a work as that.  
Silently, he took the book and laid it along with his selections on 
an empty corner of a shelf.  

"And I'll put these up, too" he added, picking some of the books 
Ken held out of his arms.  

***

"You've read that?" He'd just had that in his eyes, Aya.  And...

Aya nodded.  Ken smirked.

"Aa, well, thanks for all this, I mean, giving me a hand, using your 
card... comin' with me and all."

The other boy only spared him a glance indicating he had heard his 
words.  And so the clawed boy among the white hunters fell back 
to earth and heard words from long ago, ringing in his head, fading 
away like footsteps as he was left... left somewhere.

/"But I don't get it!"/

/"I'm not gonna read it again just for you..."/

/"Then tell me where we're supposed to be in this."/

/"We're not IN the book.  The book is about another world.  Two 
worlds where time and space are divorced.  One is called..."/

But they both dissolved around him and he found himself once 
more in the library.  Just behind... Aya had... Aya had the most 
exquisite ivory neck, just barely exposed between his sweater and 
his crimson floss.  It was all of him anyone could ever bear to see, 
be graced to see, Ken supposed, what with the rest of him wrapped 
up so.

The clerk's computer was beeping gaily as it removed their trove of 
pages from the "IN" complement of books.  She yawned loudly.

/You're thinking this... about HIM? What's wrong with you? Get 
ahold of yourself!/

He did, however, thank his companion for a second time as they 
dashed out to the parking lot after the motorbike.  And even more 
wretched cold have descended with the afternoon, and the rain 
itself had refracted into a think, damp haze, which only became 
obvious when seem creeping in the distance, like packs of ghostly 
cats descended upon Tokyo.  He barely saw them as he stashed 
their hoard away and took a moment to mop the water from the 
seat, which still proved cold once he had taken it himself.

Aya required a moment more to follow.

"It's a good day for beef sukiyaki, whaddya say? Something nice 
and hot when we get back? To think this is summer! I tell ya."

And there were the other man's hands, looped so meticulously 
about his waist, the tenderness of fear softening the muscles.  A 
smile came to his lips and he knew no one of consequence would 
ever see it.  As if the motorists whizzing past cared anything for a 
pair of guys on a bike, waiting to pull out of the library parking lot. 

But Whooosh! There he and Aya went, down the road in a cocoon 
of spay, hidden among thousands upon thousands of salary men 
and housewives on their way home for dinner and any semblance 
of a family they possessed.  Ken passed a small Toyota whose 
owner was preoccupied with a cell phone, and as he did so, felt the 
fingers on his shirt grow tense.

So he petted them, almost absently.  And at once regretted it.

The light before them abruptly lost its golden hue and he skidded 
somewhat as he stopped.  A word or two of apology flickered on 
his tongue.  But never came.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder.  Someone with nails.

"Hidaka Ken?"  A small voice, feminine and perfumed with a 
European accent so strongly, he thought at first it had given an 
obscure Welsh greeting.

He said nothing, but turned and beheld a small girl, fair and light 
but lost in the folds of an enormous, extravagant olive men's dress 
jacket, which was not buttoned, and so between its buttons he 
could see she was otherwise clad in a sailor suit, such as any 
middle school would have required.

Had it not been made of saffron and cobalt silk.  

The little girl chuckled.  Did she think he was checking her out as 
he observed that erroneous little bit of fabric covering her? "Fancy 
meeting you here! Now I don't have to walk all the way to the 
Koneko!" 

Before he could have said or done anything besides allow his heart 
to beat, he found himself holding a little parchment envelope and 
just catching the sight of the ribbons in her hair fluttering away.  

/"One is called..."/

Ken felt naught, saw not, breathes not.  His thoughts still 
disintegrated, the memories... reforming into this.  Had the light 
changed? He didn't know.  All he knew was had been writ on the 
burgundy parchment he'd found within the envelop.  

[Owing to the revelations of recent events, we on Terra invite you 
to join us once more.  In penance for our previous ignorance, tithes 
have been waved for you and any companions for five years time.  
Please come visit us at the Hyacinth Villa if the roots shake.  Do 
not come if the leaves shake.  Savil knows the way.]

Ken cared not if the leaves shook or not.  He ripped up the note 
and threw it into the street, where, as he drove away to a 
caconophy of car horns, it pirouetted in the torrents or rainwater, 
and fell into the sewer never to be reclaimed.    

(OOC: I was beef sukiyaki on cold days while I was in Japan, so it 
can't be that odd... I think.)

***

To see a child approach Ken wasn't unusual. To see a child 
approach Ken whilst he was on his motorcycle in the middle of a 
busy street, though--that WAS unusual. Aya'd had expressed his 
curiosity in his typically subtle way--a quirk of one finely arched 
dark brow and no words to accompany it. 

But what was in the envelope? Why did Ken look so odd when 
he'd read it? And why did he shred it and toss it away so carelessly, 
to make it just more garbage to clog the sewer, to be washed up 
elsewhere. 

Aya flicked his starry gaze to the man in front of him. Each one 
had a separate life, free from Weiss, from each other. One where 
they could show those hidden corners of their hearts and souls. 

What was Ken's like?

Aya realized that he longed to know. 

The cycle sped through the streets, fearlessly zigzagging here and 
there between the cars. Aya reckoned that that was how Ken 
usually drove it: Flying through the Tokyo traffic without a 
thought to the danger. Maybe, given their night jobs, being so 
reckless on a shining motorcycle, with the wind in one's hair and 
someone's arms wrapped around you, didn't seem quite so 
dangerous. 

So, silent Aya stayed. Merely slid his arms more tightly around 
Ken, chest to back, cradling him between his thighs. Eyes closed, 
and the feather-light tickle of brown strands against his pale 
cheeks. 

A bowl of sukiyaki would never make him any warmer than he 
was at 
that moment. 

***

Ken dove. Mindlessly. Thoughtlessly.

Aya said nothing.

He breathed so hard his chest ached, gripped the handle bars so 
hard his fingers turned white as snow, white as Aya's.

Aya said nothing.

And if that wasn't maddening enough, his companion was leaning 
so close to him, he started to feel like the velveteen rabbit... the 
initial shock began to ease with this, somewhat, trickling, 
blooming into a stupefying calm.

/"...One is called Antiterra;..."/

His own fingers patted Aya's again, and he dropped to a more 
reasonable speed. He'd frightened him again... how thoughtless. 
The girl had been thoughtless, but that was her place in the world. 
They were all like that... he was like that. Aya. Poor Aya.

/"...that's hell."/

What the hell had Aya thought of all this!?

Nothing or he would have done something. No, if anything 
possessed Aya, it was that nagging unhappiness of being on the 
bike in the first place.

/"Then there's Terra;..."/

As he ground to a halt before the Koneko no Sumi Ie, his senses 
began to return, wandering back into him and the spaces once 
possessed only by dread.

/"...Terra is kinda like heaven."/

/But that still doesn't mean I have to go back. No, I'm Weiss now... 
I'm Weiss... I'm.../

Just another chap getting off his bike that afternoon. One more 
man returning home among the flood of car and sopping people. 
One more person, getting ready to make dinner.

He gave Aya's hands a barely tangible squeeze as they dismounted.

"Hey, I'll cook everything tonight! Don't you worry about a thing... 
OK, I promise not to burn it. I guess you can warm up the heater 
awhile. God it's cold... I'll be ready about..."

His watch read 5:02. So dinner would be at six.

Two hours too early on Terra.

***

The keys went back into his pocket with a cheery tinkle, and Aya 
padded into the shop. It was just as cold inside as it was outside. 
Maybe more so. 

Of course, out there, he had Ken to curl up next to. He could still 
feel the hard, smooth lines of him; the tenderness of his palm on 
his terror-stricken hands. 

No emotions: His mentor, Shion, had taught him that, and Aya had 
taken those lessons to heart, so strong was his desire to kill his 
greatest foe, and avenge his ruined family. Only to Aya-chan did 
he show the truth. 

The longer he'd gotten to know them though, the harder it became 
to keep himself apart, to stay unemotional always. Especially 
around Ken. 

He rolled that notion around his head as he wiped down his work 
table, the heater all hot and orange before his stockinged feet. He 
could hear the brunet moving around as he got down to work. 

Aya headed towards the kitchen, tossing the dust cloth into the 
laundry room as he passed. He could hear the plop and sizzle of 
steak as Ken threw it into the skillet. The brunet himself loomed up 
before Aya's eyes as he drew up to the threshold, and he admired 
him to his heart's content, leaning his lanky frame against the 
scuffed jamb. 

"Don't you think it was rude of you tear up that child's invitation?"

***

Ken had just lost himself in his cooking when he remembered he 
should probably put on an apron, and Ken had just gotten over his 
profound embarrassment regarding wearing said apron, when he 
heard Aya, speaking to him.

If that wasn't bad enough, he was using that lilt.  The little boy I-
saw-what-you-did-with-mommy-last-night nuance, barely 
discernable.  He turned, and, not only that, but there was Aya.  Aya 
not observing the preparation of the steak, but rather... him.

/How many times have I lied today? God.../

So he told at least part of the truth that was in his heart.

"Some things its better not to keep, old buddy.  Kids never learn 
that, but I got it from them.  Now that note was between her, 
myself, and her somewhat older sister, who's one of the girls who 
comes by the shop.  Enough said, mmm?" He sighed and fished his 
companion's chopsticks out of the drawer. 

Before Aya had a chance to respond, one quiet sort of fear in the 
deep corridors of his heart tugged at him inside.  /One of the girls 
that comes here.../

/She sounded like she hadn't.../

/Better look, just the same.../

He motioned he would return at once, and jogged into his room for 
a moment.  The bed was still only semi-made, the window locked, 
his trophies and schedules undisturbed.  /Phew./

So he headed back into the kitchen and shrugged.

***

Omi did so hate to admit it, but this drive had become monotonous 
some time ago.

Not unpleasant, but somewhere beyond the bizarre Tokyoites and 
the lull of the rain so close to sleeping breath, only the incorrigible 
aroma of cigarette smoke tickling his throat, insisted he at least 
remain awake enough to stifle the occasional cough. Coughing 
would be awfully rude. Youji obviously took great pride in his 
little black car...

At least one saving grace that had kept him more than occupied 
and polite these hours.

The car was filled with secret cubbies of candy.

Probably candy intended to serve Youji's many dates in the 
absence of liquor, but candy none the less, and candy the driver 
was always in a mood to share it seemed.

Yogurt wafers, sesame hard candies, blueberry jellies... actually, 
more jellies than the average schoolgirl ate in a year in a myriad of 
flavors ...barley sugar lollipops from the US, packets of almond 
crunch pokey, Glico cherry twigs, morrinaga's mysteriously cool 
summer drops, buttercream caramels, and, his personal favorite the 
infatescimal sugar drips they sold in bottles at the sanrio stores.

He had just finished a tube actually.

"Ne, Youji-kun? I hate to be rude, but are we there YET?"

***

The seventh cigarette of the return trip hung in the curve between 
his index and middle finger, trickling a pale blue fog into the 
artificially heated air. He'd barely taken a hit from it since lighting 
it, but no matter--for Youji, sometimes simply holding one was 
enough of a comfort. The smoke curling around his oft thorn-
pricked fingers, warming them negligibly. 

Wished it could warm him all over, but nothing and no one had 
ever been able to do that, not since...

He forced her face out of his mind, and lifted the cigarette for a 
drawn out puff. Eyes as pure green as a newly furled fern frond 
peered at the blond boy who lay curled up on the seat next tohim. 

A simple question, and he suddenly felt so old. And he had no idea 
why.

"Are we at the flower shop? Well, no, Omi, we aren't--as you can 
plainly see. Are we in Tokyo? Yes." He smirked. "And what are 
you 
complaining about anyway? We learned the wheres and whys 
about 
that smuggling scheme, just like Persia wanted us to do. And now, 
you're getting to ride about in a gorgeous, head-turning British 
sportscar with a sexy, head-turning Japanese guy--all with all the 
candy you can eat. So what do you have to complain about, kid?"

He grinned, surreptitiously letting his gaze roam over the youth's 
slender build...And then he quickly looked back to the road before 
his thoughts could take a lascivious turn. The cigarette once more 
slithered between his lips.

In his head, he could hear her laugh. 

*"When will you ever learn?"*

/Damned if I know, baby./

***

Omi blushed furiously, burying both his hands and the empty 
bottle of sweets in his yellow windbreaker.  "I'm sorry, Youji-
kun!" He burst out, stopping then at the sound of his own voice... 
he sounded like he was glad to be sorry.

Thinking that, he wriggled his feet from his sneakers and let his 
warm socks be warmed uninhibitedly by the lower heaters.  But the 
warmth trickling up his jeans did more than allay his case of 
goosebumps.  It made him realize once again how very, very 
sleepy he was.  

The clock on the dash read 6:33.  An utterly unholy hour for 
someone who had been up since 3:15.  He swallowed another 
yawn, followed directly by another sesame candy.  At least it 
turned out to be sesame.  They had just crossed the gulf between 
two streetlights.  The clouds must have been miles thick for it to be 
this dark already, for the streetlights to show up like hallucinatory 
foxfire as their gleams bounced past his lashed. 

"Saa, thank you for taking me out with you today.  I know you 
were planning to go alone and all."

He glanced over at the driver once more as he spoke, and the first 
think he saw of him was the finger twined so reverently around the 
cigarette, followed by the sleeve of his silk shirt, taught against the 
muscles of his forearm.  The wavy yellow hair just touching his 
shoulders, the two eyes above the drooping glasses that just barely 
hung on his nose.  Omi started to smile, 
and then he remembered two things.

The next light they stopped at, he reached over and gently plucked 
those glasses away, his fingers ever so slightly brushing Youji's 
nose.  "Gomen. but you really shouldn't wear these to drive at 
night... and didn't you tell me we weren't going back to koneko?"

*** 

"Oi! Who's the adult and who's the kid here? I can see just fine 
with my shades on, Omi," Youji protested, trying very much to be 
stern in both tone and expression, but the slight twitch of his mouth 
as he struggled to keep from smiling ruined the effect. 

The car drifted up to another light, practically purring. Youji drew 
out another cigarette and lit it, then turned to Omi, his lips 
automatically sliding into a grin. "And no, I wasn't planning on 
going back to Koneko just now. I mean, why should I? It's 
Saturday night! Time to relax and enjoy one's self." He prodded 
the boy on the shoulder with one ringed finger. "And that means 
assassins too."

His expression softened then, ensnared as he was Omi's beauty. 
Such moments happened on occasion, and at the oddest times. 
He'd look over at him, ready to scold or tease, and then it would hit 
him.

The streetlight on the corner slanted cream yellow across him, 
sparkling through his dark blond hair, falling across the side of his 
face and over his shoulder. He looked like a fragile, lost waif, the 
faint smudges under his eyes only adding to the effect. 

Youji had the strangest urge to scoop him up in his arms, and hold 
him close. 

Behind him then, a cacophony of car horns burst forth, tearing his 
impulsive longings asunder. The cigarette was back in his mouth, 
and they were off again. 

/Get ahold of yourself, man!/

He took a deep drag of his cigarette, then ground the rest of it out 
in the ash-encrusted tray. Laughed a little, somewhat self-
consciously. 

"Of course, you're tired, I can see it. So if you want to go back to 
the shop, I'll drop you off there. But," he added, slipping him a 
quick glance as he made a left turn. "You're welcome to come with 
me."

***

"Well..." Omi began with a shy little smirk playing on his face.  It 
was hard not to show emotion in that situation.  Why, Aya himself 
probably would have grimaced gaily at the face Youji made when 
those cars started honking at him. "Kids are people too!" Was it 
Youji's grin or his own that was so infectious? Probably Youji's.  
He liked the way the elder man always turned to that 
vulnerable "I'm not hiding anything" look when he saw him. 

"Sure, I'll go with you." Said with a bright sort of disinterest, 
somewhat obviously false.  "I promise not to be a bother." To this, 
he added a bow, hands humbly pressed together before him.  
Thanks to the graces of luck, he also managed to be tilted 
downwards when the latest of his choked yawns took him.  

/You've gone without sleep for days on end.  You know it.  I know 
it.  Youji knows it.  You stop yawning./

/I doubt I could sleep when I got home anyway.../

He smiled again.  Some things were worth harping on.  At least in 
dreams.

*** 

Now that was what Youji wanted to hear. He clapped his delight 
on the black leather wrapped steering wheel. 

"All right! Glad to hear it, Omi-kun." 

/'Cause all you ever do after school and homework is hang around 
the den, on the computer--and even then, it's mostly for work. 
Weekends you spend in the shop. When do you play, Omi?/

"And you aren't a bother to me! Not one bit, not one bit!" 

/When do you sleep, for that matter? You're worried about 
something, aren't you kid?/ 

He reached for the pack of Marlboros once more, only to find it 
empty. He crumpled it in one hand and tossed it over his shoulder, 
mouthing a curse. Of all the times to run out. 

/I'm worried too--about you./

"And is that a blush I see?" He leered at him then, teasing, and 
promptly burst out laughing. 

They were now in the city's center, the Times Square of the Far 
East. A sea of neon to swim through, and he was a shark in the 
midst of a school of tuna. A smile lit up his face far brighter than 
the tiny flame from his lighter ever could. 

"So...What do you want, Omi? Do you want bright lights and loud 
music--or are you seeking a little peace and quiet this evening? 
Your choice, and it's all on me tonight." 

***

If there was anything that made Omi's cheeks pink, it was having 
someone else point out the fact he was, in fact, already blushing. 

/What is wrong with me? Between the sugar and the lack of sleep... 
I'll wake up in a little bit.  I only wish I knew how sane I'd be at the 
time./

So here, in the city where clubbers leaned from cars, yelping like 
excited dogs covered with baubles, here surrounded by soapland, 
technoland and, let it be faced, hello kitty land; drowning in the 
cascades of light from a thousand whimsical facades; not to 
mention being in a car with probably one of the greatest 
unacknowledged party boys that ever lived, Omi asked, "Could we 
go to one of those themed teahouses?  With the staff in costume? 
And the..." /Endless servings of chocolate strawberry cake with 
itty-bitty icing animals on top?/ "...cake?" He paused then, one 
more burying his hands in his coat.  They had gone cold again.  "I 
can't seem to think of one in particular."

He braced himself for another playful leer... and surely enough, his 
fading blush redoubled.  

***

"A teahouse?  Hmmm..."  Youji executed a neat, albeit sudden left 
 turn down a side street.  "I know just the place.  Traditional to  a 
'T', right down their resident shamisen player.  Lovely ladies in  
kimono with voices as soft as clouds, Omi."  He sighed heavily, 
and  reached up to push at his glasses--which of course, weren't 
there.  

He'd almost forgot, so used to wearing him was he.  Youji rubbed 
the  bridge of his nose to cover his slip.      

"Smiles as sweet as...Milk Chocolate Pocky."  He chuckled.  
 
/But not as sweet as yours.../

"Speaking of which, look in the dash and see if there's some...Oh!   
Wait!  That's okay!"  He grinned.  "Because we. Are. Here."

The car glided through yet another light, and coasted sharply to the  
right.  Up to the opening in a low, brown brick wall and through it.   
A squat building on the apex of a curved drive, separated from it 
by  a bridge over a wide, manmade river.  Youji supposed the 
owner wanted  to give patrons the sense of crossing from one 
world into another.  

Youji threw open his door and tossed the keys to the waiting valet,  
warning him to take it easy.  Then he walked around to the other 
side  and opened Omi's door, one hand extended towards him.  
One might  think he'd simply forgotten he was in the company of a 
male instead  of a female.  One might also expect him to withdraw 
it with an  embarrassed chuckle, and instead leave his companion 
to his own  defenses.  

But still it stayed, waiting for the sure weight of the boy's smooth 
palm to grace it.  

"Shall we, Omi?"

***

/What are you trying to hide from me, Ken?/

/Don't you realize how foolish it is to even attempt to keep 
something from me?/

/I'm Weiss, same as you. I'll find out what it is./

Water hissed from the rim of the cast iron kettle, burbling over to 
spin down the sink drain, and Aya's attention immediately jerked 
back to the task at hand. His hands were damp and thoroughly 
chilled by the time he'd set it on top of the farthest eye. He wanted 
to curl them around Ken's waist again, bury them in the folds of his 
skin-warmed shirt. 

He unrolled the sodden sleeve cuffs of his oversized black sweater 
down over them instead. 

The cabinet beside the stove opened with a mousy squeak, and one 
by one, canisters and boxes landed on the counter. 

"Bancha? Earl Grey? Formosa Oolong?" 

Aya paused, lip curled in a sneer at the red-and-white gingham 
printed paper box in his hand. But it too, fell with a smack on the 
white formica counter. More dropped there than actually placed. 

"Strawberry?"

Omi and his demanding sweet tooth. 

***

Ken looked up from worrying their dinner with the longest pair of 
cooking chopsticks he had been able to scare up. The sukiyaki 
presently more or less contained, he took a moment to watch his 
companion, hoping his expression would not be betrayed by the 
shine of the tea kettle.

Bancha: touched it lightly, let go before it hit the counter. 

Earl Grey: held it for a half a second longer than the others, set it 
far away from the edge of the counter so it wouldn't fall.

Formosa Oolong: pure holy reverence even in the way he said the 
name. 

Strawberry: (Ken giggled) thrown down as if the package exuded 
ignominy.

Aya's bum: A perfectly curved place of...

He gulped silently.  More names floated in the air.  He shook 
himself.

"Formosa Oolong sounds good." He finally decided, trying not to 
sound too enthusiastic.  "Thanks for getting' the tea ready. Hey, I 
do believe this is done at last! God bless hotplates on cold 
evenings."

But what about little girls in sailor fukus who doubtless had gotten 
cold legs on his account? No matter.  Back to watching Aya!

***

"Oolong it is."

He popped the tightly jammed-on lid off the steel canister with the 
end of a teaspoon, sending a few dried leafy crumbles onto the 
counter top.  Always happened, every single time he opened that 
particular tin.  

Cups next.  Aya opened the dish cabinet and found only two clean 
cups in residence.  One made to look like dark purple marble, 
square in shape with a tiny chip on the rim.  The other, and Aya 
had to smile at the sight of it, was a Pochacco cup, one Omi had 
bought at Sanrio once as a sort of joke for Ken.  

So fitting, both of them.  

He fished two strainers out of the drawer and dropped one each 
into the cups, then turned around...

...And found Ken was watching him.  

Aya set everything down on the table, trying his damnedest to calm 
the sudden raging of his heart.  
 
"Smells good, Ken."

***

"Ah, thanks Aya! But you might want to hold on the compliments 
until after we prove this is edible." Ken winked, and held his hand 
to his forehead like a little navy boy, he didn't exactly know why.  
Soon enough, the timer rang, and both summoned, they took their 
usually places around the table, and the steaming hotplate there.

As Aya sat and faced him with those hazy silver-purple eyes, he 
assumed a decadently nonchalant air, leaning against the back of 
his chair for a bit too long before starting to serve sukiyaki as any 
good little housewife would have done, presenting the best area's 
of the pan to Aya. A moment of telling silence as they both had 
their tastes.

/Hmm... not bad... maybe overdid the soy sauce but not too much. 
We'll see what he thinks.../

/Now, as for conversation... work is bad, real work is worse, his 
popping out every so often will get my head cut off... probably still 
kinda peeved about the making off with his rose incident... not a 
motorcycle person... yeah, really... let me see.../

"Aya, there's somethin' I've been meaning to ask you." /Many 
something, but this'll do... for now./ "Saa, what do you think of 
kids? You know, just kids you see runnin' around while we're out?"

***

As for Aya, the soy sauce bathed sukiyaki was perfection. He 
could never get enough of that particular condiment in fact, as 
much as he relished the bitter tang of it. 

The chopsticks were laid dainty alongside his bowl as he took his 
battered teacup in hand. Two dunks and a swirl and the strainer 
was removed. He took a sip, solemn gaze settling upon Ken, a 
compliment hovering on the tip of his tongue. 

"Children...?"

The cup landed on the table with a soft, solid tap. It was an 
unexpected question--but no more so than the fact Ken was 
attempting to engage him in conversation. Not something he 
usually did.

Nor did he ever look so...happy. At least, not in *his* presence.

And had his eyes always been *so* blue? 

Aya picked up his lacquered chopsticks and began prodding the 
succulent bits of beef, mulling over these odd new developments; 
shaping his answer. 

"I...suppose they're okay. If they've been taught how to behave 
properly." He pinched a piece of meat and held it up, letting the 
thin sauce coating it drip back into his bowl. 

"Which they usually *aren't*."

He popped the morsel into his mouth. 

"But why are you asking me about that?"

***

"Saa, well, it's only we spend so much time together, and damnit! 
We only know what we don't have in common.  How to get on 
each other's nerves.  It's been years and all I've got to carry around 
in my little file of Who Aya Is," Saying this, he tapped his 
forehead, "Is the same thing I've had since day one."  This out of 
his system, he plucked another nibble from his plate, popped it in 
his mouth, and sucked quietly for a bit.  

/Why aren't you still after me about anything that happened today?/

/Why am I even doing this? Any of this...?/

/Ah well.../

"Ok, so we don't quite agree on children.  Me? I adore 'em, spoiled 
or not.  There's no such thing as a bad kid t'me.  Just kids who need 
something else in their lives: love, discipline, ice cream.  But then 
again, I never did get over liking rolling in the dirt, and I can't 
imagine you ever did it in the first place!"

***

Aya sipped from his cup, leaving his hands wrapped around it after 
settling it on the table. The sides of it were so hot that he thought 
his skin would blister from the heat. 

/Is that how you see me?/

"No, I never played in the dirt."

/Ah, well...Maybe it's only fitting that you do./ 

"I was much too busy playing the part of heir and firstborn. Had to 
set an example."

/But there's much more to me than what you see./

"I guess...I've always been too serious..."

/I wish.../

He released the cup from its flesh and bone prison and popped 
another tidbit into his mouth, not bothering to let the salty sauce 
drip away beforehand. 

"Why roses, Ken?"

***

More than a few grains of Ken's rice went down the wrong way.  
He was obliged to rather hurriedly grope for his tea, which has 
steeped to a point of being somewhat stronger than he fancied.  
Was very hot.  At least it scalded some sense into him.  

Traces of oolong still shining on his lips as a smile wicked as a 
royal usurpers.  

/Well, if lying doesn't work.../

"Because, Aya, a rose is a rose is a rose! Roses are nothing to be 
afraid of.  I learned that today.  I also learned that they're noble, 
and they're shy, at least in medieval manuscripts. That a rose is 
girly thing, but strength and purity come with it. Especially white 
roses like we almost never see here.  Roses're snobs.  No rose 
would play in the dirt.  Roses are the Queen of Flowers, not the 
king.  Roses have nothing to do with fun.  Roses have so many 
meanings, they have none at all."

And then, wiping his mouth of both tea and the tirade of 
symbolism, he added.  "Roses are about things long past.  Gone.  
Non existent."

And then he jammed his chopsticks into his rice since he had no 
cards to wave around to call this bluff.  

"Any you, Aya, are nothing but a rose."

***

Given all the facts Ken had just spewed forth about roses, Aya 
might have taken offense at being classified as one. Would have 
but for one thing: He was right. 

Aya knew he was a snob, had nothing to do with fun.  Even Aya-
chan had had to coax him into it, something for which she'd had a 
knack. 

He tapped at the side of his bowl with his sticks, then jammed 
them down into the fluffy bed at the bottom of it. /Strength and 
purity...Aya-chan through and through./ 

He was shy, although he tried so hard to hide it behind a scowl and 
a brusque manner. 

/But...roses are nothing to be afraid of...?/

And...every thing he'd ever wanted in his life before Weiss was 
gone. Barely a memory now.

But what about the things he wanted now?

He leveled his piercing gaze back at Ken's smiling face. 

"Why do I think there's something more to your sudden interest 
than you're letting on?"

***

Ken responded, ever more audaciously fastening his gaze to that 
enigmatic boy placed before him as if in a museum of their coy 
and cloying existence together.  "Well, because Aya, there is!"

He let that sink in for a moment, had another swig of his tea.  
Watched.

"I don't know what you've been thinkin', but that's the point.  It's 
not fun living with you, Aya." A truly amiable giggle.  "No need to 
start on that 'it's not supposed to be fun' thing.  Fun's where you 
find it, but that has nothin' to do with this.  What does is that 
you've been drivin' me nuts since we met. It was odd enough you 
showing up here with a girl's name and an old geezer's attitude, but 
it just went on and on and on.  You're as constant as these damn 
rains if not worse! And this mornin', this afternoon.  Whatever, I 
wasn't keeping track... I got sick of it, sick of this person you're 
tryin' t'be.  So, I went to go figure it out as best I could.  But all I 
know about you's totally superficial, so I had to start somewhere."

At this, he bounded from the room a moment, returning presently 
with one tight-nit crimson rose bud, what he continued to clasp as 
he sat down.  Used it like a magic wand as if it's waving would 
bring truth to his speech.

"You know, I never went for a good mystery before this... but if 
you want to spoil it, go ahead.  Even though I think I know you 
well enough, and you won't.  It's fine Aya.  As hard as you tried to 
turn me away, I still think you're the most grotesquely interesting 
person I ever met."

***

For the first time in a long time, Fujimiya Ran was utterly 
dumbfounded. 

/He thinks I'm a mystery?/ 

/He thinks living with me is FUN?/

/He...He.../

Aya frowned slightly, puzzled. 

"You want to...know me? You find me *interesting*?" 

He slumped against the solid, curved back of his chair, eyes never 
wavering from Ken's. He was putting him on, having a joke. Had 
to be...

Just had to be...!

Except it wasn't like Ken to pull those sorts of jokes. He was too 
straightforward and honest, like a damned boy scout. 

Which meant...

He lowered his eyes to the table, fearing that the sudden warmth in 
his cheeks was a blush. Fidgeted briefly with his cup, before 
letting his hands drop to his lap to twist violently at the hem of his 
sweater. 

"It's absurd, you thinking me a mystery. But...You do as you like. 
You always do."

/Cause you're impulsive and headstrong, and...And.../

His cheeks grew even warmer. 

He looked up at him again under the crimson fringe of his bangs, 
appearing for all the world like an embarrassed school boy. 

"And I do not have an 'old geezer's attitude'."

***

Ken couldn't help himself.  He chuckled.  He almost lost some tea 
through his nose.  His rose rolled onto the floor.  Today had started 
as day of normal suckiness but now... oh, but now! He'd made Aya 
cringe, he'd survived stealing from Aya... the coup de grass! He 
wanted to climb to the top of the highest building in Tokyo and 
scream it to the seas of headlights, he wanted to call Persia AND 
Takatori and brag until he was hoarse.  He, Ken Hidaka, this 
morning a mere mortal, had made Aya BLUSH!

/And it's so damn cute... aww... gulk! Get ahold of yourself Ken!/  
His grin went from Cheshire Cat to the more familiar Soccer 
Coach Encouraging Girl Who Missed a Goal.  He set his cup down 
softly, and propped one elbow on the table, so he could lean his 
cheek on it, and hopefully, look even less threatening.  

"OK, so maybe that's not the right word.  But you *are* a 
traditional, honor obsessed samurai boy.  If you were a girl, you'd 
be a mom-gal.  Either way... I do find you very interestin'! And not 
just because I 'like' to.  Not just because I 'can'.  I WANT to. And 
I've also chosen to be ridiculous and to act before I think 
sometimes.  Just like I think, logic or not, you've chosen to get 
pissed at us every chance you get.  I'm cursed by my good nature, 
you're cursed with yours.  Now, but you weren't always.  You 
AREN'T always."

He sighed.

"You're not as bad-ass as you think you are.  I know.  And I guess 
the point of this rant is that you don't have to pretend, chose this 
anymore around me.  I'm the detective, and I know." 

He also got up from the table and flicked the door open, reaching 
backwards over his shoulder.  "Melon sorbet cup? Between 
friends?"

*** 

Two years. 

For two years he'd been who he was now: Sullen, vengeful Aya. 
Fighting and living in her name and warring internally with his real 
self. And for what? 

Apparently, nothing. 

He stared aghast at his teammate. Was he really as transparent as 
that? 

Apparently, yes.

His hands clenched into tight, furious fists around his sweater's 
already mauled hem. /Damn, damn, damn!/

The offer of sorbet was neither refused nor accepted. Simply 
ignored. 

"You're so smug, aren't you? Have me ALL figured out now, do 
you?" He glared defiantly at Ken, much like a hopelessly trapped 
tiger would. 

"What makes you damn sure I'm not a bad ass? That I'm merely 
pretending?" 

He took a gulp of his tea, nearly choking on it. 

"And why do you even care if I am!"

***

Ken dropped the sorbet, which landed sideways, rolled out of its 
hiding place, and cracked loudly on the floor.

/Umm... shit./

"Because I just Do, AYA!" he spat back, the ardor of the words 
completely unintentional.  "Are you blind? Have you missed me 
every single day for the last... YEARS! I don't even know how 
many... 'cause I have seen you, I listened to you AYA! I have 
FELT you.  You live in a glass bubble like some autistic kid but 
just 'cause you cover your eyes doesn't mean everybody else can't 
see you.  How the hell do you expect me to work with you all this 
time and NOT care about you?""

/But that wasn't what he was talking about... was it... no he... he.../

With grave difficulty, he swallowed his rage, smothered his 
creeping sadness.  "No bad ass is delicate as you are.  And don't sit 
there and tell me you aren't." he shrugged, adding to himself, 
"Look at yourself for once."

***

Ken had gotten angry at him many times in the past, and had never 
had a problem with expressing his feelings. But...Never had he 
reacted so to anything he'd said or done. 

He went absolutely still. Let the words crash and swirl around his 
brain. Watched.

Ken was clearly bothered by his response...And Aya...found he 
was 
bothered because he'd clearly hurt him. 

Which surprised the hell out of him. 

Calmly, softly, and finally, he spoke up. 

"Am I blind? Yes. Have I missed you every single day since we've 
all lived together?" He paused, toyed with his cup, turning it 
around and around on the wooden table, scraping the lightly 
scarred surface. 

"No."

He looked down at his lap then, desperately wanting to flee, but 
knowing it would be a grievous mistake if he did. 

"Am I...delicate?" He snorted softly, and ducked his head down 
even more, ashamed. 

"...Yeah, Ken...I am." 

***

As for Ken, he felt as if his insides were about to pop.  His fingers 
strained, his eyes burned.  For a second or two, he became, as they 
said, completely gone.

He saw himself crossing the gap between him and his companion, 
with soft feet that barely hinted at the passage of a mouse.  Now? 
Could he? Just like that? No, because this wasn't real- the heated 
liquor of his heart would not evaporate so quickly to allow such 
faint movements, such a fleeting smile as the dream self reached 
over, traced his though-silver fingers over that 
crimson hair- no less and no more red in reality.  He saw himself 
sitting on the edge of the table that had been cleared by an 
aesthetic whim of the dream.  He saw himself consoling Aya with 
that simple, fearless caress he could not even manage in his 
brimming elsewhere.  Not here in the Koneko, not here in Weiss.

And then he found himself, still exiled to his place before the 
fridge.  How long had passed? He knew not, believed not in time 
anymore.  Or himself, or anything he could do, except...

"Fine then!"

Then he found himself totally divorced form his fancies, for now 
he stood rather in the gloom of the hallway outside, and, realizing 
he could not go back, he tore into his room with steps that were 
anything but silent.

And tried to lock the door behind him but the catch was broken.  
Lots of things were broken.  So what?

***

The distant slam of a door and Aya rose to his feet. 

"Oh, I know what I've done, Ken."

His eyes fell to the floor by the refrigerator. Pale green ice 
slowly melting amidst glittering shards of glass. 

"I've made a mess."

He walked over to the sink, took a dishrag out of the drawer and 
soaked it. 

"Damn me."

Aya wrung it out and walked back over the green-white puddle. 

"Damn my pride."

On his hands and knees, he began to clean it up. The glass bit into 
his palms and fingers through the thread bare cloth. A sudden sting 
and the warm creep of blood through his skin. He paused to 
examine the tiny wound. 

"Damn Takatori and Fate."

Then, with the barest of shrugs, he resumed his task. Having blood 
on his hands was no big deal. Not anymore. 

"I wish..." 

He scooped up the sliver sticky rag with both hands and carried it 
over to the waste can to shake it out; the glass pinged off the soup 
cans inside like rain on a tin roof. With a careless toss, the rag 
landed in the sink with a slurp. 

"Ken?"

The cups and dishes followed, dunked into hot sudsy water and 
thoroughly scrubbed; 

"Thank you for making dinner."

Then rinsed; 

"Thank you for today."

Then set in the rack to dry. 

He wiped down the counter, then the table. 

"I...had fun."

The towel was folded and laid neatly on the counter. Then Aya 
left, the light dying with the casual flip of a switch behind him. He 
stepped out into the desolate hallway, his eyes automatically 
falling upon Ken's shut and bolted door. 

Ken with a smile like peppermint ice cream. 

/I'm a damn fool.../

"And I'm sorry."

With that, the swordsman crept off to the shop. 

***

No blush took him this time, he had not time to blush, nor will nor 
fear. But what do to? Surely this all was but one brazen echo of 
Youji's will. Sweet, yet nearly mocking. Cute, yet suave and 
domineering.

/Odd but not worth over analyzing./

Omi reached up and took his companion's hand with his own. 
Their fingers met but he waited on weaving them together, did not 
take too much advantage of the waiting arm as he swung himself 
out of the car. Standing, he found that their linked palms had 
caused them to end up standing unusually close together. Should 
he let go?

He didn't, but he kept thinking he should. In the end, it was all they 
could do to cross the bridge, hand in hand. A passing matron of 
middle age allowed her eyes to linger inconspicuously upon them, 
and then hid a little grin behind her fan, before whispering 
something to her companion.

/But that's... another girl!!!/

Omi blinked and allowed his own gaze to fall to the rippling koi 
below his feet.

/Youji.../ his inner voice offered the plaint, but not his lips or his 
body.

And there passed then a man and a much younger woman, leaving 
the same teahouse. She all pearls and satin, he seeming to wish she 
would be transformed into some statue of his wishes.  They had 
left the real Tokyo, the present Tokyo, and stood now before the 
entrance of a time without time. A darling Japanese girl scarcely 
his own age, welcomed them with a shower sweet words. Oh she 
was adorable, and he voice was heavenly and...

She called Youji just... Youji.

She knew him.

She also got them a table in the back room, right up against the 
painted mural. Omi wriggled his stockinged feet against his bottom 
and watched his companion sit down, not knowing what to expect 
him to say.

***

Ah, what a room. No sound but the wafting trill of a shakuhachi in 
the air. The soft glow of a white silk lantern behind a rice paper 
wall. A low dark table and a bit of peace. 

And Omi was at his side. 

Omi with the damp, calloused palms and too short fingernails. 

He'd had the urge to kiss him then. 

"Pretty little thing, that Eri, don't you think? She's worked here for 
a couple of months now..." He gave Omi a saucy wink. 

"Oh, yeah! I come here a lot. Does that surprise you?" He laughed 
a little, raked his long bangs back from his face. "Yeah, yeah. 
Youji-jiichan feels the need for a bit of quiet on occasion."

/So why can't I *be* quiet?/

The fragile shadow of their waitress rose against the screen, then. 
A woman of Ken's age with the face of a Princess--all cool and 
wise and elegant. Cranes winged their towards heaven around her 
blue kimono's hem.

Youji promptly fell in love. 

Wordlessly, she gave them their menus and took their orders, black 
eyes glittering, and was soon gone on a whisper of white plum, 
taking a sliver of Youji's heart with her. 

Just a sliver, mind: After all, it was all he could spare. 

He propped one elbow up on the table and rested his chin in his 
palm dreamily. "Mmm...Sencha and yam soup and rice and 
yakitori. I didn't realize just how hungry I am." He turned to Omi 
with a goofy sort of smile. "And you got your cakes and sweets." 

"I swear Omi, if someone were to kiss you now, they'd think you 
were made of sugar." 

***

"Are you daring me to kiss the waitress?" Omi jested without full 
leave of his senses.  If he would not have spoken then, he should 
have gone mad- wept without reason, laughed like an imbecile.  
Something.  There had to be something, one small madness that 
kept they two in the paths of their own orbits, swinging around 
each other like the earth and the moon.

/Guess I'm the moon.../

The music in the background took to it a mellifluent melancholy, 
the space between notes left only for tears. What other patrons 
there were could barely be made out below the sound, as if they 
had turned into echoes of nothing but old noise that had once come 
to pass between these walls: choked giggles, stern love, two girls 
with heavy European accents who couldn't decide what to order...

He bit his lips and glanced one more to Youji.  Youji and his 
lovely waitresses.  Youji and his lovely woman at the gym.  Youji 
and his soap girls.

/No, he doesn't need that... he's got enough as it is./

/He's got me and he doesn't even care.

"Saa, I'll never be the boy you are, Youji-kun! I just... can't!" Still 
smiling.

***

It could have been the firefly glow of the lanterns that inspired 
him.  It might have been the haunting music that opened a chasm 
within his heart, making him remember the single chance he'd had 
for happiness--had had and had lost in a heartbeat in an alley.  He 
had loved her but never told her.  She probably wouldn't have 
believed him anyway.  

Would he--the boy with the bitten down fingernails?  

Just a sliver he'd given to the tray-carrying Princess.  But the rest 
belonged to Omi.  

"Maybe I don't want you to be like me, Omi.  And maybe...I was 
daring you to kiss and be kissed-but not by our waitress."

***

Omi chuckled, his eyes more or less closed.  "Yeah, that would be 
kinda..."

And then he was staring wide-eyed at the man across the table.  
What familiarity of him there lingered.  He felt nothing beneath 
him, nothing above him.  It was just him and Youji, hovering in 
warm limbo, some place where Tokyo had never existed.

And then he knew.  That look as far away as imaginary lands, this 
was the mirror of his own heart, yet worn by another.  Something 
about the gesture though, the words, all the facets of meaning, the 
unsaid truths.  It was as if his companion had offered himself up, 
soul empty and spilling, yet somehow inviting.

/But what if I'm not seeing it right...? What if this is all wishful 
thinking? What if I'm just another girl to him... what if he's really 
just thinking I'm too young? Being wistful and I.../

"But Youji-kun..." his words were faint as the touches of 
snowflakes. Omi found a few stale tears rolling down his cheeks.  
They joined be others; fresh, achy, and embarrassed to live.  Just 
like the rest of him.  

"What if something bad happens to me tomorrow? I don't want you 
to be sad, and I don't want the others to be sad if they find out but 
Youji... And what if I'm not what you think I am? And... I'm so 
sorry I'm crying I don't know what's wrong with me... I...  Youji..."

***

/To be just seventeen and to think you're going to die the next 
day...every day? Chikuso.../

Youji reached for him, thinking at first of merely touching one 
trembling hand, but...It just didn't seem to be enough. Not for Omi 
when he was hurting so.

And not for him. 

His hands slid past Omi's as his arms encircled his thin, sob-
wracked body. He was as small as a doll, and felt at that moment to 
be just as boneless. Youji cradled him as if he might break. 

The world could go to hell. 

"You think I'll hate you if I know the truth? Is that it? Omi... 
I...don't think I could ever hate you."

He petted the thick, tousled mop beneath his chin, whispering, 
"And I'm not going to let anything happen to you either." 

***

"But why?" Omi wailed softly into Youji's shirt- the warm, black 
fog of cigarettes and expensive cologne he had buried his face in.  
"Why can't everyone hate me? Why can't I hate everyone? Why 
can't I be alright when I'm alone? It's not fair, I'm not fair.  I 
shouldn't even be here, I should just be at home doing something 
useful instead of ruining your shirt!"

He could almost feel the marionette strings of his life go limp, 
hearing their own names in his thoughts.  Leaving him.  Like 
everything had left him in the end.

"I'm so sorry I can't hate you Youji.  I'm so sorry.  That I had to do 
this to you.  That you can't hate me either, like you should."

The sobs, which had nearly ceased, redoubled.  His eyes burned 
even though they were closed.  His ears throbbed, and that they 
throbbed with his companions pulse only made it worse.

"I'm sorry I've ruined everything.  I-I'm so sorry I love you."

***

Youji's hands stilled where they lay on Omi's back, his words 
tripping through his mind. All the times he'd said it, never had he 
really meant it. Had never had it offered to him in return. 

And now, again, when he did really feel it, but never dared say it...

He drew his arms a little tighter around him, his heart roaring in his 
ears. "You haven't ruined anything, Omi. Not anyone's lives. And 
being soaked with tears could never hurt this shirt." 

/And I know./

His hands resumed their lazy glide up and down the tense lines of 
his back. "I don't know about 'everyone', but you haven't done 
anything to make us hate you. Ken adores you; Aya too, even 
though you have to look a little harder at him to see it."

"As for me..."

He closed his eyes, and her sadly smiling face swam out of the 
shadows of his mind.

"...I'm not sorry, Omi, but I love you too." 

***

It was as if Youji had willed him to stop weeping... or at least 
sobbing.  A few shy tears still tumbled down his face, but the 
muffled cries no longer took his breath. And he reveled now in the 
sensations of Youji's hands tracing out his own shoulder 
blades.  

He didn't care one way or the out how many women those hands 
had touched.  If anything, the memories his companions fingers 
bore only gave Omi a shot of mischievous glee among the wounds 
recalled by his battered heart.

/*I'm* Youji's.  I'm Special.  I'm his only boy./

That he had never heard those words before in his whole life.  Or 
had forgotten of them.  Pushed them away for the childish fear of 
pain and regret.  Every shred of sense left to him was screaming 
for such caustic release to be re-instated.

But he couldn't.  Not now.  

There was nothing now but Youji.

Omi lifted his face from his shirt, and rubbed his nose against his 
companion's neck.  It was the only remotely sweet touch he was he 
knew how to perform.  

***

It tickled Youji, that snuffling caress. Sent an awakening twinge 
through him. One hand ghosted over the curves and hollows of 
Omi's back to cup the back of his head. Stroked the sunlight bright 
strands, smoothed them back from his forehead to press a gentle 
kiss at his temple. 

Satin skin and faintly scented hair. Felt the throb of his heart 
beneath his lips. His other hand drifted down to play across his 
lower back. 

Youji bent his head, fingers slipping lightly across salt-water 
stained cheeks, lips brushing his forehead as he spoke. 

Voice as soft as spring rain. 

"Omi?"

***

"Y-yes? Youji-kun, I..." Omi struggled a moment to pick himself 
up- a battle he ultimately lost.  The kisses lingered on him in a way 
he supposed no motherly gesture could have.  I love you not 
because you are mine and I am obliged to love you, but because I 
have chosen to.  These kisses mean you are mine.  At least for 
now.  Be happy.

So instead he sighed and snuggled up closer. 

The waitress appeared with their tea, she did not seem surprised by 
the tangle of their forms, she did not say anything.  She winked 
softly and gave them a thumbs up in fact.  They both chuckled a 
little as she hurried off.

Only to be caught by the two little girls sitting at the closest table, 
be it not particularly close at all.  The slightly older one seemed to 
inquire after some certain ice cream, was refused, shook her head, 
and went back to her tea.  For the first time her eyes glanced 
behind the screen that partly hindered the view of their own table.

The girl choked on her tea, said something to her blond 
companion, who was rather drinking instead, a champagne flute of 
milk.

Which ended up on the floor.  Shattered.

A flurry of apologies and sweeping waitresses followed.  The two 
girls left only a ten-thousand yen note in their wake.  

Omi was hot with embarrassment then... how could they... he had 
only just opened his heart and now this?

Youji kissed his brow again.  

"I'm glad they left then.  I can make you sad on my own.  But I'm 
not going to.  Not if I can help it. I just want to be happy with you.  
At least for awhile."

***

"You don't make me sad. And I don't care who sees us. If they can't 
deal with it...Too bad." 

His hand daringly dipped down to graze Omi's hip, feather lightly 
over the curve of firm flesh behind it. 

"I was right. You taste so sweet, Omi, that someone would think 
you were made of candy." He leered, teasing again. "I could 
become addicted."

His lecherous look softened then as he laughed, settling at last into 
a fond smile. "And I wouldn't mind that at all."

Two fingers slid under his chin and tilted it up, and he kissed him 
soundly, deeply. 

"Shall I say it again? Hm?"

"I love you, Omi."

He let his fingers drift down the fragile, pale curve of Omi's 
throat, eyes locked with his, then pulled away a little, smiling 
still.

"Shall we eat, now? I find I'm suddenly...ravenous."

***

Omi stopped breathing for some seconds... he felt as if he no 
longer hungered for air, or water, or even light.

He felt as if his body had been left behind somewhere, perhaps 
never existed.  And yet, his fingers crept onto his own lips, stroked 
the alien wetness of them.  He licked them.  Tasted someone else.  
Maybe it wasn't the first time in his life.

But it was the first time he felt like this.  His entire mouth tingled.  

"I do too, I... I'm so hungry."

Actually, he didn't know if the butterflies in his stomach were 
willing to give way to supper, but if ridding himself of them and 
presenting any semblance of at least polite hunger brought pain, so 
did scooting out of Youji's embrace... his hips lingered against 
him, his fingers.

In the end he scooted his own dishes over towards the other side of 
the table, and stayed there, his shin against Youji's.

"Itadakimasu!"

And his sipped his soup.  The butterflies vanished.  Only warmth 
remained.

*** 

"Savil! Stop it!" The elder of two small girls cried frantically 
somewhere in the neon sea of evening Tokyo.  No one answered 
her, not even her companion, though the little one did stop running, 
returning her hand to her full control.  The clubbers surrounding 
the, did not, however, learn fluent Gaelic, and so continued to 
think nothing of them.

"But I'm so scared! Oh, let's go home, please, Fiona? Please?"

"Right!  C'mon now, lets get to a payphone." 

Nods passed between then and so they slid up to a street corner 
hidden behind a parade of poorly parked cars.  Fiona handed over 
fine hundred yen, saying "This *is* your assignment after all.  I'm 
just here to help you since you're not used to travellin'. You call."

Savil had to dial the number twice since her tiny hands had not yet 
ceased shaking.  Her heart indeed did not slow until the ringing on 
the other end had come to an end, and a bright female voice had 
answered.

"Moshi moshi?"

"Marlene?"

"Yes'm."

"Hi, it's me. I was just wondering if you thought I should pick up 
some Turkish Taffy for Edmund, since I'm out?"

A long pause, Fiona admired her nails and a passing white dog in 
rapid succession.  Finally Marlene's voice "I'll get a three way 
here, one moment." Followed by some muffled dialing noises, 
clacking plastic.

And then a man's voice, made purposefully low and groggy.

"Rufus here."

"Oh good! It's you! I was hoping I'd get..."

"Saffie?"

"Yes, it's me." She wrinkled up her nose, since her giggles 
remained drowned by her dread.  

"What's the matter?"

"Well, Fifi and I," (Fiona: "HEY!") "ran into Sephiroth and we're 
awfully spooked."  

"Oh, did you now?" Falsely tired though the words were, they 
suddenly brimmed with gentle concern.  "Well, this is the Planet 
after all.  I'm surprised you went out at all.  But, it's just taffy, and 
you'd sent the owls."

"Can you come get us?"

"For you, anything.  In fact, you know what? There should be an 
oyster bar called The Walrus and the Carpenter really near where 
you are now.  Why don't you forget the taffy, go in there, and order 
yourselves Shirley Temples.  The owner knows me, just tell him 
who your Ni-chan is.  I'll be right there.  Don't get me anything."

"Ok."

"Watch yourselves now!"

"You too! Bai bai!"

The line went dead.  Savil, her brows knotted with puzzlement, 
turned to her traveling companion.  Then she saw it, just across the 
street.  "He says we're to go wait in there."

"Really?"

"And order Shirley Temples. You know what that means, don't 
you?"

"No... that's why I abouta ask you..."

"It apparently means were to go in there and order Shirley 
Temples." 

***

Tender and oh-so-luscious. Toothsome enough to drive a man 
insane. 

And the yakitori was rather appealing as well.

The jostle of a slim hip against his, mimicking. 

Youji could barely keep from touching Omi long enough to eat. A 
bite here, a taste there, and a hand would be on him again--gentle 
and easy and slightly audacious. 

Between sips of soup, he idly stroked one denim-covered thigh 
whilst watching his companion eat. Bites of sweet, pink frosting 
and fluffy cake disappearing between ivory teeth and eminently 
kissable lips. A whipped cloud dollop lingered at the corner of 
Omi's mouth, and Youji wanted to lick it away.

An arm snaked around Omi's narrow waist and Youji leaned close, 
and did exactly that.

A wolfish grin ensued, and Youji purred, "Utsukushii..." 

***

Another puff of frosting lit upon his tongue, and more or less half 
his face. He couldn't have executed the misplaced frosting any 
better.  Youji's warm tongue fell just where he liked it...

Rather than return the delicate little phrase with clear words, he 
turned the gesture into an impromptu kiss and a barely whispered 
an "Iyaaaaan!" that had no more force to it that than chocolate puff. 

/He probably just thinks I'm letting him eat me up with his eyes.  
Ah! Silly Youji-kun!/

Since on the rare occasion his companion would stop to take a bite 
of something, Omi would always let his own gaze creep along the 
fine, sensual lines of the Youji's body.  Much the way his hands 
kept creeping over him.

With an imperceptible gulp he returned the favor and buried his 
fingers in Youji's golden hair, where they tangled for a moment 
before hovering over his neck, and finally hiding away inside the 
edge of his collar.

***

A swirl of strawberry and Omi's mouth--hot and trembling and 
slick. Youji felt like moaning. Felt like...

A bite of chicken, a sip of tea and he lost another fraction of his 
control. Both arms around him, holding him close, and his lips on 
Omi's throat. 
Open-mouthed and warm to the hollow. He could feel his heart 
throb. 

Felt an answering ache lower down. A demanding ache. 

Imagined Omi's hands on him, and he gasped. 

"Omi," he whispered, sliding upwards to graze an earlobe with his 
teeth. "I'm starving..."

"I need to...eat..." 

***

And then, he did moan himself.  Because everything was going by 
in a blur of sugar, cake, streetlights and kissed on his neck that 
made him want to scream? No...

...because he was happy beyond all human words.  This day, dying 
as it was, had been one endless gift, unwrapping itself once second 
at a time, minute by minute, hour by hour, cake after cake.

"You know," he sighed slowly, his breath all strawberries and 
chocolate.  "I'm only seventeen.  But I heard someone say that's the 
most perverse age there is."

His usual, innocent smile... "And I'm very hungry too!" 
...Juxtaposed with the indisputable fact, he grabbed Youji's hand 
and slid it down the front of his own pants.  His companion was 
right; waitresses be damned!

***

Youji was shocked...In the nicest way anyone could ever be 
shocked. After all, his hand was currently wrapped around the 
most delectable bit of flesh it had ever touched. 

He let his thoughts show on his face. 

"Ah...Yes...! Omi..." he dipped his head to dab at his ear with the 
tip of his tongue. "Just what I was wanting. But we must do it 
properly, hm?"

He slid his hand out with a faint scratch of nails on his lower 
stomach, catching Omi up and rocking back to stretch his legs out, 
settling him in his lap. 

"Got to make you comfortable, Omi-kun, or you won't enjoy 
this...And I want you to enjoy this..."

Those lips found the slope of Omi's throat, suckling gently, licking, 
as his hand made a downward tug of the zipper, a loosening pull of 
a button. Once more he was in and around him, stroking the 
hardening, pulsing length with abandon. 

***

Omi managed to swallow that small wimper, and followed it with a 
gasp.  His hips twitched forward, all out of alignment and it took 
him a moment to settle them back into the crux of Youji's thighs.  
Then he whispered to him, "I... I hate to be a pain, but could you 
pull the screen over? Just in case I..." He grinned horribly in 
between his rapid breaths that were chilling his teeth with the 
heady aroma of Youji- cologne, tea, cigarettes, his skin.

"I'm going to get to tell everyone I had my first time in a teahouse, 
someday... not right away I..." Another moan.  He silenced it 
though.

By wrenching Youji's head forward and burying his mouth against 
those stunned lips.     

***

Youji met Omi's assault with a muffled cry of surprise, but he 
didn't pull away. Simply pulled him closer, timed the easy thrust of 
his tongue in the blond's mouth with the stroke of his hand. 
Miming a more intimate act...

He'd done such things in public before, but never in a teahouse, 
with the threat of discovery so close. Such danger made it that 
much more erotic for him. Sent his heart tripping.

But not as much as Omi did.

He rocked his hips against the boy's ass, and promptly bit back a 
moan. 

The speed of his hand increased only the tiniest bit, a maniacal 
gleam in his eye as he looked down at him. "I don't think you want 
me to stop this just to move a screen, do you Omi-kun?" 

He bent over him again, and captured his lips in a bruising kiss.

***

"I guess..." he began before diving into another kiss.  "I guess..." 
One more, just one more- that or cry out.  "I guess I don't!" That 
came as a hoarse sigh.  

Omi exhaled sharply and perched his chin on Youji's shoulder, his 
lips tantalizingly close to his ear, just hovering before it.  

"I guess I couldn't have asked for this to be any better..." a laugh, 
"This is the most wonderful place and the most wonderful you.  I 
guess you think I'm not getting off on the fact we're not alone.  
Youji-kun you don't know but I always had fantasies about 
someone watching, or being there, or holding my head."  He had to 
stop for another depthless meeting of their lips.  "And to think this 
morning you didn't even know I  liked boys!"

He stopped a moment, leaning backwards and bringing his hands 
up between him and Youji... whose eyes didn't seem to want to 
focus on his own.  Probably because they were so fraught with 
lewd mischeif of all sorts.  He took a moment to tweak the stiff 
nipples under his companion's shirt.  "Tell me what you want when 
you're finished with me?"

***

Youji bit back a gasp at the touch of Omi's fingers on his chest. 
Maddening. He was on the edge...

And was promptly driven off it by his question.

"What do I want?" 

His breathing was ragged now. He leaned in, whispering, "I want 
to lay you down and strip you and take you. Be in you. Thrust over 
and over into you, and hear you moan my name." 

"But first...I have to take care of you..."

Easily, as if Omi were made of frothed egg whites and air, Youji 
pushed him back onto the cushions, and slithered down him like a 
snake. Parted his sprawled thighs and rested there. Lips hovering 
above the apex. 

"I think you'll like this better..."

With careful fingers, he drew him out, and inched his lips over the 
weeping tip of his sex and down with one smooth stroke, tongue 
pressing hard against him. 

***

Omi had to laugh to keep from screaming, since kissed were 
denied him at the moment, at least his mouth.  "You wouldn't do 
that to a boy on his first date even, would you?"

A moment spent with his fist in his mouth.

"I guess I'm no boy then.  That sounds fine to me... Someday, if 
not right now I... oh... ohhhhhhhh... Youji... Youji please..." sitting 
up somewhat, he ruffled his companion's bangs and reached for his 
nipples again.  "Hmmmm...mmmm... you think I wouldn't like to 
do the same to you? This? Having you on the kitchen table in the 
Koneko with Aya and Ken in the next room getting drooled on by 
schoolgirls? I..."

His speech ended with gasp as came.  A lot sooner than he'd been 
meaning to, but the sensation otherwise. silences him, sent him 
slumping back onto the pillows, licking his lips and gasping for air.  

He just hoped for the waitress to hold off on the check.

But the tenderness that had flown him in the midst of his desire 
returned, and he sat up, pushing Youji away a moment to zip his 
pants back up, and then pulling him back, holding him as if he'd 
fallen in battle.  It only felt a little strange, not because they were 
in such a quiet little teahouse.

But because Youji was so much taller than him, and still looked so 
sweet, slumped in his arms.

"Still love me?"

***

The taste of Omi lingered in his mouth, clung to the corners of his 
lips, and Youji swiped his tongue greedily to catch the last traces 
of it. Savoring it. 

Oh, yes, he was sweet. Inside and out. Heart and soul and body. 

And he was all his. 

The desire in his eyes faded to a flame, still stoked by the 
suggestion of him on a table, with that wondrous mouth working 
him, schoolgirls and teammates just around the corner. 

Oh, that they would definitely have to try.

He lifted a finger to stroke the full curve of his cheek. 

"Aa, Omi. I still love you."

He shifted in his arms just enough to kiss him tenderly, ruffling his 
hair. 

"And as for the rest...Whenever you're ready. Okay?"

/Cause the last thing I want to do is make you uneasy. Make you 
feel used./

***

/You swallow... you spend all your time with women and you 
swallow./

Omi's face was all wonderment.  He tugged Youji closer like a 
teddy bear, snuggled his nose to his companion's neck.  "Well," he 
began whispering into his ear once again, this time letting the very 
tip of his tongue dart out over the edges of his earring.  "we don't 
want to give this lovely place to bad a reputation.  We want to be 
able to come back and do this again.  How about we save that for 
another night, and the kitchen table?  And for now I'll just return 
the favor?"

He provided no time to answer, but rather took one fleeting glance 
around to make sure no one in particular was watching, fumbled 
the flush in his cheeks which had arisen in thoughts of what he had 
done and what he was about to do, flipped Youji over and went for 
his zipper.

Once well ensconced between his companion's legs and holding 
the elusive bit of metal, he leaned on one hand, and smirked 
wildly, as he opened it, and kissed him through the jet silk of his 
boxers.

***

It wasn't what Youji had expected, being thus treated--not that he 
was complaining. More like pleasantly surprised, and shocked at 
being so pleasantly surprised twice in one night. 

The weight of his hand made him roll his hips forward, twitch 
against Omi's hand in silent pleading. His eyes fell on those rosy 
lips, and he felt his mouth go dry. It was too much to bear. 

Omi could make him into a slave with just a look, and Youji loved 
it.

He arched into his touch, stretching, hands coasting over his hair, 
his shoulders, his arms. 

"Omi...Do it...Please..." 

***

/Well, there it goes.../ 

"You said my name..." Omi found himself truly delighted at the 
revelation.  Now safe and satisfied himself, his compulsion to 
please returned, and he decided at once we would enjoy this even 
more than what had been done to him.

He said nothing, but gingerly at first swept the wetness from 
Youji's tip now that he had bared it... and then made him watch as 
he licked his fingers rather than anything else.  His own eyes 
followed those watching him all the way down.  Out of sight where 
he began with a few nimble and distinctly wet kisses.  And then 
he stopped.

Licked his lips.  Licked Youji.  Curled his lips over his teeth and 
took just the very tip into his mouth.  

And rolled it around with his tongue like a lollipop.

***

With lids drawn shut, Youji lay on cushions of cream satin, spread  
and exposed and brazenly toyed with by the most beautiful boy 
he'd  ever seen.  
 
Tsukiyono Omi-kun.  HIS Omi.     

Oh, but it was good, so damn good, that tongue of his lapping at 
the  tip of him as if it were a sweet.    
 
He was better than any woman he'd ever had.  

Youji brought a hand down to pet his hair again, fighting back the  
urge to thrust forward a little into that wet heat.  His head lolled  to 
the side with a gasp.  Not yet...Not yet.

When he spoke at last, it was more or less like a soft, quiet moan,  
fingers ruffling.  

"Omi...Omi.  All mine...And I...Ahhh..."  

***

Omi smiled around his lover and inched upwards ever so slightly 
to catch his fingers in his hair.  And then it was all he could do to 
sink, taking him a little deeper than before in penance for having 
shifted away.

He couldn't seem to stop smiling.

A possessive little smile no less. 

Part of him wanted to reach down far enough to nuzzle Youji's 
fuzz with his nose, but every time he tried, he felt him self start to 
gag a little and had to edge back again.  /He knows I'm am 
amateur.  He'll understand... won't he?/

Well, not in his dreams was he an amateur, but here, now.  
Pleasing a corporeal body that he had no control over...

He gave a little nibble with his lips and slid his hands over Youji's 
thighs and onto his ass, giving it a good grope.

***

"You're a bad, bad boy, Omi-kun..."

Youji wriggled his fingers against his scalp, stroking. A breathy 
little chuckle which dissolved into a gasp. Voice a silk sheet sigh. 

"Not that I'm complaining..."

He thrust forward then, just a little, just enough, then withdrew. A 
gentle roll like a wave. 

"I don't want to hurt you."

Another tiny hitch.

"I don't want to spoil that pretty mouth."

It was building and building at a crawl between his legs. 
Deceptively slow, almost unexpected. 

Almost.

He flexed his fingers in his hair. 

"Pretty Omi..." 

***

He pulled away for just  split second and whispered, "I'm your bad 
boy.  All yours."

That moment between licks he took to mop the inside of his lips 
with his tongue... they were but the tiniest bit slit, and he'd done it 
himself.  /Will my kisses be bloody? Oh god, I hope not... I hope 
I.../

He felt all through him a certain quiver in the muscles his tight lip 
embraced.  /Ready? Ok Youji... now please hold still.../

Thinking this, he took a deep breath and leaned over his lover's 
sex, half swallowing it.  Youji's hips bumped him in the shoulders, 
traces of salt appeared on the back of his tongue.  And the longest 
sigh then drifted on the air.

He pulled up, mopping the last of his lover's orgasm up with his 
tongue.

"Pretty Youji." And smiled, leaning indolently on his thigh.

***

On his back, with nothing but a teahouse ceiling above him, was 
the last place Youji had expected to find himself that evening. 

But ah! He was in bliss. 

He adjusted his clothing, and sat up, hooking his hands under 
Omi's arms and hoisting him up for a languid kiss.

"I hadn't thought of you swallowing. I had wanted to spare that 
mouth of yours." Another tiny kiss. "Mmm...That delectable 
mouth."

He pulled him close, stroking his back and nibbling delicately at 
his ear. Silently damning the clothes that barred his hands from 
Omi's skin. If they had been alone... 

"Omi-kun," Youji purred, "how about I pay the check and we go 
home?"

***

Omi didn't exactly answer the question.  Instead, he rather tugged 
away and yawned with unintentional drama.  "Ok, Youji-kun.  I'm 
sorry.  I'm very sleepy."  And then he added with a evil little grin, 
"Which isn't entirely your fault..."

But then he shook his head and climbed to his feet, offering one of 
his hot little hands to his companion. There beside the table that 
was dappled with teacups and cake crumbs.  To think no one who 
ever sat in this booth would ever be free from the sexual nuances, 
at least in their two minds.  Everyone would be intruding on their 
special place... or would it be that they two have rather spilled 
some essence here, left traces of their energy.

He yawned again.  It was too much to think of at this hour.

They made their way to the front, hand in hand, silent save for 
sighs.  The two ladies at the counter, Eiri was one of them, thanked 
them as if nothing had happened, looking up from a leaf of pink 
paper they had both been pondering over as opposed to watching.  
It seemed out of place for such a traditional place... no matter.  
Soon he would be home with his Youji.

***

Ken lay splayed on his mattress.  Utterly still.  He barely even 
blinked.  His room remained dark save for a milky patch of 
streetlight residue that happened to be landing on his legs.  The 
light on his nightstand was within easy reach, but what if the bed 
creaked? What if anything broke the white noise of his own 
hearing, the rush on the streets? The rain that had picked up again 
and made the half-light disintegrated around him.  

What if anything interfered with his listening to Aya? He could 
just make out someone pattering around in the kitchen, and since it 
was only they two remaining in the Koneko...

/What am I waiting for... I feel like some brat wanting to be 
spanked./

/And this is besides being a total fuckwit?/

/But I was so sure.../

/You've been sure of a lot of things before, Ken./

Silence.  The kitchen had gone quiet.  His mind had shut up, as if 
even thinking the word would be like driving his claws into his 
own throat.  He could see them placed carelessly on the chest, 
glinting now and then when a raindrop chose to refract a glisten to 
their wet sheen.

Actually, the metal was quite dull.  They only seemed so in Ken's 
mind.

But then his lips formed the body of the word, but not its soul of 
meaning.

Kaze.

Someone descending the stairs.  Down... down... down...

Aya.

And his thoughts erupted with sound.  

***

"But I don't get it!" He wined playfully, tugging the covers up.  For 
a hotel renown enough to hold J-leaguers, this place was freezing.

"I'm not gonna read it again just for you..." Kaze protested with 
equal mischief in his words.  He had just read from Ada or Ardor 
after all, he had a right to be truly mad, but he wasn't.  Being asked 
to repeat such a complex passage for a foolish boy like Ken...  

"Then tell me where we're supposed to be in this." 

"We're not IN the book.  The book is about another world.  Two 
worlds where time and space are divorced.  One is called Antiterra, 
that's hell.  Then there's Terra; Terra is kinda like heaven."

"And that's where we are now?" he said it with his words and his 
body, which he draped across the bare lap of Kaze.

"Now and forever.  If you want."

***

And then he was alone again and frozen in his bed by thoughts of 
the first person he had even considered touching sweetly since... 
since...

Everything had died.  Even Terra.  To him at least.

But this... he had known if his thoughts ever lead down the once 
forgotten roads of that place, they would never return.

/And what have I got to stay here for? /

And he knew what he had to do now: go back to the place he had 
been promised he would never look upon.

Ever again.

***

The shop was as still, as dark as it had been when they'd come in. 

And as cold, despite the valiant efforts of Aya's little space heater. 

He merely sat on his stool and watched the people drift past. Fewer 
now than before, but just as frantic to get where they didn't really 
want to be--not that he cared. He was too busy thinking about the 
boy behind the locked bedroom door down the hall. 

The boy who always smelled like summer. The wind and the sea 
and new mown grass. 

The chasm between them had closed for one shining hour, and he 
opened it up again, in one unthinking moment. Question was: 
Could he close it again? 

Could he clean up his mess?

He knew he'd die inside for sure if he didn't try.

The stool creaked softly as his weight left it.  Stocking feet padded 
down the hall, pausing before Ken's forbidding door. He stroked 
the smooth surface. Green colored and cool to the touch, it was. 
The knob fitted comfortably in his palm. He drew his hand away, 
and, swallowing the choking knot of fear in his throat, raised it up 
and knocked timidly. 

Then firmly. 

"...Ken?"

***

The knock sounded like a sudden death knell in his heart.  For a 
split second he prayed above all things he had drifted off, and that 
this would be Omi or Youji's voice... the old woman who owned 
the shop... Manx! Even Schuldich and Crawford bearing blades 
would have been more welcome.

Because Aya's voice crushed him completely and utterly.

At first, like the brat he believed he was at heart, he rolled over and 
covered his head with the pillow, dousing his lungs with the 
stifling, hot air above his mattress.  But almost at once he realized 
by moving, the springs of his bed had creaking, betraying his life, 
or what unwanted moments of it remained before it's destined 
rebirth.  There...

Seconds, minutes dragged on and he said not, shuddered not even 
though he wanted to.  Another fancy came to him: one that had 
him giving up utterly, beckoning that stranger he had lived with for 
so many days into his room.  And somehow, he was different, he 
was not Aya but whoever had made himself Aya.  And they held 
each other and...

Inevitably, Terra returned. Like the refrain of a familiar song.   
And all the hopelessness, all the irony, all the cursed reality of... 
reality burned away.  Aya did not care anything for him.  Persia 
did not care anything for him.  

/If you doubt Persia, you will end./

Kaze hadn't cared about anything.  Not Ada.  Not Time.  Not Ken.

"Oh go away already!"

But whether the cry was meant for his memories or whoever stood 
outside his door, he knew not.

He just wanted them all to go away before anyone realized that his 
locks were broken.  Those on his door, his mind, and anything else 
that had originally belonged in the hell of the real world.  

***

Aya'd almost left upon hearing Ken's snapped command. But he 
couldn't: Couldn't leave the door, leave him, forget him. Ken, 
who'd kept him from feeling so...empty. 

He laid his head on the door, eyes closed, and tried to think of 
something to do or say that would inspire him to open the door and 
open himself. And then...

The knob turned in his hand and the door swung open on its own. 
Aya nearly tumbled in, but caught himself at the last in a flurry of 
feet and elbows. 

His face grew warm over being less than graceful for once, but it 
seemed it didn't matter. Ken was oblivious to him; to the room; to 
the world. 

He studied his supine form, frowning. More angry at himself than 
at Ken. Hated himself all over again for being a fool and acted 
accordingly. 

"Ken? I want...to talk to you." He took a cautious step towards the 
bed, lip snagged briefly between his teeth. 

"I...There...I have something I want to say..."

/So please let me say it and please listen.../

***

/Fucking latch.../

Ken fumed wordlessly into his mattress and nearly suffocated 
himself by pulling the pillow tighter against his head.  He heard its 
case rip.

/Fucking pillowcase.../

He was just about to pick himself and banish the red and ivory 
ghost from his room, breath deprived or not.  The pillow ended up 
in the corner.

/Fucking Aya!/

He'd taken the breath to send him away and stopped.  He could 
barely make out his companion against the glaring light of the hall.  
Just a thin silhouette.  Black.  Just like the comforting hollow of 
his bedroom.  Something his eyes could focus on.  

But fucking Aya closed to door behind him, and Ken's eyes slid 
back into their dusky vision.  And got a good look at his face.  The 
purple eyes that didn't want to focus on anything, the shivering 
lashes, the sad and tiny lips.

/How can you do this to me you.../

/You can't possibly be here to apologize, not that I... I.../

The notion was so ridiculous,  he smiled.

A little, warm smile with none of the bitterness he felt.  He just had 
to see where this went.  Coaxing a bit, he cocked his head to one 
side, bemused, amused, somewhat absorbed by the look that wasn't 
quite falling on him.

At last he sat up, and offered with a meekness that surprised even 
him.  "Go on, Aya."

***

Aya cleared his throat, coughed a little, and steeled himself to hold 
Ken's gaze. 

"Well...I wanted to say..." 

/Do you know what you do for me?/

"...How much I appreciate..."

/I'm hopeless with people, but I wasn't always. Not so much so.../

He frowned slightly, feeling so stupid. Knew he was making an ass 
of himself, and cringed inside. 

"...No, that's not it. Not all of it. Not what's important."

/And I do know what is important, even though I don't let on like I 
do.../

"Ken...I'm...I'm sorry."

***

Ken sighed and hung his head, shook his head.  Nothing seemed 
inclined to chase away the billowy shame that clouded his vision.  
Or the darkness.

He finally reached over and turned on the light.  They both winced, 
but at least it wasn't at each other.  With the last of his energy, he 
temporarily put away all cozy satin thoughts of Terra.

"It's alright, Aya.  I guess I'm sorry too but I... I really do... I really 
do think that the real you would be OK if he came out.  I promise I 
won't do anythin' to him."  He sighed, and patted the edge of the 
bed beside him.  "If you want.  I understand if you just wanna get a 
bath and go to bed, got 
nothing else to say."

***

At Ken's invitation, the tension that had overtaken Aya relented. 
His shoulders drooped in relief. With a small nod, he wandered 
over to the bed, and perched on the edge of it. Bent arms propped 
up on his knees and head bowed a little. 

It didn't really occur to him where he was exactly. Only that Ken 
was there. And Ken wouldn't hurt him. 

But then, in his heart of hearts, he had always known that--and it 
frightened him a little. 

His hands tightened around his arms, voice a murmur. 

"For dinner...For the library...For...Listening--Thank you." 

***

Ken smiled then.  An unsullied grin and the most inviting he could 
muster.  He also leaned down at an awkward angle so he could get 
a look at Aya's face.  Let him see that he was utterly free of 
aggression, of anything but a gentle welcoming. 

"Woul you're welcome, Aya.  I'm glad I made you feel better.  
Nasty rainy days like this... and hell, I wasn't any help at first! But 
I can listen.  And I will.  Alright.  I know I'm a real jerk 
sometimes, but hey, I owe you.  You 
deserve it.  Don't let anyone tell you that you don't."

/But don't stop now... don't leave now.  You have to make sure... 
before you go./ 

"It's alright, Aya.  I promise."  

***

Aya locked eyes with Ken, simply stared as if weighing his words, 
his options. Then, he sat up, and ran a hand over his face. "I don't 
know where you want me to start. I guess...I'll just start talking. 
Ask questions if you want."  

He paused, then added, "But if I'm going to tell you about myself, 
maybe you should call me by my name.  Call me Ran."  

***

Ken's most natural response was, unfortunately, the one that 
happened to pop out.  

"Hi Ran, I'm Ken.  Pleased to meet you." To cover the silly little 
slip, he was obliged to pull a dumb grin and wave.  No, that 
probably made things worse.  Too late.

Nothing for Ken had ever gone just right.  It was only that for the 
first time he wasn't helplessly fingering some gaping hole in his 
heart where the best laid plans were supposed to be.  

"Tell me about Aya." /Because it's pretty obvious you adore 
something now.../ 

***

It had been a long time since he'd gone by his given name, and it 
felt odd to hear Ken call him by it.  

"I always think about the bad things, so much so, that I nearly 
forget the good."  

"She is...really sweet, very stubborn, optimistic.  She likes fairy 
tales, likes to draw and paint; she was pretty good at it.  Ever since 
she was a child, Aya wanted to be a nurse; she never lost sight of 
that dream. She wanted to go to school in England, and I worked 
two jobs, trying to get the money to send her. Scholarships only go 
so far."  He swallowed then, forcing back his rising grief, and 
dropped his gaze to the floor. "But none of that matters anymore."

***

One of his crimson ear tails shifted invitingly, despite the way Ay-
... Ran had curled up around himself.  Ken had to clench the leg of 
his jeans to keep from brushing it away.

/I'd wished my whole life I had brothers or sisters.  Little ones.  I 
don't know what I wouldn't do for one now. And he had one? With 
a pretty name.  One who wanted to help people instead of slicing 
them up.../

But without touch, words.  He tried to sound just the way he 
always did talking to his kids but right away he stunned himself 
with how faint it all seemed on his lips now, "No... why would you 
turn yourself into her if your memories of her didn't matter? No 
matter what they are..."

***

"Oh, my memories matter to me. All of them. They give me a 
reason 
to do what I do. What I have to do. But...Everything she wanted, 
that I wanted to give her: It all seems so pointless now."

Aya unwound his long limbs, and sat back a little, glancing over at 
him. "She's not dead, Ken--not in the sense of cemeteries and 
prayers and incense, that is. Aya's neither here or there. When she 
comes back, I don't know that she'll remember me. Sometimes...I 
hope she doesn't."

"What I am now, what I've done...Aya must never know." 

***

Sudden wasn't the word.  It weaved into him slowly, one 
realization after another, and the sort of quite unraveling of 
everything came as a dim, serene light on his face.  That's where 
Aya went.  This was why he had a girl's name.  Why he looked so 
lost.  How he could kill without looking back and still seem so the 
friend of the papillion noir.  And no one else.

"Ran, this isn't forever.  We won't always have to do this, we won't 
always have to remember we even did this, not as like we do now 
but... She shouldn't know.  She doesn't have to."

/Frankly, none of us should have known in the first place./

***

They were pretty words meant to comfort, Aya knew it. But they 
were wrong. Ken was wrong. 

He wished with all his heart that he hadn't been. 

"Won't always have to do this, hm? So sure, aren't you?" Aya 
shifted on the bed, turning more towards him and away from the 
door, "Oh, no, Ken. We're Kritiker's prized cats, and they won't 
ever let us go." 

"Besides, do you think you could stop doing what we do, when 
innocents might suffer and villains go free to live and terrorize if 
we did quit? Would your sense of justice let you do it?" He gave 
him a slow shake of his head. "I couldn't. Even when she wakes 
up, I know that in this world, there would be some other danger 
waiting to befall her. Another car in the night gunning for her. I let 
her down once, Ken. I can't let her down again. Not when she's--"

The words froze on the tip of his tongue, so wrong and false. 

/All I have left...?/

/...But...That's not right.../

/I have more.../

A sound came, too low for human ears--that of a veil ripping away 
from Aya's eyes. 

/She's not all I have left./

/Right there in front of me for two fucking years...And I...Won't 
ever let you down either./

And he saw the truth of things in a wondrous and terrifying 
moment, and filled with the rainbow twinkling joy of it, he forgot 
about Aya and became simply Ran. 

He smiled, albeit slightly.

"Arigatou, Ken."

With that, he rocked forward on his knees and kissed him. 

***

Watching Aya... no, watching Ran speak had been like watching a 
child tugging its way through the grass after a butterfly.  The 
words he heard, and understood, but there was something 
intangible that crept along after them, so that the words became not 
half of what was said.  Something between darkness and light that 
shaded and shifted all over Ran... the ghost of Aya? Ken didn't 
believe in ghosts.  Aya didn't know death.

And then whatever it had been, it somersaulted away into the light 
and Ran shimmered there in the glow of the lamp.  This was no 
chilly glee of knowing, as Ken had begun to think of it.

/Don't say such things, Ran.  Don't tell me this is forever.  Don't 
tell me you're a prisoner... you aren't O and I'm not either, 
anymore.  You're not Sir Stephen, unless you are to yourself.  But 
Ran, please stop.  Please Ran, I can feel you hurting even if you 
don't./

But then the shimmer became clear.  Ran smiled.  Ken's lips 
drifted apart in surprise.

And then Ran kissed them.

It was such a little kiss... tiny, shy.  But not frail, or innocent.  Just 
their lips brushing, the feel of their breath on each other.  Nearness, 
without surrender.  

One of his hands fell lightly on Ran's breast, and the other caressed 
his ruby locks.  But only for a moment.  He held him away.  Not 
pushed, not rejected, not turned away.  Just put him where he could 
look into his eyes as he spoke.  

A single grain of a wish had turned into a pearl brighter than the 
moon in his thoughts.  "Ran I... I want to give you something, but 
you have to trust me, OK?"

/And if this works, we'll both be saved./ 

***

His lips still smarted from the kiss. Hurt in the nicest sort of 
way. Ran hoped the pain would never end. 

/But you let me stay and listened so patiently to my nonsense./

The spectral brush of his fingers down Ken's arms, his thighs, as 
Ran drew his legs up under him again. 

/And you let me kiss you./

He didn't want to let him go.

/You've already given me the best sort of gift I've ever had, but.../

"All right."

***

He spoke slowly then... and low, though he felt no one around who 
might be listening.  No one could ever be too sure.  His words were 
earnest, neither fierce nor patronizing, nor lewd.  He made them 
just a bit sweet.  Something offered, maybe small gifts on their 
own.

"Well, I have to give it to you tomorrow, if that's alright.  And 
there are a few things you should do if you want before you get it.  
It can't hurt either of us... but if I explain why, I'll spoil it."

He smiled and smoothed Ran's hair behind his ear... the long locks 
seemed to call to his hands.

"Go to bed early tonight and sleep as well as you can, alright? And 
you should probably visit Aya tomorrow, even though it isn't the 
right day of the week.  I have to get up early myself, so I'll 
probably be gone by the time you wake up."

As if in early apology, He then leaned closer, and whispered to 
Ran's lips.  "You can meet me at the library at noon.  We can walk 
to where we're going."

And kissed his softly on the brow.  "Sleep well now, OK?"

***

/You are acting very mysterious. But then, that's what you said you 
liked. Mysteries./

/And you said I was a mystery.../  A tiny smile lit up his face.  

Quietly, he looked Ken over, considering.  And then, he nodded 
once.  "All right.  I'll be there.  I won't be late."  

Ran leaned in for another quick kiss, and then he left, closing the 
door behind him.   

***

Not a sound, not a spark of light greeted them when they entered 
the building, much to Youji's unreserved glee. No Ken. No grumpy 
Aya. Just him and his Omi--who was currently curled up in his 
arms, head against his shoulder. 

His Omi. It had hit him in the car just how quickly it all had 
happened. So quickly. Never had that happened in all his life, but 
he didn't regret it. 

He hoped Omi wouldn't either. 

Youji rubbed his cheek against the silky golden strands as he wove 
his way down the hallway and up the stairs to their respective 
rooms. 

But which one to take? Would Omi even want him to stay for the 
night?

He glanced down at the warm, appealing bundle in his arms with a 
wry smile. 

"Omi?" he whispered. "Wake up. We're home." 

***

There had been dreams of scaled beasts in business suits.  Of 
darkness and of dank that came to him the moment his eyes had 
fallen closed on the way home.  And he had shuddered, between 
deep, grey rest and the gleaming catacombs of fancies.  But 
something in him, after all these months, had finally lashed 
out and driven away the nightmares.  He watched, a mere beholder 
of his own spectacle.  

One of pink, icinged tarts battling the apparitions of his dread.  If 
he had been hovering in wakefulness,  he should have been an 
inert, ethereal being.

Tied to an ivory tower in the middle of Nagara!? Wearing a dress...

He looked back on it and laughed.  Especially when Youji came in, 
riding on one of the tarts, not to mention wearing a somewhat lewd 
cowboy get up.

And then he found himself awake... or between dreams.  "I do' 
wanna.  I'm so slyeepy Youji.  I love yu.  Jus' hol' me."

Stillness.  He mistook his body for a feather since he felt nothing 
below or above.  Just a cloud of adoration beside.

"Lemme sleep in your be'.  I'm sowwy."

***

"You're sorry? That's funny, because I'm not." 

Youji grinned down at the drowsing Omi, and sailed gracefully 
into the room with him, straight to his queen-size, 350 thread count 
sheet covered, black silk throw pillow-laden bed. Just the sort of 
set up a comfort-loving, master seducer would have in his room.

Except--seduction was the last thing on his mind right then. 

He lowered Omi's legs to the floor, and the covers went back with 
a careless flick of a wrist. Stretched Omi out and divested him of 
his sneakers and jeans, himself of his all his clothing, and climbed 
in next to him. 

Arms around him and nuzzling. 

A slow, tender kiss and a smile. 

A breathless sigh in the dark. 

"I love you too, Tsukiyono Omi. Oyasumi." 

*****