WK Fic: Ground Zero, part 1

[texchan]

Ground Zero
(a weiss kreuz fanfiction by tex-chan)

Summary: Sometimes, life comes at you a bit too fast, and you’re forced to realize how fragile the most important things are. And, when that happens, you find yourself standing at Ground Zero, holding on for all you’re worth and hoping you'll still be sane when it's all over.

Author’s Note: Written as a gift for deathcomes4u, because she’s a great friend, who fangirl squeals over Aya with me on IM, and … well, because she asked me to finish this one. Otherwise, it would have languished for eternity in my “not quite done” file.

Warnings: Bad Language. Violence.

Legal Stuff: As always, this story is intended to express one fan’s genuine appreciation of Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is just for fun and not for profit. If you have any rights in the anime described here and find the posting of this fanfiction offensive or harmful, please contact me, and I will be happy to remove it.

Aya glanced over, frowning as Omi opened the passenger-side door. Aya had been up all night, plagued by nightmares that, although vivid enough to leave him clutching his sheets and gasping for breath in a panicked frenzy, faded into the ether upon his awakening. They had left him with nothing more solid than a feeling of dread-laced unease that settled in his stomach and refused to let go. It was maddening, carrying around this queasy fear, and yet, being unable to face the images head-on. Maddening and irritating -- enough to throw him into one of the deepest black-mood funks he had experienced in a long time. Even the weather seemed to echo his mood. It was chilly and rainy -- gray skies and wet, just as it had been for the past several days.

Aya didn’t want company. It was his day off, a rare day in which he didn’t have to deal with anyone; he didn’t have to pretend to be interested in flower orders and arrangements; he didn’t have to listen to whiny customers; he didn’t have to hide his bad mood, for fear of worrying Yohji; he didn’t have to keep up the act. He could be himself, even if “being himself” meant sulking and catering to the dark mood that, even now, threatened to swallow him from the inside out. And, that was exactly what he had planned. A whole day spent brooding and doing things a sane person wouldn’t do. Like driving too fast on wet, slippery roads so that he could feel his heart clench with each skid of the tires and each hair-pin turn. Maybe, if it happened enough, he would feel alive and human again.

Unfortunately, Aya’s plan for the day hadn’t taken anyone else into account. Now, it looked like he was going to have to pay for that miscalculation, as Omi seemed intent on wrecking Aya’s day off. With a hurried explanation of, “I’m supposed to meet some friends for a study group downtown. But it’s raining. I don’t want to walk, and Yohji and Ken are both busy in the shop,” Omi slid into the passenger seat of Aya’s car. As if he had all the right in the world to be there. As if it was a foregone conclusion Aya would give him a ride -- no questions asked. As if Aya should care whether or not Omi got soaked by the rain. As if being teammates was enough to make it matter. And, deep down, underneath his moody bitchiness, there was a little voice that told Aya he did care; that it did matter. He hated that, and he glared at Omi. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He wanted to tell Omi to get out and hoof it downtown … or, better yet, take the train.

Omi, in that uncanny way of his, seemed to read Aya’s thoughts with a quick, furtive glance. He unleashed his best angelic-looking smile as he repeated, putting just the right amount of pathetic whine into his voice, “It’s raining. And the next train isn’t for 45 minutes. I’ll already be late by then.”

Aya sighed, only just refraining from banging his head against the steering wheel in frustration. Omi was scary. Aya had never doubted that. The angelic smile/whining combination was effective; Omi knew it, and he employed the tactic with a ruthless precision that was frightening. Somehow, Omi managed to whine just enough to sound like a pitiful, orphaned waif, and yet, avoid stepping over the boundary toward being irritating. Even Aya couldn’t hold out against it, and the almost cherubic smile made it twice as bad. How Omi, who had spent the better part of his life killing people for money, could manage to look untarnished and innocent remained a complete mystery. Omi knew how to use these factors to his advantage, and Aya had often thought that, alone, made him dangerous. He had to be one of the most manipulative people Aya had ever known, and yet, Aya couldn’t find it within himself to hold it against his youngest teammate. Somehow, when Omi was doing it, you didn’t mind being manipulated. And, if Aya were to be honest with himself, he had to admit he would have offered Omi a ride, even if Omi hadn’t forced his way into the car. He wasn’t the total bastard he pretended to be, and, besides, it was raining. Still, he didn’t have to be happy about it.

Aya knew he was beaten. He shook his head and turned the key in the ignition -- a tacit invitation -- even before Omi had pulled his legs into the car. As Aya glanced over, he found himself faced with another of Omi’s beatific smiles and a cheerily chirped, “Thanks, Aya! You’re the best!”

Aya started to roll his eyes toward the ceiling, an outward manifestation of the disgust he felt over allowing Omi to manipulate him like this, but a sudden sound demanded his immediate and undivided attention. The starter ground a bit as he turned the key, which, in and of itself, was unusual. The Porsche was beyond reliable, and he was religious with the car’s maintenance. It always started at the first touch of the key. Always. Still, he might have been able to shrug it off as owing to the soggy, chilly weather, except there was another sound. It was so slight it was almost lost under Omi’s cheerful thank you. But, Aya was certain he had heard a tiny noise -- a “snick” -- at the end of the starter’s first, strained groan.

Aya reacted without thinking. His senses, honed by years working in his specialized night job, kicked in, forcing his body into action. It was an eerie feeling -- like running on auto-pilot. He shoved Omi, hard, toward the still-open passenger door, hoping against hope one push would be enough to get his teammate clear of the car. He was certain one push was all he would get. One chance to save Omi’s life. How he knew was a mystery. After all, there was only that one, small sound -- that one, possibly insignificant, thing. But when you were Weiss, nothing was insignificant, and the knowledge was just there in the back of his mind, as if he had been born with it. As he shoved Omi with one hand, he scrabbled with his own door handle in a crazed attempt to wrench the door open. He was vaguely aware of Omi’s indignant protest upon landing, none too gently, on the cracked asphalt of their parking area behind the Koneko.

Two seconds later, the universe burst into flames.

The blast wasn’t strong, but the flames were ferocious and hot. Omi crab walked away from them, using both hands and feet to propel himself backward as he scrabbled for purchase on the slick asphalt. He freed one arm, doing his best to shield his face while still moving back. The heat from the flames battered against his skin, and their horrible light seared across his vision. The angry words he’d been about to utter in response to what had seemed like a sudden, rude change of heart on Aya’s part died in his throat as he watched the Porsche erupt into a glowing, red-orange ball of fire and smoke. All Omi could think about was protecting himself. In the back of his mind, he knew he should go the other way; he should move forward, toward the fire. But, the animal that dwells at the bottom of every human soul will almost always win out over good intentions, and Omi’s inner beast was screaming at him to get away, to save himself. So, he moved back -- away from the fire and toward the shelter of the Koneko’s back steps -- slipping and sliding, scraping knees and palms and elbows against the rough asphalt as he made his desperate scramble for safety and freedom.

For Omi, it was as if time stopped. As if the world ground to a halt while flames engulfed the car, spewing bits of twisted, glowing metal, glass, and melting plastic around the immediate vicinity of the blast. As he settled a safer distance away, sensations began to return. He felt the sting of his skin burning as some of the debris fell over him. He smelled the flat, acrid scent of his hair -- singed from the flames that danced across his vision. He felt the throbbing, dull ache of muscles, angry at being tossed so unceremoniously to the ground and, then, forced into sudden motion. The growling roar of the fire blazing in front of him filled his hearing, blocking out everything else. For him, only the fire existed. Only the explosion that had happened a few moments ago. It was as if nothing else in his universe was real; as if the flames consumed him just as surely as they ate away at the remains of Aya’s car. And, at the same time, a haze of shock seemed to settle over him, covering his mind like a veil that didn’t let anything else through.

Until one thought managed to make itself known: Aya was still in the car.

Panic seized him, and Omi tried to struggle to his feet, only to find he didn’t have the strength to stand. His body betrayed him now, when he needed it most, and Omi cursed his own weakness. The fire was too hot. He was too tired and sore and scared, and he slid back to the ground. Tears of pain, frustration, fear, and anger streamed down his face, marking paths through the sooty grime coating his cheeks. Once again, he had failed to save someone he cared about. It was like Ouka all over again. Just like when he had held her, helpless to save the sister he had just met, as she had died in his arms. The memories came rushing back, bombarding his psyche with a strength and ferocity to rival the snapping, snarling ball of fire that continued to eat up the space where Aya’s car had stood a few seconds earlier. Omi thrust himself against the wall behind him, striking with head, fists, anything … just to vent the rage and helplessness that threatened to devour him. He wanted to scream, to yell out the anger and hatred flowing through him, and suddenly, he realized he was screaming. He had the disembodied sensation that none of this was real. That he was another person -- standing by and watching as he further bloodied already-torn hands, banged his aching skull into the wall behind him, and heard his own voice screaming strings of words that made no sense. In the end, all his words tunneled down into nothing more than the mournful wail of someone who’s been slammed, head-first, into the kind of tragedy most people never crawl out of.

“Omi! OMI!”

On some level -- in some deep part of his mind, a part locked away by fear and shame -- Omi heard Ken calling him. Ken’s voice was familiar, and, normally, Ken’s presence would be calming. It would make Omi feel safe and secure; it would remind him that everything was all right, that they could get through anything and everything, just so long as they stuck together. But, this time, Ken’s voice failed to break through the fog of panic and shock that had closed in over Omi’s brain. Ken’s voice sounded far away. Or hollow. Like Omi stood at the end of a long, dark tunnel, where even Ken couldn’t reach him. He wanted to answer. He wanted to tell Ken he was all right. He wanted to urge Ken to save Aya. But, in the end, all Omi could do was scream.

Ken hit the Koneko’s back door at a dead run, and he didn’t slow down for the steps that led from it to the parking area behind the shop. His heart hammered against his ribs -- loud and staccato-hard, so hard he thought it would have to burst through his ribcage to keep from exploding. He was scared. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this kind of blind panic. It was the kind of fear that made him do stupid things, that made him race head-first into situations without stopping to think about the consequences. He knew better; he knew he should slow down, take stock, and keep himself safe. But, he didn’t. The fear wouldn’t let him, so Ken did what he did best -- he bulled straight ahead and damn the consequences.

He and Yohji had been in the front of the shop, helping a few early-morning customers, when they had heard the explosion. Neither of them had known what had happened, but in unison, they had raced for the back door. Ken had dropped the vase of flowers he had been holding; he could still hear the sound of it shattering as it struck the shop’s tile floor. Yohji had shoved three customers out of the way and bolted for the door without even bothering to close the cash drawer on the register. Maybe they didn’t know what had caused it, but, in their experience, loud, booming noises seldom heralded anything good.

Now, Ken forced himself to pause on the third step for a moment as he struggled to take in the scene laid out before him. His brain told him there was a roaring, orange fireball where Aya’s car should have been. He heard the greedy snarl and snap of the flames. He felt the fire’s heat on his face. He heard the sirens wailing in the distance -- rescue crews, already racing to the scene of Weiss’s latest personal tragedy. And, yet, somehow, he couldn’t believe any of it. He knew what had happened, but he couldn’t wrap his brain around the cold, hard facts. The one thing that did register, loud and clear, was Omi’s screaming, and Ken scrambled down the rest of the stairs, slipping and sliding on the rain-slick metal in his rush to reach his friend.

Ken skidded to his knees beside Omi, cringing as he felt the crackle of twisted, burned plastic and shattered glass through the fabric of his jeans. He hesitated. He had never been good in situations like this, and, now, he was unsure whether or not he should reach out. His uncertainty didn’t last long. Omi’s screaming -- panicked and mournful -- tore at his soul. And Ken knew. He knew what was best. He had to let his heart guide him, and, without any more conscious thought, he reached out to Omi, pulling his terrified friend into a protective, close embrace.

“Shhh, Omi. It’s all right. You’re all right,” Ken murmured.

He held Omi to him and rocked back and forth, muttering comforting words and stroking the younger man’s hair in an effort to calm him. It was no use. Omi didn’t try to struggle away, but he wouldn’t stop screaming.

Yohji had pounded out of the back door on Ken’s heels, so close that he had been in danger of stampeding right over his shorter teammate. He didn’t pause at the top of the steps; instead, he skidded right down them, taking them two at a time until he, too, reached the parking lot. He looked down at Omi, feeling a little relieved as that one glance reassured him Omi was, more or less, all right. Omi was shaken up; his blood-curdling screams had sent shivers down Yohji’s spine. But, Omi wasn’t bleeding very badly, and, other than scrapes and bruises, Yohji couldn’t see any life-threatening injuries. Assured that Omi was going to survive, Yohji looked away, scanning the alley for any sign of their other missing teammate. And felt his panic begin to rise when he saw nothing but crackling flames and the smoking, gutted carcass of Aya’s Porsche.

“Oh … shit,” Yohji muttered, almost under his breath. He tried to choke back the panic-tinged edge on his words, but he failed miserably. “Where’s Aya?” he asked, his voice shaking.

He glanced back at Omi, although he didn’t expect a reply. Omi had stopped screaming, but he wasn’t in any condition to provide answers. He couldn’t even manage to look up in response to Yohji’s voice. He huddled in Ken’s arms, tears streaming down his face and the fire reflected in his eyes as he stared at the conflagration in front of him, and let Ken rock him back and forth -- a parent comforting a small, terrified child. It was as if Omi couldn’t look away. That reaction, and the expression on Omi’s face, told Yohji everything.

“No. No. Hell, no,” Yohji said, almost as if he were talking to himself.

He shook his head, seeking to dispel unwanted thoughts and conclusions from his mind. Maybe, if he concentrated hard enough, he would wake up inside the Koneko. He would find himself in his safe, warm bed, and this would be a dream. A very bad dream. Aya had been in that car. Omi thought Aya was still there. For a few seconds, fear paralyzed Yohji. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this afraid -- not even when Aya had been critically injured during a mission. Always, he had believed his friend was strong enough to pull through. Aya was too good, too stubborn, too … whatever … to die. But, if he was in that car … Yohji didn’t want to face it. His mind couldn’t face the inevitable conclusions, and, so, it didn’t. It shut itself off, freeing his body to spring into action.

Yohji raced toward what was left of the burning vehicle. Ken’s anguished cry of, “No, Yohji! It’s too dangerous! It’s too late!” hung in the air behind him. He heard the terror in Ken’s voice, in the choking sob that seemed to curl around Ken’s words. It mimicked his own feelings of horror and fear. But Yohji ignored it. He ignored it all. He had to. He couldn’t believe Aya was dead. His mind refused to accept that conclusion, no matter how logical it might be. And, his body refused to stand still and watch his friend burn. He had to do something, even if it meant nothing more than tossing his own life away on Aya’s funeral pyre.

Yohji stopped a short distance from the flames, shielding his face from the heat. The fire continued to spew sparks and red-hot embers into the air, along with the occasional bits of melted, twisted plastic and metal. Yohji felt the debris falling around him, stinging his skin and leaving little singe marks. He thought the fire’s growling roar would drive him crazy -- or make him deaf. He wanted it to stop, wanted it to stop so badly that he had to fight the urge to scream. Yohji could hear pieces of Aya’s car hitting the ground around him, low, solid-sounding thunks that rode beneath the fire’s snap and snarl. He kept his arm and hand in front of his face and turned his eyes away from the blistering red-orange glow as he picked his way around the perimeter of the blaze, toward where the driver’s side door had been.

He didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t have a plan. Really, he wasn’t thinking at all; he was running on instinct alone. If Aya had been in the car when it had exploded, it was too late. Aya was dead. Yohji knew this. If, by some miracle, Aya survived the blast, but was trapped inside the inferno, there was no way Yohji could pull him out. He could do nothing more than stand by and watch as Aya burned. He knew this, too. And, yet, he pushed on, closer and closer to the fire, around the edge of the flames, to the other side of the car. He couldn’t believe Aya was gone. Not like this.

When he reached the other side of the car, Yohji felt his heart catch in his throat. Relief flowed through him, so strong that his knees started to buckle, and only strength of will and the need to continue moving forward prevented it. There, on the ground a short distance from the fire, was Aya.

He lay, crumpled and still, on the cracked, debris-littered asphalt. Yohji couldn’t tell whether Aya had managed to make it there under his own power, or if the explosion had tossed him away from the car. But he could tell Aya had taken a beating. His body was twisted at an unnatural angle. There was a thin trickle of blood along the side of Aya’s face, and his clothing was singed through in some places. Smoldering car bits littered the ground around him, and a couple of the larger pieces had come close to falling on top of him. Even so, Yohji wanted to cry for joy. Aya wasn’t quite all right. He was unconscious. He was broken and still. But, he was alive. And, for now, that was more than enough.

With a heartfelt sigh, Yohji picked his way through the smoking plastic, metal, and glass in the space between the car and where Aya had landed. It seemed as if the blast’s initial inertia had played itself out, which was also a cause for relief. Yohji didn’t want to find himself standing at ground zero in the event of another explosion. As he moved past them, the flames felt hot on Yohji’s back. Sparks and embers continued to float down, spewed out by the flames and, then, dragged through the air on the subtle updrafts in the alley. They singed Yohji’s face and arms, but it was a minor irritation. Yohji ignored them, reserving all his attention for Aya as he moved toward his friend. It couldn’t have taken more than a couple of minutes before he was at Aya’s side, but, if anyone had asked him, Yohji would have sworn it had taken an eternity and then some. Tortured by the adrenaline-laced fear that coursed through his body and made his hands tremble and his breath catch in his throat, Yohji felt like he would never manage to reach Aya. Finally, he knelt next to Aya, heedless of the hot asphalt that burned his legs, even through the thick fabric of his jeans.

From the first moment he had seen Aya, Yohji had known he was alive. He couldn’t explain it; something in his heart and mind told him it was true, and Yohji believed it. Now, though, he had visual confirmation. He could see the gentle rise and fall of Aya’s chest, and, even though he couldn’t tell much about Aya’s injuries, Yohji couldn’t help feeling a little hopeful. So long as Aya was breathing, everything would be all right. Wouldn’t it? He didn’t like the way Aya had fallen -- twisted a little to one side, as if the heat had made him curl in on himself for protection. The angle was unnatural enough that Yohji couldn’t stop the shiver of fear that lanced through him, causing his chest to tighten and his breath to choke in his throat. But, he forced the run away emotions aside. Right now, he couldn’t dwell on his own fears. If he did, he would fall apart, and that wouldn’t help anyone.

Yohji took a breath -- a vain attempt to calm his racing heart, steady his nerves, and turn his mind away from things better left alone -- and continued his assessment of Aya’s injuries. He started with the trickle of blood along the side of Aya’s face, tracking its path back to a matted patch of bloody hair and finding a small gash, which didn’t appear to be very deep. There were a few cuts on Aya’s arms and torso. Yohji also found a few burn marks, although none of them looked serious -- discolored skin, but no signs of blistering or deeper damage. He couldn’t help being surprised that Aya’s injuries weren’t worse, although he almost felt like a traitor for thinking it. All in all, Aya’s wounds seemed almost minor -- at least judging by what Yohji could see on a cursory investigation. Still, Aya was unconscious, which scared Yohji. He wasn’t sure if whatever had cut his head had knocked him out. It could have been the force of the blast, or the landing. It had been a few minutes since the explosion, and Yohji wanted Aya to wake up, already. If nothing else, it would help if he could hear, right from the horse’s mouth, whether or not Aya had any broken bones.

“But, no. You have to do this the hard way, don’t you? Like always. Selfish prick,” Yohji muttered. The words were harsh, but his tone of voice took the edge off them. A small smile played around his lips, betraying his true feelings.

Moving at a careful and deliberate pace, Yohji ran his hands along Aya’s back. He hated doing this. If Aya had broken bones, this was the worst thing he could do. Yohji knew that, and it scared him. Even so, he didn’t have a choice. He had to move Aya, and he needed to know how bad things were before he attempted anything that foolish. He might not have a medical degree, but Yohji figured he should know the difference between normal and broken bones, considering there weren’t very many bones in his own body that he hadn’t broken at least once. Nimbly, applying no more pressure than needed to complete his cursory field examination, Yohji’s long fingers traced the curving line of Aya’s spine. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath, but, when he finished, Yohji let it out on a long sigh of relief. It seemed as if nothing was broken. Heartened by his discovery, Yohji repeated the gentle probing on Aya’s arms, legs, and head -- all with a similar result. As he had suspected, the cut on Aya’s head wasn’t deep. Yohji didn’t think it would even need stitches. Aya would be damn sore when he woke up, but, barring any possible internal injuries -- which Yohji couldn’t rule out with his limited medical knowledge -- it looked like that was the worst of it. He could hardly believe Aya’s uncanny luck. Anyone else would have been killed by the blast or the fire, and here it looked like Aya might get away with nothing more serious than strained muscles, minor cuts, a few burns, and a concussion. Granted, a concussion was no laughing matter. Yohji wanted Aya awake. Now. But a concussion was better than dead.

“All right,” Yohji said, brushing his hand across Aya’s cheek. The motion was so gentle that his fingers barely skimmed the surface of Aya’s skin. “I don’t suppose you’re gonna give up on this drama queen shit and wake up so you can walk away from this, huh?”

He waited for a second or two, holding his breath and hoping against hope that Aya would respond. But, as he had expected, there was no reaction.

“Figures,” Yohji sighed.

Having satisfied himself that Aya, likely, didn’t have any broken bones, Yohji had few qualms about moving him. The potential head injury worried him, as did the nagging fear that he would make any internal injuries worse, but the need to get Aya away from the fire won out, forcing Yohji into action. He stood and gave a gentle tug, pulling Aya up onto his feet. He braced Aya’s weight against him, cushioning Aya against his chest and wrapping his arm around Aya’s waist for support. Aya’s head rested against Yohji’s shoulder, and he could feel Aya’s breath -- warm and moist against his neck. It was a reassuring reminder that Aya was alive, and, just for a moment, Yohji tightened his hold on Aya, pulling the younger man to him in an impromptu hug before dragging Aya into a rather sloppy fireman’s carry. His form might not be perfect, but Yohji figured it was the easiest way to carry Aya and still negotiate his way to safety. After that, it was a matter of picking his way back around the smoking piles of melted metal and plastic that used to be Aya’s car, and, then, around the edge of the fire, which still burned with a frightening intensity.

**************************

Yohji couldn’t have been gone for more than ten minutes. Ken knew this. His brain told him so. But his heart kept whispering at him that he had already spent an eternity sitting here, rocking back and forth and muttering nonsensical words of comfort to Omi. Ken hated this. All of it. He hated feeling helpless. He wanted to run out there and pull Yohji and Aya from the fire, but he couldn’t. Ken hated that. He wanted to make Omi’s hurt and fear go away, and he couldn’t do that, either. Ken thought, maybe, that was what he hated most of all.

But, Ken also knew he needed to be here, doing exactly what he was doing -- no matter how much he wanted to be out there, helping Yohji. So, instead of charging into the flames and smoke, he resigned himself to watching the blaze for some sign of Yohji’s return and hoping against hope that, when Yohji did come back, he would bring Aya with him. An Aya who was alive and not too damaged. Anything else was unacceptable, and Ken feared it would send Omi right over the deep end. As it was, Omi’s reaction was enough to send shivers down Ken’s spine. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Omi like this, and it was terrifying. Omi had stopped screaming, which Ken would have taken as an improvement, except he seemed practically catatonic. Ken felt small and inadequate, because he couldn’t do anything to comfort or help Omi. He had wanted Omi to stop. He had wanted the screams to dwindle off into silence, just so he wouldn’t have to be reminded of his own failing, his own human frailty. Ken knew that made him a selfish prick. Or, maybe, it only made him human. But either way, it was how he felt; he was enough of a realist that he didn’t bother denying that fact, even though it made him feel like a jerk. But, now that Omi had stopped … now that he sat within Ken’s arms -- quiet, trembling, and, for all appearances, docile -- Ken found himself wishing the screaming would start again. Anything would be better than this eerie, tense silence, broken only by the snarl and snap of the flames and the sound of pieces of what was left of Aya’s car breaking off and falling to the ground.

When, at last, he saw Yohji’s shape melt out of the smoke and red-orange glow of the flames, Ken’s heart flip-flopped and thumped with joy as relief flooded through him. The emotion was so strong he had to fight the urge to break down and cry. Crying was the last thing he could do right now, no matter how much he wanted to. He had to remain strong. Still, Ken found it almost impossible to fight back his tears as he watched Yohji’s shape become more solid with every step away from the fire. Even better, as Yohji got closer, Ken saw that Aya, too, was there. He was laid out across Yohji’s shoulders in a boneless, limp way that dredged up a whole new set of fears from the pit of Ken’s stomach, but he was there. Ken couldn’t tell how badly Aya was hurt. But, Aya hadn’t been inside the burning car. That much, at least, was a victory over Fate. If that much had gone right for Aya, then, maybe, some other things would work in his favor, as well. Stranger things had happened.

“How is he?” Ken called out when Yohji was close enough.

Yohji didn’t reply at first. He continued to trudge forward, head down and watching every step as he picked his way around the few pieces of smoking car that had fallen closer to the Koneko. He stopped next to Ken, frowning as he glanced down at Omi, who was still huddled, trembling and sniffling, in the protective circle of Ken’s arms. He glanced from Omi to Ken and seemed about to speak, but, at the last moment, he changed his mind, choking back the words with a headshake and a shrug. It wasn’t that he didn’t have anything to say. He had a lot to say, probably too much at the moment -- too many thoughts tumbling around in his head for him to voice any of them right now. Especially since he didn’t have a clue what was going on here. It was too much, too fast. And yet, Ken needed answers. He could see it in Ken’s eyes -- the fear, the uncertainty, the questions, and the answers that Ken feared hearing. All of it mirrored the feelings and emotions slamming into his own psyche. Ken deserved answers. But Yohji didn’t have any. He realized that pissed him off -- just one more thing about this fucked up situation that dug down, grabbed hold of his insides, and twisted until he wanted to scream. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look at Ken without feeling like a failure and a jerk because he didn’t have it in him to reassure anyone right now. Not when he was only just holding himself together.

To buy himself a little time, Yohji turned away from Ken’s searching expression and lowered Aya to the ground. Now that they were away from the fire’s heat, Yohji wasn’t in much of a hurry, and he moved carefully, making sure he cushioned Aya’s head and body as he deposited the younger man on the ground near the Koneko’s back stairs. It couldn’t have taken more than a second or two, but it was enough time for Yohji to collect himself and to rein in the emotions and fears eating away at him from the inside out. Once Aya was settled, Yohji found he could face Ken without biting his head off. He crouched down in front of his three teammates, pausing to run his index finger along Aya’s cheekbone, tracing the faint line of a bruise that hadn’t yet darkened. Yohji’s touch was gentle, but, even so, he had hoped to elicit some kind of reaction. There was nothing, and Yohji’s eyes narrowed in a brief, worried frown before he forced the expression from his face and turned toward Ken with what he hoped was something approaching “confident” and “reassuring”. He found Ken staring at him expectantly, and only then realized he had never answered Ken’s question.

“He’ll be okay,” Yohji said. He shrugged and shook his head as he added, almost under his breath, “I think.”

Ken frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

Yohji shrugged again, prompting a disgusted-sounding sigh and a glare from Ken as he thought about how much he hated it when Yohji did that. What did it mean, anyhow? It wasn’t an answer, and, if Yohji didn’t know anything -- if he didn’t have any answers -- he should be man enough to admit it. Ken was frazzled and more than a little scared. Even so, he had the almost irresistible urge to slug Yohji. Was it too much to ask for one straight response?

Yohji, seeing Ken’s distress, gave him an apologetic smile before explaining, “I don’t think there are any broken bones. Cuts, some minor burns. Pretty much what you’d expect, although not as bad as I thought when I saw that damn fire. A cut on his head, which doesn’t look too bad. But, he won’t wake up. I don’t like that.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Omi?”

Ken shook his head. “I … don’t know. He won’t say anything. He stopped screaming, but I can’t get him to stop shaking or crying. I’m not sure he hears anything I say, or knows we’re here. I … don’t like it. It scares me; I’ve never seen him like this. Is he flipping out?”

Yohji shook his head and sighed again -- an irritated huff of air through his nostrils, which expressed, in no uncertain terms, what he thought of their current predicament. He didn’t have any answers, and he couldn’t help wondering how the hell he ended up as the “answer guy”, in the first place. This wasn’t his job. He was the slacker, the womanizer, the … whatever. He wasn’t the person who got things done. Or who knew how to get things done. And, Yohji liked it that way. Someone told him where to go and what to do, and he went there and did it. It wasn’t that he wasn’t capable of being the “answer guy”; he had just found life to be a lot more fun once he had given up that role. Unfortunately, Weiss’s two “answer guys” were out of commission at the moment, which just left him and Ken to muddle through everything. Yohji figured Ken didn’t like the situation any more than he did.

“What about the fire?” Ken asked, breaking Yohji’s train of thought.

“What about it?” Yohji replied.

Ken gave Yohji his best “give me a fucking break” look and said, speaking slowly, as if he were talking to a very dim-witted three-year-old, “Do you think it’ll spread?” He paused for a fraction of a second before continuing, waving his hand toward the popping, crackling fire by way of explanation, “Burning down the neighboring buildings will attract way more attention than we need. Not that this isn’t already bad enough.”

Yohji shrugged. “I think it’s OK. It doesn’t seem like it’s getting any bigger,” he said, unable to hide the uncertainty in his voice. He paused as the sorrowful wail of sirens grew closer and then continued, feeling more certain, “Besides, the fire department will be here soon. They’ll get it under control.”

Ken nodded, satisfied with Yohji’s reasoning. “OK, fine. But, what about them?” he asked, tilting his head in Aya’s direction. “They need looking after.”

“Let them take Omi,” Yohji said. He rose and pulled Aya up after him, shifting the younger man’s weight until he could pick Aya up. He cradled Aya in his arms, resting Aya’s head against his shoulder. Once he had caught his balance, he continued, “It might be good for him to stay overnight in the hospital. Get checked out or something.” Yohji’s voice was low and husky, the words seemed to squeeze from his throat amid little, huffing pants. Aya was heavy; Yohji was already tired from carrying him -- and before he had even tried tackling the stairs up to their rooms on the Koneko’s third floor. Yohji groaned mentally at the thought of how much fun it was going to be trying to wrestle Aya’s unconscious butt up all those stairs. And, for just a second, he almost wanted to toss Aya back into the fire, just for causing him so much trouble. It was a fleeting thought -- nothing more than a little dark humor borne of the giddy-hysterical feeling eating away at the pit of Yohji’s stomach.

“Agreed,” Ken said, tightening his protective embrace around Omi ever so slightly. He gave Yohji a suspicious glare as he asked, “What the hell’re you doing? Aya needs a doctor even more.”

It wasn’t like Yohji had ever had a plan. From the moment he had banged through the back door on Ken’s heels, he had been doing nothing but running. Forward, always forward. Trying to solve one mess after another. He hadn’t thought about any of it; he hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of even a few seconds to stop and think or to plan. Instead, he had run on instinct alone, his body pushing his shell-shocked mind into obedience and jumping into action on its own. But, now, he pulled Aya closer to him in response to Ken’s statement, as if Ken’s words, true as they were and spoken in the innocent belief he was looking out for a teammate’s well-being, at last jogged Yohji’s brain into action. And, in that moment, Yohji knew. For the first time since hearing the explosion echoing through the flower shop, he had a plan. There was no way Aya was leaving his sight. No one was taking Aya, and no one was going to lay hands on Aya. Not until he knew what the hell was going on, and Yohji had a feeling that wouldn’t happen until Aya woke up -- if then. It wasn’t much of a plan, particularly because there was a good chance it had been borne from Yohji’s overprotective mama bear tendencies. Even he had to admit that to himself. Still, it was a plan. And that was better than nothing. At least, Yohji hoped so.

Yohji frowned and shook his head. “No. No way. No one is taking Aya anywhere,” he said. The words came out sounding almost like a growl as he cradled Aya’s still body in his arms. He took a deep breath and continued in a more moderate tone, “I’ll take him upstairs. Call Manx and alert Kritiker. I’ll do what I can for him. He’s not hurt that badly.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!” Ken snapped, his tone of voice indicating that that was exactly what he thought had happened.

Ken took a deep breath, too, realizing how close he was to picking a fight with Yohji. The stress of everything that was happening around them was pushing both of them to the edge, and it would be easy for the two of them to fight. So easy that the thought almost scared Ken. At any other time, he might have been glad of a chance to blow off steam by fighting with Yohji; they did it all the time -- never any hard feelings, just two guys trying to deal with the shit life tossed their way. But something in Ken’s heart told him that wasn’t the way to deal with this situation. They needed to pull together now more than ever, and Ken knew anything said now, even in the heat of the moment or just to blow off steam, had the potential of pushing a permanent wedge between them. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he had never been more certain of anything in his life.

“Look,” Ken said, once he was calm enough to speak without snapping, “Now isn’t the time to go all Mother Bear and shit. He’s hurt. He’s unconscious. I know you have this overprotective thing going …” He broke off and waved one hand before him, palm forward, in a placating gesture that cut Yohji off just as he opened his mouth to argue. “I’m not criticizing,” Ken continued, “I’m not trying to fight with you. I’m just saying … now’s not the time.”

Yohji didn’t like hearing it. Ken’s words stung, all the more so because they hit close to home, echoing his own doubts. Was he acting out of some twisted, almost selfish, overprotective impulse? He couldn’t deny that was part of it. Still, even if he forced himself to push those feelings aside, it still felt logical to keep Aya here, as opposed to waving him off to a hospital where security was light and anything could happen to him. It felt like the right decision, even with the fears and doubts that swirled around it.

“I know,” Yohji replied, “You’re right. And, I don’t know. Maybe I am just being stupid and overprotective. Still, this feels right. The hospital isn’t secure. It’s a big building, and easy for anyone to slip in or out, and I won’t be able to stay with him. We don’t know what the hell happened with his car. Was it a freak accident? I mean, I’d like to think so, but, let’s face it -- most things that happen to us aren’t accidents.” He paused long enough to watch Ken nod in agreement. “So,” he continued, “That leaves us with the possibility it was intentional. Someone put a bomb in Aya’s car. A fucking bomb. We don’t know who. We don’t know why. Is it someone with a bone to pick against Aya personally? Or, someone who figured out we’re a little more than four devilishly handsome florists? There are too many unknowns.”

Ken sighed as he thought over Yohji’s words. He didn’t want to admit it, but there was logic to what Yohji was saying -- even though he still suspected Yohji was acting more on some kind of overprotective instinct than thinking through everything. Still, instinct had kept all of them alive countless times. He couldn’t fault Yohji for following it, given the situation.

“All right. I can see that. But, if it’s not safe for Aya, how can it be safe for Omi? From what you’re saying, we should keep both of them here,” Ken countered.

Yohji shook his head. “I think Omi’ll be okay,” he said. “It was Aya’s car. No one knew Omi would be there. But, just in case, I’ll tell Manx to send some extra Kritiker personnel to the hospital to help you keep an eye on things.”

He didn’t give Ken a chance to reply or argue. Yohji shifted Aya’s weight again in his arms, trying to regain his balance as he turned toward the steps leading back into the Koneko. He could hear the sirens getting closer, and he figured the rescue crews would be here within moments, no doubt summoned by one of their neighbors or a passing witness. Yohji wanted to get Aya out of sight before they arrived. He knew no amount of fast talking would keep Aya out of the hospital if they saw him like this, and he didn’t feel up to threatening anyone right now. Now that he knew Omi and Aya were both relatively safe and he had at least some plan of action for the immediate future, Yohji could feel his adrenaline high fizzling out on him. He was too tired to bully the rescue crews into seeing things his way, and he figured the best way to win this particular argument was to avoid it altogether.

Yohji walked away from Ken and Omi without so much as a backward glance. He felt a little bad about it -- like he was leaving Ken holding one stinky bag of shit and with a lot of explaining to do, and that wasn’t fair. Still, he was tired, and his body told him turning around, even for the second or two needed to give Ken a supportive head nod or glance, would take too much energy. He had a feeling he would need all of his strength to carry Aya up to their rooms on the third floor. He was only halfway up the outside steps, and he was already huffing and panting. These stairs were nothing compared to what waited for him inside. So, Yohji swallowed down his guilt and kept walking, resolving to figure out a way to make it up to Ken later, once all this had worked itself out.

con't. in Part 2