Fanfic Archive: Night
May. 28th, 2009 06:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
texchan(Written: October, 2006)
Warnings: Bad Language.
Summary: The first night of Fall breezes in, bringing with it nightmares and small revelations as Yohji and Aya discover that, sometimes, the best remedies for a tired soul are friendship and a cup of hot tea.
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.
Author's Note: I wrote this story as a little fanfic gift for my dear friend, Bladedfan.
Night
(a wk fanfiction by tex-chan)
It's my favorite kind of night. The air is crisp and cool, with a little bit of a bite to it. It's been so freaking hot lately, but today was the first day that really felt like fall. I love that -- the first moment when you can feel the seasons shift around you. It always seems like summer will never end, like it'll just get longer and hotter, until everything in the city melts together -- sidewalks, storefronts, people, everything -- to run down into the sewers, all the colors and textures of life blending into one big blur. Like when you wash paint down a drain and the colors swirl together before they disappear. But, then, just when you think you can't take it any more … just when you think you're going to go bat-shit crazy from all the heat, and the sweat, and the humidity … fall breezes in. That's the way I always think about it -- a season that breezes its way into your life. I don't know why, though. Maybe because that's the way I always realize it's here -- when I feel that first, clear, crisp breeze against my face. Or, maybe because I like listening to the leaves rustle in the wind. Maybe there's no good reason for it. Hell if I know. Hell if I care, either. Just, one day, you're sitting there, sweating your ass off, and, the next, it's like the world has heaved a huge sigh of relief. And, boom, fall is there. It always feels like a surprise to me, but that shift in the weather, that first hint of the nip in the air, makes me feel like change is just around the corner, like anything is possible, even for a used-up, jaded old man like me.
Wow, listen to me. Mr. Poetic over here. Too bad there aren't any hot babes around at the moment. If there were, I could put this stuff to good use. But, there aren't, so I just end up feeling like a total idiot, or something. I hate that. Not that emotions are bad. They're not. But, thinking about them … that's a different story. Spend too much time in your own head and you might not be able to find your way out again.
Whatever. I do the same thing I always do when I catch myself thinking too much. I turn it off. Fast.
I pause on a corner, under a streetlight, to light a cigarette. I do my best to look cool; maybe it's my way of canceling out all the weenie-emotional garbage I was thinking about a few seconds ago. I pretend I'm channeling James Dean or something -- you know, Mr. Bad Ass, cool and confident, ready for anything -- as I cup one hand around the cigarette in my mouth and flick on my lighter. It takes three tries for the stupid thing to catch. I think the flint's going bad. Or maybe I need to add more fluid. Whatever the reason, it doesn't catch on the first try, and I can't help feeling like that detracts from my "cool" points. Even so, I don't let on. I just keep my head bent slightly, one hand cupped around the cig to shelter it from the wind, puffing and dragging until I can hear the embers crackling against the cold, clear night. To the rest of the world, I meant to do it this way. It was a calculated maneuver. Cool and confident. Just like me.
I scan the street and sidewalk around me while I light the cigarette. I don't make it obvious -- just peer over the tops of my sunglasses, casual-like. It's not something I mean to do. It's a habit. An irritating habit, really. But, hell, it keeps me alive, so I guess I shouldn't complain, should I? I have good peripheral vision, so I can see everything from where I'm standing. That has to bump up my coolness factor, doesn't it?
There's a group of teenagers waiting on the corner for a bus. Shouldn't they be home studying or something? Or sleeping? I mean, it's late already. One of them is checking me out. She's pretty cute, but definitely way too young. Sorry, sister. Not this time. Shit, the guy next to her is checking me out, too. That's creepy. Flattering, I guess, but, yeah … Creepy. Sorry, kid. I don't swing that way. And, if I did, you're not any older than the hot chick next to you. I can't help but wonder why the two of them don't grab a room and put their hormones to work. They're teenagers, after all. It's only natural.
There's an all-night liquor store just past the bus stop. I can see its sign throwing bands of color -- red and green and blue -- across the sidewalk. It's kind of pretty, in a psychedelic, drug-induced-stupor sort of way. There are a few couples milling around. Looks like they're window shopping, except there's nothing on this street but adult video stores and porn shops. Makes me wonder what those kids are doing here, in the first place. And, that makes me glad I never had kids. It'd be too damn hard to have to worry about them all the time. Besides, I don't think I'd want to wish another "me" on the world. Hell, I don't think the world could handle it, for that matter.
Oh, hello there. Across from the bus stop, on the other side of the street, is one hot looking babe. She is so into me. If the look in her eyes could translate into action … let's just say I'd be one satisfied camper right about now. I give her my best smile -- the innocent, little-boy grin that curls from my cigarette out toward the edges of my mouth. Oh yeah. I could have her.
I know. It sounds like I've got the inflated ego or something. But, that's not it. It's true, after all. I mean, when you have it, you have it. And, I do. I don't know why, or how I got it. But, I know I have it. I always have, and I guess I always will. Hell, I hope I always will. Sometimes, it's the only thing that makes life worth living.
Speaking of which … I was supposed to have "it" tonight. In the form of Clarissa Jones -- foreign exchange student by day, Yohji Kudou playmate by night. Well, when I can find the time, that is. And, tonight, I was going to take the time, if you know what I mean.
I don't know. Maybe it was stupid, thinking I could go out on a date after a mission. Especially one like tonight, where things go bad right from the start, where we end up barely fighting our way out, and, in particular, where all the shit from the proverbial fan seems to hit Aya. I hate it when he gets hurt. I mean, it wasn't bad tonight. A shoulder hit, hardly more than a flesh wound. I sewed him up before I left, and it only took ten stitches. Which sounds like a lot, but, for Aya … well, that's not so bad.
Usually, I wouldn't think about leaving him alone. Not after that. But, tonight, I don't know. I was restless as hell. Or, maybe I was just pissed. I'm not sure what I was feeling. But, I knew I couldn't sit still. Not even for him. I think he knew it, too. I think that's why he told me to get the hell out of the house. He said it like he was pissed at me, like he couldn't stand having me around. Maybe the other two would have bought that, but I didn't. Not for a second. It wasn't that he didn't want me there. He did, probably more than he would ever admit. But, he knew I needed to leave. And, he let me go.
Don't ask me how I know that. Maybe it was the way he looked at me, or the way he told me to fuck off -- trying to look all tough and mean, even though I could hear his voice shaking. I don't know. I mean, maybe it was a million little things. Like I said, I don't know how I know it. But, when it comes to Aya … I just know. You know?
This sounds pretty stupid. Or, like I'm in love with him or something like that. You know, so in love with him that I can read his every mood, no matter what. Yeah. Whatever. It's not that. I mean, I love him, sure. But, not like that. It's more like the way you love a younger brother.
Well, no. Not exactly like that.
Maybe it's like the way you love a best friend.
Shit. It's not like that, either.
It's just … well … complicated. And, what does it matter, anyhow? Who cares? I mean, he's a part of my life, and I like it that way. Isn't that enough? Why do I have to quantify all this crap, anyhow? All it does is give me a headache.
I shouldn't have left him alone. Not tonight. Not when he was hurting and exhausted and haunted by the killing we had to do. It's just that, being surrounded by all that death; it's hard to explain. You go home and wash the blood off. But, the death -- that stink stays on you. You can't shake it. And, sometimes, I just want to feel alive, you know? I need to feel alive. And, tonight was one of those nights. I think he knew that, so he was as assholey and pissy as he could be, just to make sure I wouldn't stay around. And, it worked. Even though I knew what he was doing, he managed to push every button I have, so that I yelled at him, called him an uptight bastard, and even slammed the door on my way out, just for effect.
But, I thought it wouldn't matter, you know? I mean, I was pissed as hell at him. Still am, on some level. But, I wanted to feel alive. I didn't want to be there, sitting in that house, worrying over him. I wanted to be out here, drinking in the energy from the night, reminding myself I'm still here, and doing my damned best to remember that's what counts the most -- being here … being the one left standing when the dust clears. Because sometimes, it's easy to forget that. Doesn't seem like it should be, but it is.
I thought, if anyone could bring me back to life, it would be Clarissa. She has a body that doesn't know the meaning of the word quit, and neither does her sex drive. Plus, she has a rather naughty, adventurous side, too. Which … well, I'll be honest. It's damn fun. Especially when you're feeling like a walking dead man. I mean, if you want to feel … this girl will make you feel. She'll make you feel shit you didn't even know you could feel. I like that in a woman.
Around the corner from here, just two blocks down, is one of the best-kept secrets in Tokyo. Stuck between an adult book store and a boudoir photography studio is this little café that … well, it has ambiance to spare. I'm supposed to be meeting Clarissa there right about now, I realize, as I glance at my watch.
Well, crap. This just isn't going to work, is it?
I sigh as I toss my spent cigarette onto the sidewalk and grind it under the toe of my boot. I give the hot chick across the street one last, parting, smile, and turn around, heading back the way I came, back toward home. I guess drinking in the smell and feeling of fall will have to be enough living for me for tonight.
I'm not too worried about Clarissa. She'll be mad, but she'll get over it. A couple dozen roses'll do a lot to thaw her out. Good thing I can get that shit at cost. The flower shop gig is a lame cover. Makes me feel like a real bozo most of the time, so it's only fair that it should pay off every now and then, although I'm sure Aya will bitch about me "stealing" from the store. Whatever. It's not like any of it's for real, anyhow. In the end, even he doesn't think so. He just likes to bitch.
Oooh. Stroke of genius: I'll tell Clarissa I made the arrangement myself. Girls love that stuff. It'll score some major points. Not like I'll actually make it, though. That would be too much like work. Normally, Aya would do it for me, but, with that shoulder wound he got tonight, I don't want him arranging anything more strenuous than some down time so he can recuperate. I'll talk Omi into it. That'll do.
Hell, even without the flowers, Clarissa would get over being stood up. She likes my naughty, adventurous side as much as I like hers. Besides, it's not like she's the only flower in the field, so to speak.
Flower in the field. Heh. That was funny, if I do say so myself. I'll have to share that with Aya, once he's in a better mood. I bet it'll even get a laugh out of him. Well … maybe not a laugh, but a smirk, for sure.
As I round the last corner, I can see the Koneko halfway down the block. It's dark and has that sort of deserted look to it that buildings get at night, when they're locked up tight and everyone inside is asleep. If I didn't know any better, I would turn around and head back out to meet Clarissa. Hell, a part of me wants to do exactly that. But, I do know better, which sucks. No matter what the place looks like from here, I know he's not sleeping. I don't know how I know. I just do. And, I have to admit, it kinda pisses me off.
I know … that's not a rational reaction. I mean, it's not his fault that I worry about whether he's up or not. Really, I shouldn't care, you know? Whether he sleeps or not … that's his business. And, yet, I always feel compelled to make it mine. I always worry about him. I don't want to, but I can't help it. Why? Why do I worry about him like this? Why do I even care? Especially when it's so obvious he doesn't give a shit. Crap. I … I don't even know why. But, I do. And, that pisses me off, too. Not to mention Clarissa of the superbly hot body and kinky sex toys, who I stood up tonight. I really, really wanted to see her. Just one more thing that pisses me off about all of this. Guess it's my night to be freaking pissed about everything.
I slow down as I get closer to the Koneko. I hadn't realized it, but I've been walking at top speed ever since I decided to turn around and come home. Now, I'm panting. It's quiet on this street, and I can hear my own breath -- loud, like little explosions in the still night. For a second, I think, maybe, I should stop smoking. But, it's only a passing thought. Sure, maybe I wouldn't get winded as easily, if I did. Then again, if I worked out once in a while, that might help, too. Either way, there's no way I'll ever stop smoking. I plan on checking out with a lit cig in my mouth and, if I'm lucky, a hot babe on top of me. I'm gonna walk right up to the gates of Hell and offer Lucifer a drag. I think he'll get a kick out of that.
Speaking of … I could use a cigarette right about now. Might be a good idea to settle my nerves and calm down a little before I go in there. Otherwise, I'll end up fighting with Aya, and I don't want to do that. I hate it when I worry about him, and it comes out pissed. He gets this look in his eyes. I mean, he tries to act like he doesn't care. But, for a second or two, there's this kind of lost, hurt expression. Makes me feel like I've just kicked a puppy or something. I fucking hate that. I hate it even more when that look disappears; it always does, within nanoseconds, like he doesn't think he deserves to feel anything. Makes me want to beat the shit out of him or something. And, I hate knowing I've hurt him. He'll never say so. He just locks it away, somewhere inside of him. But, it's there, and it's there because of me.
Everyone thinks Aya is so strong. And, I guess they're right, in a way. But, I don't know. I just have this feeling -- this feeling that, one of these days, Aya's going to break, big time, and that scares me. It scares me a hell of a lot more than I'd like to admit. He holds too much stuff inside. People think he doesn't feel anything, but they're wrong. He does. He just hides it really well, even from himself. If that day ever comes, I don't think any of us will be able to put him back together again.
That old nursery rhyme -- the one about Humpty Dumpty -- pops into my head. Shit. That creeps me out. Thanks a lot, mind. I really enjoyed that little side trip -- not.
I duck into a nearby alley, because, now, the cigarette isn't just a good idea. It's become a necessity, thanks to my inadvertent trip down memory lane. I keep getting these flash images of Aya, lying on the ground, broken into a million pieces.
I shudder as I fumble around in my jacket pocket for my cigs. This would go a lot better if my hands weren't shaking so much, but I finally manage to pull the cigarettes out, along with my lighter. I'm surprised at how light the pack is, and I squint one eye shut so I can peer inside. There's only one left. I know I had a half-full pack when I stopped on that corner earlier, just before I turned around to come back home. Did I really smoke all of those between there and here? I think, hard, and realize I don't remember it. I don't remember smoking any of them. I guess I just did it -- you know, without thinking about it or something. Geez freaking Louise … am I that much of a nicotine addict?
I tell my brain not to answer that question. I don't think I want to explore the potential depths of my addiction. Not now. Maybe, not ever.
The thing is, I had a half-full pack of cigarettes not more than ten minutes ago, and, now, I'm down to my last one. I frown as I have this sudden image of myself, chugging along, huffing and puffing like a train, pouring smoke along behind me, and leaving a trail of used cigarette butts all the way here. Good grief. I must have been one pathetic sight. Guess I'm more worried than I realized.
It takes a lot of clicking before I can get my stupid lighter to work. Figures. Just when I'm jonesing at my worst, the damn thing decides to cut out. I hold it up to my ear and shake it. Sounds like there's plenty of fluid. Note to self: Buy a new flint, pronto.
I lean back against the wall behind me and blow the smoke out, over my head. I like the way it looks as it hangs there for a moment -- white and big against the dark sky -- before it disappears. Kind of makes me wish I had a poet's soul or some shit like that, but I don't. I'm just a regular guy, at the end of the day.
I don't know why, but watching that smoke hang there and then, slowly, disappear … somehow, it does as much to calm my restlessness as the actual nicotine that is now rushing through my system. It's an immediate rush, followed by a slow-moving calm as I feel my restlessness begin to fade away. Oh, yeah. That's what I'm talking about. This is why I'll never stop smoking. Because nothing else feels this damn good -- not even sex, believe it or not.
I linger over my cigarette. Now that I'm here, this close to home … I don't know. All of a sudden, I'm not in any big hurry. Kinda stupid, really. I practically run all the way here, and, now, I don't want to go in. I don't know why, because I damn sure ain't going anywhere else tonight. Standing up Clarissa proved that to me. Still, there's a part of me that doesn't want to see him. Maybe I'm afraid. Afraid of seeing that lost, haunted look in his eyes. Afraid of seeing him like that -- hurting, vulnerable, small. Maybe I'm afraid I won't know what to say to him, that I won't be able to pull him away from the edge of whatever hell that's about to swallow him, that, maybe, being there for him won't be enough this time. Talk about stupid. There's no point in worrying over it. It's not like I would be anywhere else. Still, there's this sense of dread coiling up in my stomach. I can feel it there -- round and hard and cold.
For right now, though, I don't have to worry about it. For these few seconds, I can live in the moment and enjoy my cigarette. I close my eyes and, for the first time tonight, I realize how tired I am. Everything hurts, and I think that, maybe, it would be good to stay here. Just stand here, feeling the cool breeze on my face and smoking my last cig, for the rest of eternity.
I can feel sleep sneaking up on me. I tell myself no. I can't fall asleep here, in the open, in an alley -- especially since my own, warm bed is not more than a hundred feet away. But, it doesn't do any good. I can't stop it. A wave of lethargy washes over me, stealing away my resolve and strength, and I feel my body shutting down. I don't even try to fight it. I don't think I can, but, even if I could, I don't think I want to.
Just as I'm about to slide down the wall to sit on the ground, a noise startles me. The alley was quiet and deserted, and this sound rings out -- loud in the night. It's this great, tinny-sounding rattle, and it echoes off the walls around me. I'm sure that makes it sound a lot bigger than it really is, but, even so, I scramble back to my feet, struggling to grab hold of my slipping consciousness and automatically dropping into a defensive posture as I do so. I guess I've been an assassin for too long. My first thought, upon hearing a sudden noise, is always, 'Alright, who do I hafta kill now?' I wish I could be like a normal person -- just let the sudden fright of the moment wash over me and laugh, later on, about how silly it was. But, I'm not normal. Haven't been for a long time. I know what's out here, in the dark, and I know what it can do to you. Once you know that … once you live in that world … well, you can't go back to "normal" -- not ever.
A trash can lid rolls out of the shadows at the other end of the alley, followed by some stray bits of trash, blown along in front of a sudden gust of chilly wind. And, then, my enemy shows himself -- a big, black alley cat. He's tall and rangy -- one of the biggest strays I've seen. Even in the half light at my end of the alley, I can see his face and neck are covered with scars. He trots out of the shadows holding a half-eaten fish; no doubt, that was his prize for knocking over the trash can I heard fall. He's cocky and full of himself, but, when he sees me, he changes -- drops the fish and crouches down, ready to defend himself and his dinner. He growls and hisses at me, and, as he moves, his eyes catch the light. I had expected them to be yellow, but they're green -- the most brilliant shade of green I've ever seen. He freezes like that, and we stare at each other for a long few seconds, both of us frozen in a defensive crouch, each of us glaring daggers at the other.
"Don't mind me, fella," I tell him, as I straighten up, toss my cigarette to the ground, and walk away.
His angry growls echo after me as I leave the alley and step onto the sidewalk, back into the real world and real time. I know I couldn't have been in there for more than a couple of minutes, but, somehow, it feels like forever, like one of those stories where the hero falls into a make-believe world. The outside world keeps on turning, and it seems like he's only been gone for a day or two. But, to him, he's been away for months. It's a weird feeling.
That cat was funny, though. I think he really would've fought me for that stupid fish. For the first time, I realize how appropriate it is for us to be code-named after cats. I had always thought it ridiculous -- like, maybe, Kritiker was making fun of us or something. But, now, after my little stare-down session in the alley, I realize how alike we are. It's weird how something so small and insignificant can also seem so profound, but I guess epiphanies are like that -- it's the small ones that count the most. At any rate, I don't think I'll ever look at a stray cat the same way again, and I make a mental note to take a can of tuna by the alley tomorrow -- kind of like a peace offering.
I pass by the front of the Koneko without stopping. The store's metal doors are in place behind the plate-glass windows, and everything looks just as dark and deserted up close as it did from down the block. I keep on walking, to the next alley, which will take me around to the back of the shop and the stairs leading into our kitchen. Except for business hours, none of us come or go through the front of the shop. We all use the back stairs and the kitchen door.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs and look up, toward the door. The outside light is on, and I can't help but smile at that. I know Aya left it on for me. He always does when he knows I'm going to be out late. He's funny that way -- acting like he couldn't care less, and yet he goes and leaves the light on for you. He does it for all of us, but I think I'm the only one who knows it. I guess Ken figures Omi does it, and Omi figures Ken does it. They both know better than to think I would do it -- although, I do, sometimes, if Aya is out on a solo mission. Seeing that light on, it makes me feel good inside -- warm and comfortable, like when I was a kid and my mom would tell me "welcome home" when I came in from school. I know it's silly, but I guess I want Aya to feel that, too. And, hell, maybe that's why he does it, in the first place. Who knows? With him, it could be anything, you know? But, he does it, and, even though it's silly, I like it. I'm willing to leave it at that.
The stairs creak and groan as I climb up, and, once I reach the top, the lock rattles when I slide my key into it. I should try to be a little quieter, but I figure it doesn't matter a whole heckuva lot. Ken and Omi both sleep like the dead, so there's no way I'll wake either of them. And, even though there aren't any lights on in the kitchen, I know Aya's not asleep. Like I said, I don't know how I know. But, I know.
So, I'm not surprised when, as I stumble into the kitchen, I hear Aya's deep voice coming at me out of the dark.
"What are you doing home?" he asks.
I sigh and mentally call him an ungrateful prick. I mean, I ran all the way over here just to see if he was okay. The least he could do is be nice.
Uh … wait a minute. Scratch that. I did not run all the way over here. I mean, I walked really fast, but, it's not the same thing. And, I wasn't worried about him. I was … mildly concerned. Yeah. That's it. That's all it was.
I shrug and flip the light switch next to the door as I reply, "Oh, nothing. I figured some whiney cry-baby bastard might be waiting up for me, or something."
Aya blinks a little in the sudden flood of overhead light. I can't help thinking he looks sort of like a badger that's just come out of its hole or something. Crap. I really need to stop watching that nature TV channel. It can't be good for me.
It only takes a second for him to become accustomed to the extra light, and he shrugs and says, "Oh, so you missed me. Is that it?"
I give him my best playful smile, along with a little wink, and say, "Funny how I say the words "whiney cry-baby bastard", and you immediately think of yourself."
I'm careful to keep my voice light and teasing. I can tell, just from the edge to his voice, it wouldn't take much to set him off. And, I don't want to fight with him. Not tonight. I have a feeling he doesn't want that, either, because he lets my comment slide off with nothing more than a shrug and a smirk.
I lean against the counter and take my first, good, long look at him. He's sitting at the kitchen table, all curled up in one of the chairs. I have no idea how he's managed it, but he's sitting with his feet on the edge of the chair, hugging his legs to his chest. Aya has freaking long legs; it looks like he's practically folded himself in half to sit that way. It can't be comfortable, and I can't help but wonder how long he's been like that. He has a blanket draped over his shoulders, and he's holding it closed with his hands, just in front of his knees. He's wearing a long-sleeved blue t-shirt; the blanket covers him, but I can just see the ends of his shirt sleeves and his toes poking out from the edges.
Aya hates the cold. Looking at him, you would think he was a winter person. I'm not sure why, but he just gives that impression. Maybe because he has pale skin, contrasting with that red hair. Or, maybe it's because of his personality. I've heard people use the term "ice prince" more than once, when they're describing him. At any rate, he looks like someone who would like the cold, but nothing could be further from the truth. At the first sign of fall, he always pulls out his long-sleeved shirts, sweaters, and sweatpants.
Me, I'm just the opposite. See, you'd think I was a summer person, right? I guess I sorta have that "beach bum" look going on or something. Not intentional. It's just the way I look. But, I hate hot weather. Give me the cold any day. Or snow. I love snow. I could stay out in the snow all day long.
Aya stares back at me as I watch him. He's trying, really hard, to glare at me, but he's not having much luck at it. He's tired and hurting, and he feels like shit. Maybe no one else would notice it, but it's there. I can see it in his eyes. He's smoking, which doesn't surprise me as much as it should, I guess. I mean, Aya doesn't smoke a lot, but he does sometimes -- when life seems to come at him too fast and too hard. I can see the exhaustion weighing him down in the way his hand trembles when he brings the cigarette to his mouth and the way his breath shakes as he blows out a long stream of smoke. He takes another drag off his cig before setting it down, on the edge of the ashtray sitting on the table in front of him.
And, that's when it hits me: I was right. This is fucking hard. Aya's not a big guy. He's tall, and, although he's pretty much all muscle, he's kinda on the skinny side, too. But, you'd never think of him as "small", you know? I'm not sure I can put my finger on what it is about him, but he has this way of seeming big -- larger than life and twice as bad. I've had his back on missions plenty of times. And, there have been times -- more than I'd like to admit -- when I've been hurt, and he's the only thing standing between me and death. So, I know, first hand. I know what it feels like to pull myself back to consciousness, expecting to wake up dead, only to find Aya standing in front of me, facing down anyone who might come after me. And, the funny thing is that I'm not even afraid. It's this feeling like, 'Oh, Aya's here. Everything's cool, then.' How freaking weird is that? I never think of the possibility he might lose, or die. I mean, I do think about it -- any time he goes on a solo mission, or if we get split up. But, just, somehow, it seems impossible that anything could happen to him. Even when I worry about him, in the back of my mind there's this little voice that's always telling me it'll be all right. Because it's Aya. Because Aya isn't afraid of anything. Because Aya can do anything. Stupid fucking voice. I mean, at the end of the day, Aya's just a man -- a regular guy, like the rest of us. I think he just hides it better than most people.
Tonight, though, Aya doesn't look like any of those things. He looks exactly like someone who has hardly slept in days -- someone who is tired, and cold, and hurting. And alone. Maybe it's the look in his eyes. I don't know, but he looks more alone than I've ever seen him. He looks small and fragile. Vulnerable, even. I don't want to think it. It feels like a betrayal, even letting the words form in my mind, but, even so, they're there. I can't deny it.
It sounds pretty ridiculous, but it hurts, seeing Aya like this. I knew -- standing out there, smoking in that alley -- it would. I knew that, and I was ready for it. And, yet, I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready for the way it's almost like a physical pain, tugging at my insides. For the way I feel my heart clench and my throat close up on me when I see how much he is suffering, and not just from his physical wounds, either. I don't think I could ever prepare myself to face this. Hell, I know I can't. It's not like I haven't seen him like this before. I have. I'm probably the only one who has. I think he manages to keep most of his true feelings hidden around Omi and Ken. But, with me, I don't know … I guess he feels safe enough to let the walls down a little. That's a good thing, and I'm glad I can be there for him like that. But, still, I wish it didn't hurt so damn much. I wish it didn't make me feel like someone was ripping the heart right out of my chest.
Aya looks away, dropping his gaze to the pitted, scarred wood of the tabletop in front of him. There's a slight blush coloring his cheeks. If not for how pale his face is at the moment, I wouldn't have even noticed it. I'm not sure if it's because he's embarrassed, or if he has a slight fever. Could be a bit of both, I suppose, but, whatever the case, it makes me realize I've been standing there staring at him. Not really for that long -- couldn't be more than a second or two -- but it must seem like a long time to him.
I clear my throat and force myself to talk, just to break the tension in the room.
"What're you doing up, anyhow?" I ask.
He doesn't look away from the table, and, for a moment or two, I think he's not going to answer me.
But, he shrugs and replies, "Couldn't sleep. I came down to make some tea."
I don't see evidence of tea anywhere in the kitchen. No teapot on the stove. No cup on the table. Nothing. I give him one of those eyebrows-raised looks -- an unspoken question.
"Didn't feel like it, once I got down here," Aya says.
I sigh and turn around, to dig through the cabinet behind me in search of the requisite tea-making supplies. It doesn't take me long to find the pot and a container of tea leaves. I pull them down and get to work. Within seconds, I've put the water on to boil and prepared Aya's favorite mug. I lean back against the counter again, to wait for the water.
"I hope green's OK," I say. "It's all we have."
He nods. "Yeah. Fine."
Neither of us says anything as we wait for the water to boil. The kitchen is quiet -- just the ticking of the clock on the wall over the stove, the electric hum of the refrigerator, and the ice maker buzzing. It's not an uncomfortable kind of silence. It feels good -- like coming home to the smell of fresh-baked cookies after a long day. But at the same time, it's kind of loud, too. I must be losing it, though. I mean, how can "quiet" be loud? It's "quiet", right, so it can't be. Can it?
Thankfully, the tea kettle's whistle cuts through the silence, which means I can get on with making the tea, instead of standing there wondering how "quiet" can be loud. Believe me, mental gymnastics are the last thing I want to engage in -- ever. Not that I'm dumb or anything. I mean, I'm not as smart as Omi, but who the hell is? Still, I'm no slouch, either. I just don't believe in overthinking some things. Well, anything, really. I'm more of a take-it-as-you-find-it kinda guy.
I cross to the table and set the steaming mug in front of Aya. He eyeballs it for a second or two with this uncertain, dubious expression on his face.
"Hell, man, it's not gonna bite you or anything. You wanted tea, you've got tea. Drink it … don't drink it. I don't give a shit," I grumble at him.
I pull out the chair next to him, wincing as its legs scrape against the kitchen's linoleum floor with this loud, wooden-sounding squeal. It's one of those noises that you just know will set off every dog in the neighborhood.
Aya gives me a half-hearted glare as I plop into the chair, facing him. He reaches for the cigarette, but I'm quicker. Just as he brings it up to his lips, I reach out and snag it. I flick the ash off the end, into the nearby ashtray, and shrug off Aya's irritated sigh as I stick the cigarette in my mouth and take a long drag, blowing smoke off to the side.
"What?" I mumble, keeping the cigarette clamped between my lips. "You damn sure don't need this. Not with all the freaking painkillers in your system. Fucking addict."
"Takes one to know one," Aya retorts.
But, other than that, he chooses to let the matter drop. He reaches for his tea, cupping the mug in one of his palms, as if he can leech the warmth from it into his body.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I reply. "You're so freaking funny. I just can't stop laughing."
As he sips at his tea, I shift closer and pull one side of the blanket down, off of his injured shoulder. My hands are already moving his t-shirt aside by the time Aya figures out what I'm doing. He's not as quick on the uptake as he usually is, probably due to the heavy-duty painkillers I know he has floating through his body right now. But, the meds haven't done anything to make his personality more agreeable. He tries to shrug away from me, but I don't let him. I've got a good grip on his shirt, so he's not going anywhere.
"Sit still, you little shit, or I'll kill 'ya," I mutter as I push his shirt and bandage aside, just enough to check that all his stitches are still in place.
"I'm fine," Aya snaps, releasing his stranglehold on the blanket long enough to bat my hands away.
"Just admiring my handiwork," I reply, with a grin. "Such pretty, pretty stitches. I bet it won't even leave a scar."
Aya laughs -- a short, derisive-sounding snort. "Yeah. If this whole assassin thing doesn't work out for you, I'm sure you'll make a hell of a seamstress. Next time I have holes in my socks, maybe I'll ask you to darn them for me."
I sigh and roll my eyes at the ceiling -- my typical "why me?" expression -- and say, "You're such a prick. So, what are you doing up, really? As many drugs as I pumped into you, I woulda expected you to be out till morning, for sure."
I pause for a fraction of a second, and, when I continue, I can hear the worried edge curving around my words. "I know you're tired, Aya. You've hardly slept for the past three days. Not that you'll listen to me, but you need to rest."
"I told you," Aya replies, his voice brittle with irritation, "I couldn't sleep. I wanted some tea."
"Yeah, yeah," I respond, waving my hand in front of him in a dismissive gesture. I'm not fooled by him. I know the anger and irritation are, mostly, an act. "I know," I continue, "So, you drag your sorry ass down here to sit in the dark and what? Wait for the tea to make itself? And, why didn't you ask Ken? Or Omi?"
"Omi had to do all the mission reports. He didn't have time to wait on me. And, Ken … is sleeping," Aya explains, shrugging back underneath the blanket.
I close my eyes and curse under my breath, hoping for patience I know I don't have. I'm so close to losing it right now. Just, the whole situation pisses me off. I don't like seeing Aya hurt like this. I don't like it when he gets injured during a mission. And, I don't like seeing him torture himself this way. I want him upstairs, asleep in his bed, so that he can get better and be the pissy, irritating jerk I normally claim as my best friend. And, I'm pissed at Ken, too. He swore he would keep an eye on Aya for me. Otherwise, I never woulda gone out -- not if Aya wasn't taken care of. I should've known better.
No matter how badly I want to throw the mother of all temper tantrums, I know I can't. I'll end up yelling at Aya, which will make him close up even more. If that happens, he'll push me away, refuse to let me help him. And, that won't do anyone any good. So, I curse under my breath, silently count to ten, and resolve to beat the crap out of Ken at the next available opportunity. Oddly enough, that does a lot to lighten my mood.
"I … I had a nightmare," Aya says.
His voice is quiet and small, and it's not like him to admit to something like this, no matter how bad he might feel. At first, I think I might be imagining it, but, he looks away from me, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. And, I know I really heard what I thought I heard.
"What kind of nightmare?" I ask.
I'm careful to keep my voice even -- like it doesn't matter to me, like it's no big deal, even though I feel my stomach tighten with dread over what he might say.
Aya shakes his head, and, at first, I think he's not going to answer me. He takes another sip of tea, his hand shaking so badly that he manages to spill some of it on his blanket. He frowns and brushes the liquid away.
"I … uh … I dunno," Aya mumbles.
He is careful to keep his attention riveted on the front of his blanket as he continues to clean off tea that's no longer there. I can tell he's damn uncomfortable talking about this, but, at the same time, it doesn't seem like he can stop himself. Maybe even Aya needs to talk to someone, sometimes. Maybe he needs it more than any of us, considering how he keeps everything balled up inside himself all the time. I don't say anything, and I'm careful to keep from staring at him. I don't want to do anything that will keep him from finishing what he started.
He clears his throat and continues, "I was … in this room. Dark, quiet, you know? But, it smelled. Like blood. Like death. It was so strong, it made me gag. I thought, maybe, I would throw up, but I didn't. And, I walk forward, into the room. My sword is in my hand, and, somehow, I know I did this. I mean, I don't know how I know, but I just do. Like, I can feel it, or something. Feel it in my bones … in my soul. I can hear the floor squishing under my boots as I walk. It's loud … you know, because the room is so quiet. And, I know I shouldn't do it. I know I don't want to see, but I can't stop myself. It's like I'm not even in control of my own body … like I feel myself stuck in this dream, or something, but I can't wake up. In slow motion, you know? I reach out, and flip on the switch, and …"
He pauses and closes his eyes, as if gathering the strength he needs to continue. I think about telling him to stop. I have this almost overwhelming feeling of dread-induced nausea creeping over me, and it tells me I don't want to hear the rest of Aya's dream. But, I don't say anything. He needs to do this. I know that as certainly as I know the sun's gonna come up tomorrow. Like most things about Aya, I don't have a clue how I know it. I just do. I've learned, over the years, not to question these feelings. When it comes to Aya, it's better to follow along, to go where my instincts lead me. So, I wait, without saying anything, without looking at him. He'll finish, in his own time.
After a long few seconds, Aya clears his throat again and continues, "And … just everything -- walls, floor, ceiling, the whole room -- is covered in blood. I can't remember ever seeing this much blood at one time. I look to the middle of the room, and I see … Omi … Ken … my sister … you. Everyone I care about. All dead. And, I know … I just know … I've done this. I've destroyed everything, like the murderer I am."
I wait, to make sure he's done. I don't want to cut him off before he gets it all out, but he doesn't say anything else. We sit like that for what seems like a long time. It can't be more than ten or fifteen seconds, but it feels like forever.
When I know, for sure, he's finished, I clear my throat and look at him. He's still staring at the tabletop in front of him, and he's trembling. Before, I thought it was because he was cold, or because he felt just that damn bad. But, now, I think it's an aftereffect from his nightmare.
Fucking Kritiker. I try to fight back the anger I feel rising up inside of me, but it's no use. This life is hard. Killing people for money -- unless you're some kind of psycho or something, this shit haunts you. And, none of us is psycho. At least, not yet. But, it's harder on Aya than the rest of us. Me, Ken, and Omi -- we can say no to missions. And, we never have to go out on solo jobs. That's not true for Aya. Kritiker has him by the balls, but good. He's never said anything about it, but I know they hold his sister's medical care over his head. They use it for all it's worth, to force him to do whatever they want, whenever they want. He doesn't have the freedom to walk away from any task, no matter how mundane. And, that pisses me off. At times like this, I wish I could grab Persia and choke him to death with my bare hands. But, I can't. So, I do the only thing I can, which is be here for him, as much as he'll let me.
"Come on," I tell him, giving him a gentle, friendly tap on his good shoulder, "Don't do this to yourself. It's not real. It's just a dream."
"Didn't feel like a dream," Aya replies.
His voice trails off, and he's quiet for a moment.
"I woke up, screaming, and … I was alone. I never felt so fucking alone," he says, his voice so small I have to lean forward to catch the words.
I sigh and tell him, "If you wanted me to stay tonight, you shoulda said so."
I'm careful to keep my voice even and free of inflection. I don't want it to sound like an accusation, because it's not. It's just something I wish he would've done.
"You needed to go," Aya replies.
"Maybe, but not that badly," I tell him.
I stand up and stretch. Now that I'm here, now that I've seen him, and I know he's, more or less, all right, I'm tired. It's that kind of bone-shaking tired you get at the end of a string of very long days, the kind of tired that sneaks up on you without you realizing it. Or, maybe, it's just a factor of the relief I feel at being here with him -- at being here for him, and at knowing I was able to pull him back from the dark edge, this time. Hey -- one day and one crisis at a time. I'm willing to live with that.
"Well, I'm here now, so, come on. I'm not gonna sit in this damn kitchen all night long," I tell him, holding out my hand.
He uses it to give himself the leverage he needs to unfold his long legs and pull himself out of the chair. Without a word, he follows me into the living room. He settles on our beat-up sofa, curling into one corner with his blanket clutched around him. I can't help thinking he looks like some kind of bird, in the middle of a nest full of fluff or something. Okay. That's it. I'm never watching that stupid nature channel again, and that's that. It really is doing weird things to my mind, and I don't need any help in that area.
Aya watches as I root through the DVDs scattered around the entertainment center. I'm not sure what I'm looking for, but I know I want something I don't have to think about. I've done more than enough thinking for one day. Something with explosions and car chases is in order, I think. I manage to find Ken's copy of Fifth Element, and I know, instantly, it's perfect. So, the cars float through the air, but there are plenty of chases. And explosions. Not to mention that bandage dress thing.
"Fifth Element?" I ask, holding up the DVD for Aya's approval.
He shrugs, which I take for an affirmative answer. I put the disc into our player, grab the remote, and flop onto the sofa -- not touching Aya, but close enough to provide the moral support he seems to need. About ten minutes into the movie, I feel him shift around, as he uncurls from the corner and moves over, to lean against me -- his back to my arm, and his head resting against the back of the sofa. Within seconds, I feel his body relax against me, and I know he is asleep.
I sigh in resignation. It's going to be one damn uncomfortable night, stuck on the sofa like this. But, that's okay. There's no way I would chance leaving him -- not after he told me about that nightmare of his. So, it looks like I'm here for the duration, too. Well, at least I get to watch a great action flick, in the bargain. Not quite the evening I had planned, but, like I always say: You take what you can get. And, this is where I need to be for the night.
Halfway through the movie, I hear a noise on the stairs. I twist around, moving as little as possible, to see Ken descending toward us. I hold up my index finger, in front of my lips, to signal him to be quiet as he gets closer. He skips the last step, which squeaks like a son-of-a-bitch, and leans over the back of the sofa, smirking when he sees Aya there, asleep.
"Awwww," he whispers, his voice light and teasing, "You guys are so cute!"
I glare at him, pulling down my sunglasses so he can get the full impact of my irritated expression.
"What?" Ken asks.
"You were supposed to be watching out for him, you dumfuck," I tell him.
Ken sighs and shakes his head.
"Like that would ever work," he replies. "He told me to get the fuck away from him, and I wasn't gonna argue. Not with the mood he was in. You're the only one who can get through to him, anyhow."
He's right, but that doesn't mean I'm any less irritated with him. Maybe I won't beat the crap out of him, but Ken has some form of payback heading his way. Maybe I'll put salt in his Gatorade, or KY Jelly in his sneakers or something. I'm not sure yet, but I have a feeling planning my little prank will bring me a lot of satisfaction -- maybe almost as much as the actual execution of whatever plan I manage to cook up. Almost.
"Omi went in to check on him, and found him missing. So, he sent me down here … you know, to look for him. I never expected to find you two gals cuddling on the sofa like this," Ken teases.
I intensify my glare. The last thing I need is for Ken to give Aya crap about this. That's all it would take for him to withdraw even more, which is the last thing he needs. Sometimes, when your world closes in on you and you feel like shit warmed over, you just need to have someone near. You need to feel someone you can trust, someone who cares about you, close by. There's nothing wrong with it. We all feel that way. But, I know Aya will twist it around to where it's some kind of weakness or something, which means he won't turn to me -- or anyone -- the next time this happens.
"Listen," I hiss, "Don't you dare give him shit about this. You do, and I'll fuck you over, but good."
"Come on," Ken replies, "I wouldn't do that. You should know better."
His voice sounds genuinely hurt, and I can't help feeling a little guilty. In my heart, I did know better. But, sometimes, my protective urges get the better of me, where Aya is concerned.
"I know," I tell Ken. "I'm sorry."
He musses my hair, which prompts a hiss of irritation from me and an amused laugh from him.
"S'okay," Ken replies. "Anyhow, 'night."
"G'night," I say.
I listen to the creaks caused by his footsteps. They become quieter as he ascends the stairs, but I hear him pause at the top. I smile, because I figure Omi is up there, waiting for him, waiting to see if Aya is okay. I don't think either of them really knows how to deal with Aya. I'm not sure they've figured out that a lot of Aya's moodiness is an act -- his way of keeping the rest of the world out. But, I do know they both care, even if they don't know how to show it. And, that counts for a lot.
"So? Is he down there?" I hear Omi whisper.
Ken is quiet for a moment, but, then, I hear him reply, "Yeah. He's down there. Asleep. He and Yohji are curled up on the sofa like a coupla cats."
"Oh," Omi replies, "Then, everything's fine. Good."
I can't help smiling at that. Maybe Omi's right. Maybe, just being there makes the difference. Maybe that's all it takes to make everything all right in our corner of the universe. I don't know. But, I do know one thing -- it was enough for tonight. And, that's good enough for me.
~End~
Warnings: Bad Language.
Summary: The first night of Fall breezes in, bringing with it nightmares and small revelations as Yohji and Aya discover that, sometimes, the best remedies for a tired soul are friendship and a cup of hot tea.
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.
Author's Note: I wrote this story as a little fanfic gift for my dear friend, Bladedfan.
It's my favorite kind of night. The air is crisp and cool, with a little bit of a bite to it. It's been so freaking hot lately, but today was the first day that really felt like fall. I love that -- the first moment when you can feel the seasons shift around you. It always seems like summer will never end, like it'll just get longer and hotter, until everything in the city melts together -- sidewalks, storefronts, people, everything -- to run down into the sewers, all the colors and textures of life blending into one big blur. Like when you wash paint down a drain and the colors swirl together before they disappear. But, then, just when you think you can't take it any more … just when you think you're going to go bat-shit crazy from all the heat, and the sweat, and the humidity … fall breezes in. That's the way I always think about it -- a season that breezes its way into your life. I don't know why, though. Maybe because that's the way I always realize it's here -- when I feel that first, clear, crisp breeze against my face. Or, maybe because I like listening to the leaves rustle in the wind. Maybe there's no good reason for it. Hell if I know. Hell if I care, either. Just, one day, you're sitting there, sweating your ass off, and, the next, it's like the world has heaved a huge sigh of relief. And, boom, fall is there. It always feels like a surprise to me, but that shift in the weather, that first hint of the nip in the air, makes me feel like change is just around the corner, like anything is possible, even for a used-up, jaded old man like me.
Wow, listen to me. Mr. Poetic over here. Too bad there aren't any hot babes around at the moment. If there were, I could put this stuff to good use. But, there aren't, so I just end up feeling like a total idiot, or something. I hate that. Not that emotions are bad. They're not. But, thinking about them … that's a different story. Spend too much time in your own head and you might not be able to find your way out again.
Whatever. I do the same thing I always do when I catch myself thinking too much. I turn it off. Fast.
I pause on a corner, under a streetlight, to light a cigarette. I do my best to look cool; maybe it's my way of canceling out all the weenie-emotional garbage I was thinking about a few seconds ago. I pretend I'm channeling James Dean or something -- you know, Mr. Bad Ass, cool and confident, ready for anything -- as I cup one hand around the cigarette in my mouth and flick on my lighter. It takes three tries for the stupid thing to catch. I think the flint's going bad. Or maybe I need to add more fluid. Whatever the reason, it doesn't catch on the first try, and I can't help feeling like that detracts from my "cool" points. Even so, I don't let on. I just keep my head bent slightly, one hand cupped around the cig to shelter it from the wind, puffing and dragging until I can hear the embers crackling against the cold, clear night. To the rest of the world, I meant to do it this way. It was a calculated maneuver. Cool and confident. Just like me.
I scan the street and sidewalk around me while I light the cigarette. I don't make it obvious -- just peer over the tops of my sunglasses, casual-like. It's not something I mean to do. It's a habit. An irritating habit, really. But, hell, it keeps me alive, so I guess I shouldn't complain, should I? I have good peripheral vision, so I can see everything from where I'm standing. That has to bump up my coolness factor, doesn't it?
There's a group of teenagers waiting on the corner for a bus. Shouldn't they be home studying or something? Or sleeping? I mean, it's late already. One of them is checking me out. She's pretty cute, but definitely way too young. Sorry, sister. Not this time. Shit, the guy next to her is checking me out, too. That's creepy. Flattering, I guess, but, yeah … Creepy. Sorry, kid. I don't swing that way. And, if I did, you're not any older than the hot chick next to you. I can't help but wonder why the two of them don't grab a room and put their hormones to work. They're teenagers, after all. It's only natural.
There's an all-night liquor store just past the bus stop. I can see its sign throwing bands of color -- red and green and blue -- across the sidewalk. It's kind of pretty, in a psychedelic, drug-induced-stupor sort of way. There are a few couples milling around. Looks like they're window shopping, except there's nothing on this street but adult video stores and porn shops. Makes me wonder what those kids are doing here, in the first place. And, that makes me glad I never had kids. It'd be too damn hard to have to worry about them all the time. Besides, I don't think I'd want to wish another "me" on the world. Hell, I don't think the world could handle it, for that matter.
Oh, hello there. Across from the bus stop, on the other side of the street, is one hot looking babe. She is so into me. If the look in her eyes could translate into action … let's just say I'd be one satisfied camper right about now. I give her my best smile -- the innocent, little-boy grin that curls from my cigarette out toward the edges of my mouth. Oh yeah. I could have her.
I know. It sounds like I've got the inflated ego or something. But, that's not it. It's true, after all. I mean, when you have it, you have it. And, I do. I don't know why, or how I got it. But, I know I have it. I always have, and I guess I always will. Hell, I hope I always will. Sometimes, it's the only thing that makes life worth living.
Speaking of which … I was supposed to have "it" tonight. In the form of Clarissa Jones -- foreign exchange student by day, Yohji Kudou playmate by night. Well, when I can find the time, that is. And, tonight, I was going to take the time, if you know what I mean.
I don't know. Maybe it was stupid, thinking I could go out on a date after a mission. Especially one like tonight, where things go bad right from the start, where we end up barely fighting our way out, and, in particular, where all the shit from the proverbial fan seems to hit Aya. I hate it when he gets hurt. I mean, it wasn't bad tonight. A shoulder hit, hardly more than a flesh wound. I sewed him up before I left, and it only took ten stitches. Which sounds like a lot, but, for Aya … well, that's not so bad.
Usually, I wouldn't think about leaving him alone. Not after that. But, tonight, I don't know. I was restless as hell. Or, maybe I was just pissed. I'm not sure what I was feeling. But, I knew I couldn't sit still. Not even for him. I think he knew it, too. I think that's why he told me to get the hell out of the house. He said it like he was pissed at me, like he couldn't stand having me around. Maybe the other two would have bought that, but I didn't. Not for a second. It wasn't that he didn't want me there. He did, probably more than he would ever admit. But, he knew I needed to leave. And, he let me go.
Don't ask me how I know that. Maybe it was the way he looked at me, or the way he told me to fuck off -- trying to look all tough and mean, even though I could hear his voice shaking. I don't know. I mean, maybe it was a million little things. Like I said, I don't know how I know it. But, when it comes to Aya … I just know. You know?
This sounds pretty stupid. Or, like I'm in love with him or something like that. You know, so in love with him that I can read his every mood, no matter what. Yeah. Whatever. It's not that. I mean, I love him, sure. But, not like that. It's more like the way you love a younger brother.
Well, no. Not exactly like that.
Maybe it's like the way you love a best friend.
Shit. It's not like that, either.
It's just … well … complicated. And, what does it matter, anyhow? Who cares? I mean, he's a part of my life, and I like it that way. Isn't that enough? Why do I have to quantify all this crap, anyhow? All it does is give me a headache.
I shouldn't have left him alone. Not tonight. Not when he was hurting and exhausted and haunted by the killing we had to do. It's just that, being surrounded by all that death; it's hard to explain. You go home and wash the blood off. But, the death -- that stink stays on you. You can't shake it. And, sometimes, I just want to feel alive, you know? I need to feel alive. And, tonight was one of those nights. I think he knew that, so he was as assholey and pissy as he could be, just to make sure I wouldn't stay around. And, it worked. Even though I knew what he was doing, he managed to push every button I have, so that I yelled at him, called him an uptight bastard, and even slammed the door on my way out, just for effect.
But, I thought it wouldn't matter, you know? I mean, I was pissed as hell at him. Still am, on some level. But, I wanted to feel alive. I didn't want to be there, sitting in that house, worrying over him. I wanted to be out here, drinking in the energy from the night, reminding myself I'm still here, and doing my damned best to remember that's what counts the most -- being here … being the one left standing when the dust clears. Because sometimes, it's easy to forget that. Doesn't seem like it should be, but it is.
I thought, if anyone could bring me back to life, it would be Clarissa. She has a body that doesn't know the meaning of the word quit, and neither does her sex drive. Plus, she has a rather naughty, adventurous side, too. Which … well, I'll be honest. It's damn fun. Especially when you're feeling like a walking dead man. I mean, if you want to feel … this girl will make you feel. She'll make you feel shit you didn't even know you could feel. I like that in a woman.
Around the corner from here, just two blocks down, is one of the best-kept secrets in Tokyo. Stuck between an adult book store and a boudoir photography studio is this little café that … well, it has ambiance to spare. I'm supposed to be meeting Clarissa there right about now, I realize, as I glance at my watch.
Well, crap. This just isn't going to work, is it?
I sigh as I toss my spent cigarette onto the sidewalk and grind it under the toe of my boot. I give the hot chick across the street one last, parting, smile, and turn around, heading back the way I came, back toward home. I guess drinking in the smell and feeling of fall will have to be enough living for me for tonight.
I'm not too worried about Clarissa. She'll be mad, but she'll get over it. A couple dozen roses'll do a lot to thaw her out. Good thing I can get that shit at cost. The flower shop gig is a lame cover. Makes me feel like a real bozo most of the time, so it's only fair that it should pay off every now and then, although I'm sure Aya will bitch about me "stealing" from the store. Whatever. It's not like any of it's for real, anyhow. In the end, even he doesn't think so. He just likes to bitch.
Oooh. Stroke of genius: I'll tell Clarissa I made the arrangement myself. Girls love that stuff. It'll score some major points. Not like I'll actually make it, though. That would be too much like work. Normally, Aya would do it for me, but, with that shoulder wound he got tonight, I don't want him arranging anything more strenuous than some down time so he can recuperate. I'll talk Omi into it. That'll do.
Hell, even without the flowers, Clarissa would get over being stood up. She likes my naughty, adventurous side as much as I like hers. Besides, it's not like she's the only flower in the field, so to speak.
Flower in the field. Heh. That was funny, if I do say so myself. I'll have to share that with Aya, once he's in a better mood. I bet it'll even get a laugh out of him. Well … maybe not a laugh, but a smirk, for sure.
As I round the last corner, I can see the Koneko halfway down the block. It's dark and has that sort of deserted look to it that buildings get at night, when they're locked up tight and everyone inside is asleep. If I didn't know any better, I would turn around and head back out to meet Clarissa. Hell, a part of me wants to do exactly that. But, I do know better, which sucks. No matter what the place looks like from here, I know he's not sleeping. I don't know how I know. I just do. And, I have to admit, it kinda pisses me off.
I know … that's not a rational reaction. I mean, it's not his fault that I worry about whether he's up or not. Really, I shouldn't care, you know? Whether he sleeps or not … that's his business. And, yet, I always feel compelled to make it mine. I always worry about him. I don't want to, but I can't help it. Why? Why do I worry about him like this? Why do I even care? Especially when it's so obvious he doesn't give a shit. Crap. I … I don't even know why. But, I do. And, that pisses me off, too. Not to mention Clarissa of the superbly hot body and kinky sex toys, who I stood up tonight. I really, really wanted to see her. Just one more thing that pisses me off about all of this. Guess it's my night to be freaking pissed about everything.
I slow down as I get closer to the Koneko. I hadn't realized it, but I've been walking at top speed ever since I decided to turn around and come home. Now, I'm panting. It's quiet on this street, and I can hear my own breath -- loud, like little explosions in the still night. For a second, I think, maybe, I should stop smoking. But, it's only a passing thought. Sure, maybe I wouldn't get winded as easily, if I did. Then again, if I worked out once in a while, that might help, too. Either way, there's no way I'll ever stop smoking. I plan on checking out with a lit cig in my mouth and, if I'm lucky, a hot babe on top of me. I'm gonna walk right up to the gates of Hell and offer Lucifer a drag. I think he'll get a kick out of that.
Speaking of … I could use a cigarette right about now. Might be a good idea to settle my nerves and calm down a little before I go in there. Otherwise, I'll end up fighting with Aya, and I don't want to do that. I hate it when I worry about him, and it comes out pissed. He gets this look in his eyes. I mean, he tries to act like he doesn't care. But, for a second or two, there's this kind of lost, hurt expression. Makes me feel like I've just kicked a puppy or something. I fucking hate that. I hate it even more when that look disappears; it always does, within nanoseconds, like he doesn't think he deserves to feel anything. Makes me want to beat the shit out of him or something. And, I hate knowing I've hurt him. He'll never say so. He just locks it away, somewhere inside of him. But, it's there, and it's there because of me.
Everyone thinks Aya is so strong. And, I guess they're right, in a way. But, I don't know. I just have this feeling -- this feeling that, one of these days, Aya's going to break, big time, and that scares me. It scares me a hell of a lot more than I'd like to admit. He holds too much stuff inside. People think he doesn't feel anything, but they're wrong. He does. He just hides it really well, even from himself. If that day ever comes, I don't think any of us will be able to put him back together again.
That old nursery rhyme -- the one about Humpty Dumpty -- pops into my head. Shit. That creeps me out. Thanks a lot, mind. I really enjoyed that little side trip -- not.
I duck into a nearby alley, because, now, the cigarette isn't just a good idea. It's become a necessity, thanks to my inadvertent trip down memory lane. I keep getting these flash images of Aya, lying on the ground, broken into a million pieces.
I shudder as I fumble around in my jacket pocket for my cigs. This would go a lot better if my hands weren't shaking so much, but I finally manage to pull the cigarettes out, along with my lighter. I'm surprised at how light the pack is, and I squint one eye shut so I can peer inside. There's only one left. I know I had a half-full pack when I stopped on that corner earlier, just before I turned around to come back home. Did I really smoke all of those between there and here? I think, hard, and realize I don't remember it. I don't remember smoking any of them. I guess I just did it -- you know, without thinking about it or something. Geez freaking Louise … am I that much of a nicotine addict?
I tell my brain not to answer that question. I don't think I want to explore the potential depths of my addiction. Not now. Maybe, not ever.
The thing is, I had a half-full pack of cigarettes not more than ten minutes ago, and, now, I'm down to my last one. I frown as I have this sudden image of myself, chugging along, huffing and puffing like a train, pouring smoke along behind me, and leaving a trail of used cigarette butts all the way here. Good grief. I must have been one pathetic sight. Guess I'm more worried than I realized.
It takes a lot of clicking before I can get my stupid lighter to work. Figures. Just when I'm jonesing at my worst, the damn thing decides to cut out. I hold it up to my ear and shake it. Sounds like there's plenty of fluid. Note to self: Buy a new flint, pronto.
I lean back against the wall behind me and blow the smoke out, over my head. I like the way it looks as it hangs there for a moment -- white and big against the dark sky -- before it disappears. Kind of makes me wish I had a poet's soul or some shit like that, but I don't. I'm just a regular guy, at the end of the day.
I don't know why, but watching that smoke hang there and then, slowly, disappear … somehow, it does as much to calm my restlessness as the actual nicotine that is now rushing through my system. It's an immediate rush, followed by a slow-moving calm as I feel my restlessness begin to fade away. Oh, yeah. That's what I'm talking about. This is why I'll never stop smoking. Because nothing else feels this damn good -- not even sex, believe it or not.
I linger over my cigarette. Now that I'm here, this close to home … I don't know. All of a sudden, I'm not in any big hurry. Kinda stupid, really. I practically run all the way here, and, now, I don't want to go in. I don't know why, because I damn sure ain't going anywhere else tonight. Standing up Clarissa proved that to me. Still, there's a part of me that doesn't want to see him. Maybe I'm afraid. Afraid of seeing that lost, haunted look in his eyes. Afraid of seeing him like that -- hurting, vulnerable, small. Maybe I'm afraid I won't know what to say to him, that I won't be able to pull him away from the edge of whatever hell that's about to swallow him, that, maybe, being there for him won't be enough this time. Talk about stupid. There's no point in worrying over it. It's not like I would be anywhere else. Still, there's this sense of dread coiling up in my stomach. I can feel it there -- round and hard and cold.
For right now, though, I don't have to worry about it. For these few seconds, I can live in the moment and enjoy my cigarette. I close my eyes and, for the first time tonight, I realize how tired I am. Everything hurts, and I think that, maybe, it would be good to stay here. Just stand here, feeling the cool breeze on my face and smoking my last cig, for the rest of eternity.
I can feel sleep sneaking up on me. I tell myself no. I can't fall asleep here, in the open, in an alley -- especially since my own, warm bed is not more than a hundred feet away. But, it doesn't do any good. I can't stop it. A wave of lethargy washes over me, stealing away my resolve and strength, and I feel my body shutting down. I don't even try to fight it. I don't think I can, but, even if I could, I don't think I want to.
Just as I'm about to slide down the wall to sit on the ground, a noise startles me. The alley was quiet and deserted, and this sound rings out -- loud in the night. It's this great, tinny-sounding rattle, and it echoes off the walls around me. I'm sure that makes it sound a lot bigger than it really is, but, even so, I scramble back to my feet, struggling to grab hold of my slipping consciousness and automatically dropping into a defensive posture as I do so. I guess I've been an assassin for too long. My first thought, upon hearing a sudden noise, is always, 'Alright, who do I hafta kill now?' I wish I could be like a normal person -- just let the sudden fright of the moment wash over me and laugh, later on, about how silly it was. But, I'm not normal. Haven't been for a long time. I know what's out here, in the dark, and I know what it can do to you. Once you know that … once you live in that world … well, you can't go back to "normal" -- not ever.
A trash can lid rolls out of the shadows at the other end of the alley, followed by some stray bits of trash, blown along in front of a sudden gust of chilly wind. And, then, my enemy shows himself -- a big, black alley cat. He's tall and rangy -- one of the biggest strays I've seen. Even in the half light at my end of the alley, I can see his face and neck are covered with scars. He trots out of the shadows holding a half-eaten fish; no doubt, that was his prize for knocking over the trash can I heard fall. He's cocky and full of himself, but, when he sees me, he changes -- drops the fish and crouches down, ready to defend himself and his dinner. He growls and hisses at me, and, as he moves, his eyes catch the light. I had expected them to be yellow, but they're green -- the most brilliant shade of green I've ever seen. He freezes like that, and we stare at each other for a long few seconds, both of us frozen in a defensive crouch, each of us glaring daggers at the other.
"Don't mind me, fella," I tell him, as I straighten up, toss my cigarette to the ground, and walk away.
His angry growls echo after me as I leave the alley and step onto the sidewalk, back into the real world and real time. I know I couldn't have been in there for more than a couple of minutes, but, somehow, it feels like forever, like one of those stories where the hero falls into a make-believe world. The outside world keeps on turning, and it seems like he's only been gone for a day or two. But, to him, he's been away for months. It's a weird feeling.
That cat was funny, though. I think he really would've fought me for that stupid fish. For the first time, I realize how appropriate it is for us to be code-named after cats. I had always thought it ridiculous -- like, maybe, Kritiker was making fun of us or something. But, now, after my little stare-down session in the alley, I realize how alike we are. It's weird how something so small and insignificant can also seem so profound, but I guess epiphanies are like that -- it's the small ones that count the most. At any rate, I don't think I'll ever look at a stray cat the same way again, and I make a mental note to take a can of tuna by the alley tomorrow -- kind of like a peace offering.
I pass by the front of the Koneko without stopping. The store's metal doors are in place behind the plate-glass windows, and everything looks just as dark and deserted up close as it did from down the block. I keep on walking, to the next alley, which will take me around to the back of the shop and the stairs leading into our kitchen. Except for business hours, none of us come or go through the front of the shop. We all use the back stairs and the kitchen door.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs and look up, toward the door. The outside light is on, and I can't help but smile at that. I know Aya left it on for me. He always does when he knows I'm going to be out late. He's funny that way -- acting like he couldn't care less, and yet he goes and leaves the light on for you. He does it for all of us, but I think I'm the only one who knows it. I guess Ken figures Omi does it, and Omi figures Ken does it. They both know better than to think I would do it -- although, I do, sometimes, if Aya is out on a solo mission. Seeing that light on, it makes me feel good inside -- warm and comfortable, like when I was a kid and my mom would tell me "welcome home" when I came in from school. I know it's silly, but I guess I want Aya to feel that, too. And, hell, maybe that's why he does it, in the first place. Who knows? With him, it could be anything, you know? But, he does it, and, even though it's silly, I like it. I'm willing to leave it at that.
The stairs creak and groan as I climb up, and, once I reach the top, the lock rattles when I slide my key into it. I should try to be a little quieter, but I figure it doesn't matter a whole heckuva lot. Ken and Omi both sleep like the dead, so there's no way I'll wake either of them. And, even though there aren't any lights on in the kitchen, I know Aya's not asleep. Like I said, I don't know how I know. But, I know.
So, I'm not surprised when, as I stumble into the kitchen, I hear Aya's deep voice coming at me out of the dark.
"What are you doing home?" he asks.
I sigh and mentally call him an ungrateful prick. I mean, I ran all the way over here just to see if he was okay. The least he could do is be nice.
Uh … wait a minute. Scratch that. I did not run all the way over here. I mean, I walked really fast, but, it's not the same thing. And, I wasn't worried about him. I was … mildly concerned. Yeah. That's it. That's all it was.
I shrug and flip the light switch next to the door as I reply, "Oh, nothing. I figured some whiney cry-baby bastard might be waiting up for me, or something."
Aya blinks a little in the sudden flood of overhead light. I can't help thinking he looks sort of like a badger that's just come out of its hole or something. Crap. I really need to stop watching that nature TV channel. It can't be good for me.
It only takes a second for him to become accustomed to the extra light, and he shrugs and says, "Oh, so you missed me. Is that it?"
I give him my best playful smile, along with a little wink, and say, "Funny how I say the words "whiney cry-baby bastard", and you immediately think of yourself."
I'm careful to keep my voice light and teasing. I can tell, just from the edge to his voice, it wouldn't take much to set him off. And, I don't want to fight with him. Not tonight. I have a feeling he doesn't want that, either, because he lets my comment slide off with nothing more than a shrug and a smirk.
I lean against the counter and take my first, good, long look at him. He's sitting at the kitchen table, all curled up in one of the chairs. I have no idea how he's managed it, but he's sitting with his feet on the edge of the chair, hugging his legs to his chest. Aya has freaking long legs; it looks like he's practically folded himself in half to sit that way. It can't be comfortable, and I can't help but wonder how long he's been like that. He has a blanket draped over his shoulders, and he's holding it closed with his hands, just in front of his knees. He's wearing a long-sleeved blue t-shirt; the blanket covers him, but I can just see the ends of his shirt sleeves and his toes poking out from the edges.
Aya hates the cold. Looking at him, you would think he was a winter person. I'm not sure why, but he just gives that impression. Maybe because he has pale skin, contrasting with that red hair. Or, maybe it's because of his personality. I've heard people use the term "ice prince" more than once, when they're describing him. At any rate, he looks like someone who would like the cold, but nothing could be further from the truth. At the first sign of fall, he always pulls out his long-sleeved shirts, sweaters, and sweatpants.
Me, I'm just the opposite. See, you'd think I was a summer person, right? I guess I sorta have that "beach bum" look going on or something. Not intentional. It's just the way I look. But, I hate hot weather. Give me the cold any day. Or snow. I love snow. I could stay out in the snow all day long.
Aya stares back at me as I watch him. He's trying, really hard, to glare at me, but he's not having much luck at it. He's tired and hurting, and he feels like shit. Maybe no one else would notice it, but it's there. I can see it in his eyes. He's smoking, which doesn't surprise me as much as it should, I guess. I mean, Aya doesn't smoke a lot, but he does sometimes -- when life seems to come at him too fast and too hard. I can see the exhaustion weighing him down in the way his hand trembles when he brings the cigarette to his mouth and the way his breath shakes as he blows out a long stream of smoke. He takes another drag off his cig before setting it down, on the edge of the ashtray sitting on the table in front of him.
And, that's when it hits me: I was right. This is fucking hard. Aya's not a big guy. He's tall, and, although he's pretty much all muscle, he's kinda on the skinny side, too. But, you'd never think of him as "small", you know? I'm not sure I can put my finger on what it is about him, but he has this way of seeming big -- larger than life and twice as bad. I've had his back on missions plenty of times. And, there have been times -- more than I'd like to admit -- when I've been hurt, and he's the only thing standing between me and death. So, I know, first hand. I know what it feels like to pull myself back to consciousness, expecting to wake up dead, only to find Aya standing in front of me, facing down anyone who might come after me. And, the funny thing is that I'm not even afraid. It's this feeling like, 'Oh, Aya's here. Everything's cool, then.' How freaking weird is that? I never think of the possibility he might lose, or die. I mean, I do think about it -- any time he goes on a solo mission, or if we get split up. But, just, somehow, it seems impossible that anything could happen to him. Even when I worry about him, in the back of my mind there's this little voice that's always telling me it'll be all right. Because it's Aya. Because Aya isn't afraid of anything. Because Aya can do anything. Stupid fucking voice. I mean, at the end of the day, Aya's just a man -- a regular guy, like the rest of us. I think he just hides it better than most people.
Tonight, though, Aya doesn't look like any of those things. He looks exactly like someone who has hardly slept in days -- someone who is tired, and cold, and hurting. And alone. Maybe it's the look in his eyes. I don't know, but he looks more alone than I've ever seen him. He looks small and fragile. Vulnerable, even. I don't want to think it. It feels like a betrayal, even letting the words form in my mind, but, even so, they're there. I can't deny it.
It sounds pretty ridiculous, but it hurts, seeing Aya like this. I knew -- standing out there, smoking in that alley -- it would. I knew that, and I was ready for it. And, yet, I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready for the way it's almost like a physical pain, tugging at my insides. For the way I feel my heart clench and my throat close up on me when I see how much he is suffering, and not just from his physical wounds, either. I don't think I could ever prepare myself to face this. Hell, I know I can't. It's not like I haven't seen him like this before. I have. I'm probably the only one who has. I think he manages to keep most of his true feelings hidden around Omi and Ken. But, with me, I don't know … I guess he feels safe enough to let the walls down a little. That's a good thing, and I'm glad I can be there for him like that. But, still, I wish it didn't hurt so damn much. I wish it didn't make me feel like someone was ripping the heart right out of my chest.
Aya looks away, dropping his gaze to the pitted, scarred wood of the tabletop in front of him. There's a slight blush coloring his cheeks. If not for how pale his face is at the moment, I wouldn't have even noticed it. I'm not sure if it's because he's embarrassed, or if he has a slight fever. Could be a bit of both, I suppose, but, whatever the case, it makes me realize I've been standing there staring at him. Not really for that long -- couldn't be more than a second or two -- but it must seem like a long time to him.
I clear my throat and force myself to talk, just to break the tension in the room.
"What're you doing up, anyhow?" I ask.
He doesn't look away from the table, and, for a moment or two, I think he's not going to answer me.
But, he shrugs and replies, "Couldn't sleep. I came down to make some tea."
I don't see evidence of tea anywhere in the kitchen. No teapot on the stove. No cup on the table. Nothing. I give him one of those eyebrows-raised looks -- an unspoken question.
"Didn't feel like it, once I got down here," Aya says.
I sigh and turn around, to dig through the cabinet behind me in search of the requisite tea-making supplies. It doesn't take me long to find the pot and a container of tea leaves. I pull them down and get to work. Within seconds, I've put the water on to boil and prepared Aya's favorite mug. I lean back against the counter again, to wait for the water.
"I hope green's OK," I say. "It's all we have."
He nods. "Yeah. Fine."
Neither of us says anything as we wait for the water to boil. The kitchen is quiet -- just the ticking of the clock on the wall over the stove, the electric hum of the refrigerator, and the ice maker buzzing. It's not an uncomfortable kind of silence. It feels good -- like coming home to the smell of fresh-baked cookies after a long day. But at the same time, it's kind of loud, too. I must be losing it, though. I mean, how can "quiet" be loud? It's "quiet", right, so it can't be. Can it?
Thankfully, the tea kettle's whistle cuts through the silence, which means I can get on with making the tea, instead of standing there wondering how "quiet" can be loud. Believe me, mental gymnastics are the last thing I want to engage in -- ever. Not that I'm dumb or anything. I mean, I'm not as smart as Omi, but who the hell is? Still, I'm no slouch, either. I just don't believe in overthinking some things. Well, anything, really. I'm more of a take-it-as-you-find-it kinda guy.
I cross to the table and set the steaming mug in front of Aya. He eyeballs it for a second or two with this uncertain, dubious expression on his face.
"Hell, man, it's not gonna bite you or anything. You wanted tea, you've got tea. Drink it … don't drink it. I don't give a shit," I grumble at him.
I pull out the chair next to him, wincing as its legs scrape against the kitchen's linoleum floor with this loud, wooden-sounding squeal. It's one of those noises that you just know will set off every dog in the neighborhood.
Aya gives me a half-hearted glare as I plop into the chair, facing him. He reaches for the cigarette, but I'm quicker. Just as he brings it up to his lips, I reach out and snag it. I flick the ash off the end, into the nearby ashtray, and shrug off Aya's irritated sigh as I stick the cigarette in my mouth and take a long drag, blowing smoke off to the side.
"What?" I mumble, keeping the cigarette clamped between my lips. "You damn sure don't need this. Not with all the freaking painkillers in your system. Fucking addict."
"Takes one to know one," Aya retorts.
But, other than that, he chooses to let the matter drop. He reaches for his tea, cupping the mug in one of his palms, as if he can leech the warmth from it into his body.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I reply. "You're so freaking funny. I just can't stop laughing."
As he sips at his tea, I shift closer and pull one side of the blanket down, off of his injured shoulder. My hands are already moving his t-shirt aside by the time Aya figures out what I'm doing. He's not as quick on the uptake as he usually is, probably due to the heavy-duty painkillers I know he has floating through his body right now. But, the meds haven't done anything to make his personality more agreeable. He tries to shrug away from me, but I don't let him. I've got a good grip on his shirt, so he's not going anywhere.
"Sit still, you little shit, or I'll kill 'ya," I mutter as I push his shirt and bandage aside, just enough to check that all his stitches are still in place.
"I'm fine," Aya snaps, releasing his stranglehold on the blanket long enough to bat my hands away.
"Just admiring my handiwork," I reply, with a grin. "Such pretty, pretty stitches. I bet it won't even leave a scar."
Aya laughs -- a short, derisive-sounding snort. "Yeah. If this whole assassin thing doesn't work out for you, I'm sure you'll make a hell of a seamstress. Next time I have holes in my socks, maybe I'll ask you to darn them for me."
I sigh and roll my eyes at the ceiling -- my typical "why me?" expression -- and say, "You're such a prick. So, what are you doing up, really? As many drugs as I pumped into you, I woulda expected you to be out till morning, for sure."
I pause for a fraction of a second, and, when I continue, I can hear the worried edge curving around my words. "I know you're tired, Aya. You've hardly slept for the past three days. Not that you'll listen to me, but you need to rest."
"I told you," Aya replies, his voice brittle with irritation, "I couldn't sleep. I wanted some tea."
"Yeah, yeah," I respond, waving my hand in front of him in a dismissive gesture. I'm not fooled by him. I know the anger and irritation are, mostly, an act. "I know," I continue, "So, you drag your sorry ass down here to sit in the dark and what? Wait for the tea to make itself? And, why didn't you ask Ken? Or Omi?"
"Omi had to do all the mission reports. He didn't have time to wait on me. And, Ken … is sleeping," Aya explains, shrugging back underneath the blanket.
I close my eyes and curse under my breath, hoping for patience I know I don't have. I'm so close to losing it right now. Just, the whole situation pisses me off. I don't like seeing Aya hurt like this. I don't like it when he gets injured during a mission. And, I don't like seeing him torture himself this way. I want him upstairs, asleep in his bed, so that he can get better and be the pissy, irritating jerk I normally claim as my best friend. And, I'm pissed at Ken, too. He swore he would keep an eye on Aya for me. Otherwise, I never woulda gone out -- not if Aya wasn't taken care of. I should've known better.
No matter how badly I want to throw the mother of all temper tantrums, I know I can't. I'll end up yelling at Aya, which will make him close up even more. If that happens, he'll push me away, refuse to let me help him. And, that won't do anyone any good. So, I curse under my breath, silently count to ten, and resolve to beat the crap out of Ken at the next available opportunity. Oddly enough, that does a lot to lighten my mood.
"I … I had a nightmare," Aya says.
His voice is quiet and small, and it's not like him to admit to something like this, no matter how bad he might feel. At first, I think I might be imagining it, but, he looks away from me, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. And, I know I really heard what I thought I heard.
"What kind of nightmare?" I ask.
I'm careful to keep my voice even -- like it doesn't matter to me, like it's no big deal, even though I feel my stomach tighten with dread over what he might say.
Aya shakes his head, and, at first, I think he's not going to answer me. He takes another sip of tea, his hand shaking so badly that he manages to spill some of it on his blanket. He frowns and brushes the liquid away.
"I … uh … I dunno," Aya mumbles.
He is careful to keep his attention riveted on the front of his blanket as he continues to clean off tea that's no longer there. I can tell he's damn uncomfortable talking about this, but, at the same time, it doesn't seem like he can stop himself. Maybe even Aya needs to talk to someone, sometimes. Maybe he needs it more than any of us, considering how he keeps everything balled up inside himself all the time. I don't say anything, and I'm careful to keep from staring at him. I don't want to do anything that will keep him from finishing what he started.
He clears his throat and continues, "I was … in this room. Dark, quiet, you know? But, it smelled. Like blood. Like death. It was so strong, it made me gag. I thought, maybe, I would throw up, but I didn't. And, I walk forward, into the room. My sword is in my hand, and, somehow, I know I did this. I mean, I don't know how I know, but I just do. Like, I can feel it, or something. Feel it in my bones … in my soul. I can hear the floor squishing under my boots as I walk. It's loud … you know, because the room is so quiet. And, I know I shouldn't do it. I know I don't want to see, but I can't stop myself. It's like I'm not even in control of my own body … like I feel myself stuck in this dream, or something, but I can't wake up. In slow motion, you know? I reach out, and flip on the switch, and …"
He pauses and closes his eyes, as if gathering the strength he needs to continue. I think about telling him to stop. I have this almost overwhelming feeling of dread-induced nausea creeping over me, and it tells me I don't want to hear the rest of Aya's dream. But, I don't say anything. He needs to do this. I know that as certainly as I know the sun's gonna come up tomorrow. Like most things about Aya, I don't have a clue how I know it. I just do. I've learned, over the years, not to question these feelings. When it comes to Aya, it's better to follow along, to go where my instincts lead me. So, I wait, without saying anything, without looking at him. He'll finish, in his own time.
After a long few seconds, Aya clears his throat again and continues, "And … just everything -- walls, floor, ceiling, the whole room -- is covered in blood. I can't remember ever seeing this much blood at one time. I look to the middle of the room, and I see … Omi … Ken … my sister … you. Everyone I care about. All dead. And, I know … I just know … I've done this. I've destroyed everything, like the murderer I am."
I wait, to make sure he's done. I don't want to cut him off before he gets it all out, but he doesn't say anything else. We sit like that for what seems like a long time. It can't be more than ten or fifteen seconds, but it feels like forever.
When I know, for sure, he's finished, I clear my throat and look at him. He's still staring at the tabletop in front of him, and he's trembling. Before, I thought it was because he was cold, or because he felt just that damn bad. But, now, I think it's an aftereffect from his nightmare.
Fucking Kritiker. I try to fight back the anger I feel rising up inside of me, but it's no use. This life is hard. Killing people for money -- unless you're some kind of psycho or something, this shit haunts you. And, none of us is psycho. At least, not yet. But, it's harder on Aya than the rest of us. Me, Ken, and Omi -- we can say no to missions. And, we never have to go out on solo jobs. That's not true for Aya. Kritiker has him by the balls, but good. He's never said anything about it, but I know they hold his sister's medical care over his head. They use it for all it's worth, to force him to do whatever they want, whenever they want. He doesn't have the freedom to walk away from any task, no matter how mundane. And, that pisses me off. At times like this, I wish I could grab Persia and choke him to death with my bare hands. But, I can't. So, I do the only thing I can, which is be here for him, as much as he'll let me.
"Come on," I tell him, giving him a gentle, friendly tap on his good shoulder, "Don't do this to yourself. It's not real. It's just a dream."
"Didn't feel like a dream," Aya replies.
His voice trails off, and he's quiet for a moment.
"I woke up, screaming, and … I was alone. I never felt so fucking alone," he says, his voice so small I have to lean forward to catch the words.
I sigh and tell him, "If you wanted me to stay tonight, you shoulda said so."
I'm careful to keep my voice even and free of inflection. I don't want it to sound like an accusation, because it's not. It's just something I wish he would've done.
"You needed to go," Aya replies.
"Maybe, but not that badly," I tell him.
I stand up and stretch. Now that I'm here, now that I've seen him, and I know he's, more or less, all right, I'm tired. It's that kind of bone-shaking tired you get at the end of a string of very long days, the kind of tired that sneaks up on you without you realizing it. Or, maybe, it's just a factor of the relief I feel at being here with him -- at being here for him, and at knowing I was able to pull him back from the dark edge, this time. Hey -- one day and one crisis at a time. I'm willing to live with that.
"Well, I'm here now, so, come on. I'm not gonna sit in this damn kitchen all night long," I tell him, holding out my hand.
He uses it to give himself the leverage he needs to unfold his long legs and pull himself out of the chair. Without a word, he follows me into the living room. He settles on our beat-up sofa, curling into one corner with his blanket clutched around him. I can't help thinking he looks like some kind of bird, in the middle of a nest full of fluff or something. Okay. That's it. I'm never watching that stupid nature channel again, and that's that. It really is doing weird things to my mind, and I don't need any help in that area.
Aya watches as I root through the DVDs scattered around the entertainment center. I'm not sure what I'm looking for, but I know I want something I don't have to think about. I've done more than enough thinking for one day. Something with explosions and car chases is in order, I think. I manage to find Ken's copy of Fifth Element, and I know, instantly, it's perfect. So, the cars float through the air, but there are plenty of chases. And explosions. Not to mention that bandage dress thing.
"Fifth Element?" I ask, holding up the DVD for Aya's approval.
He shrugs, which I take for an affirmative answer. I put the disc into our player, grab the remote, and flop onto the sofa -- not touching Aya, but close enough to provide the moral support he seems to need. About ten minutes into the movie, I feel him shift around, as he uncurls from the corner and moves over, to lean against me -- his back to my arm, and his head resting against the back of the sofa. Within seconds, I feel his body relax against me, and I know he is asleep.
I sigh in resignation. It's going to be one damn uncomfortable night, stuck on the sofa like this. But, that's okay. There's no way I would chance leaving him -- not after he told me about that nightmare of his. So, it looks like I'm here for the duration, too. Well, at least I get to watch a great action flick, in the bargain. Not quite the evening I had planned, but, like I always say: You take what you can get. And, this is where I need to be for the night.
Halfway through the movie, I hear a noise on the stairs. I twist around, moving as little as possible, to see Ken descending toward us. I hold up my index finger, in front of my lips, to signal him to be quiet as he gets closer. He skips the last step, which squeaks like a son-of-a-bitch, and leans over the back of the sofa, smirking when he sees Aya there, asleep.
"Awwww," he whispers, his voice light and teasing, "You guys are so cute!"
I glare at him, pulling down my sunglasses so he can get the full impact of my irritated expression.
"What?" Ken asks.
"You were supposed to be watching out for him, you dumfuck," I tell him.
Ken sighs and shakes his head.
"Like that would ever work," he replies. "He told me to get the fuck away from him, and I wasn't gonna argue. Not with the mood he was in. You're the only one who can get through to him, anyhow."
He's right, but that doesn't mean I'm any less irritated with him. Maybe I won't beat the crap out of him, but Ken has some form of payback heading his way. Maybe I'll put salt in his Gatorade, or KY Jelly in his sneakers or something. I'm not sure yet, but I have a feeling planning my little prank will bring me a lot of satisfaction -- maybe almost as much as the actual execution of whatever plan I manage to cook up. Almost.
"Omi went in to check on him, and found him missing. So, he sent me down here … you know, to look for him. I never expected to find you two gals cuddling on the sofa like this," Ken teases.
I intensify my glare. The last thing I need is for Ken to give Aya crap about this. That's all it would take for him to withdraw even more, which is the last thing he needs. Sometimes, when your world closes in on you and you feel like shit warmed over, you just need to have someone near. You need to feel someone you can trust, someone who cares about you, close by. There's nothing wrong with it. We all feel that way. But, I know Aya will twist it around to where it's some kind of weakness or something, which means he won't turn to me -- or anyone -- the next time this happens.
"Listen," I hiss, "Don't you dare give him shit about this. You do, and I'll fuck you over, but good."
"Come on," Ken replies, "I wouldn't do that. You should know better."
His voice sounds genuinely hurt, and I can't help feeling a little guilty. In my heart, I did know better. But, sometimes, my protective urges get the better of me, where Aya is concerned.
"I know," I tell Ken. "I'm sorry."
He musses my hair, which prompts a hiss of irritation from me and an amused laugh from him.
"S'okay," Ken replies. "Anyhow, 'night."
"G'night," I say.
I listen to the creaks caused by his footsteps. They become quieter as he ascends the stairs, but I hear him pause at the top. I smile, because I figure Omi is up there, waiting for him, waiting to see if Aya is okay. I don't think either of them really knows how to deal with Aya. I'm not sure they've figured out that a lot of Aya's moodiness is an act -- his way of keeping the rest of the world out. But, I do know they both care, even if they don't know how to show it. And, that counts for a lot.
"So? Is he down there?" I hear Omi whisper.
Ken is quiet for a moment, but, then, I hear him reply, "Yeah. He's down there. Asleep. He and Yohji are curled up on the sofa like a coupla cats."
"Oh," Omi replies, "Then, everything's fine. Good."
I can't help smiling at that. Maybe Omi's right. Maybe, just being there makes the difference. Maybe that's all it takes to make everything all right in our corner of the universe. I don't know. But, I do know one thing -- it was enough for tonight. And, that's good enough for me.
~End~