Silent Screams

Yohji walked through the run-down neighborhood where they rented a house. Around him the houses had boarded windows and were painted with graffiti. In every long shadow cast by the wearily rising sun hid dangers of every name and description. He was wearing an expensive jacket, leather pants and a nylon shirt but never felt a whisper of fear of the angry kids hiding in alleys and building lobbies with their guns and knives and broken bottles. He could not respect fruitless rebellion, and these children could never triumph in their destruction.

He caressed the tab on his silver wristwatch that would draw long, metal death for anyone stupid enough to approach him under the light of false dawn and the cloud-sheathed moon. Yohji was thirsty for blood to replace that which had been spilt.

A noise like pebbles scrabbling on the pavement behind him made him whirl around. The street was empty, but for litter and the over-sized shadows thrown by a sun still low over the horizon. Yohji’s own shadow was freakishly tall and thin, stretched out and unfamiliar. He stared for a moment at the darkened ground before him, then he lifted his left hand. His shadow remained still.

Yohji took a step backwards but the shadow followed him. He turned and darted away, running uselessly from his own ghost.

When he reached home, he tugged on the door for a minute before searching his pockets for his key. Stupid to lock the door anyway! He thought angrily as the key stuck in the lock. Four assassins could handle whatever thug that broke in, and anyone we couldn’t handle would not be stopped by a lock!

Finally the lock clicked open and Yohji threw himself inside the house. He rested his back against the door for a moment while he concentrated on breathing, then glanced down at his feet. The foyer was dark and his shadow had disappeared. With a sigh of relief he dropped his key on a table near the front door and walked into the house.

The house was eerily quiet around him. Yohji was not often awake so early in the morning and found the predawn silence of a sleeping household very disturbing. It reminded him too much of his childhood home; cold and still whenever his father came home in one of his drunken rages. His mother would urge Yohji to be quiet, not to provoke his father. Yohji, just a defenseless child, would often hide in his closet and cover his ears while his father searched the house for him, screaming and kicking his mother all the while. Yohji would be still and quiet as a little mouse, gritting his teeth together against the sobs and waiting for the day he would no longer be the little mouse, but the cat. No longer the victim, but the hunter.

Yohji sloughed off his black jacket and let it fall to the floor of the living room. Suddenly he felt hot, sweaty, and the leather was stifling him. He pulled the nylon shirt off, too, and toed off his boots. He padded barefoot into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He drank it all without removing the glass from his lips, then shook the clinging droplets from the rim and put it back in the cabinet. Smirking at his own sloppiness, he struck a match off of the dish rack and lit a cigarette. As he took a long drag to pull the small glowing cinder in and light the tobacco, he pulled a thin ribbon from his pocket and tied his hair back into a loose ponytail. As always the two thick locks of hair on either side of his face fell forward and he pushed them back with a sigh.

Halfway up the stairs Yohji heard a noise above him and he froze for a moment. In the unnatural stillness of the morning, he had forgotten that he was not the only person in the house. When he reached the second floor he was greeted with the sight of Ken walking down the hallway, wearing a sports jersey, his hair capped by a kerchief, and spinning a soccer ball on the end of one finger as if it were a basketball.

Yohji bowed his head and stuck his cigarette between his lips, hoping that Ken would let him pass with a nod and a wave. He did not really think he would be so lucky, though, and he was proven right when Ken stuck out a hand to stop Yohji and then put a hand on his hip.

Yohji exhaled a sigh and a lungful of smoke.

"Go ahead."

Ken glared. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Yohji lifted an eyebrow. "Go ahead and start nagging. That is what you were about to do, isn’t it?"

Ken’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowed and his grip on the soccer ball tightened noticeably.

"I mean, it’s what you always do," Yohji explained sensibly. "I just automatically figured it’s what you were about to do now. Correct me if I’m wrong, please." He cackled inwardly as Ken’s scowl twisted to the point where the younger man was almost unrecognizable. Yohji loved to annoy Ken just as much as the other obviously got a kick out of harassing Yohji whenever the tall brunet did something that violated some obscure moral code that Ken held dear.

"You just getting in?" Ken managed through clenched teeth.

Yohji flicked some ash from his cigarette at Ken’s feet. "Yes. Now are you going to scold me?"

Ken threw back his head and his scowl cleared to be replaced with cool contempt. "I can’t believe you were out all night, especially after your little run-in—and consequential failure—with Schuldig last night."

Now Yohji picked up the scowl. "What the hell is your problem, Ken? Since when did you become a member of the Puritan Police?"

Ken snorted. "I just think it’s ridiculous, the way you act. You run around every night like an immature child."

Yohji rolled his eyes. "Christ, Ken, I’m only 21. You’re putting me in the retirement home already."

"Omi’s only 17 and yet he acts a hell of a lot more mature than you do. I mean, look at you! Black leather and red nail polish. You’re like those girls that always used to come to the Koneko, putting on makeup and giggling like twits. Every goddamn night you’re out at some club or party or rave, coming home past dawn after spending the night God knows where. Christ, Yohji, stop acting like a brat and grow up."

Yohji regarded Ken coolly, though he was covering a seething anger. Ken was the hothead, Ken couldn’t control his own emotions, while Yohji was always cool and unfazed. It was the way it worked between them and it drove Ken crazy.

"Don’t try and be my father, Ken," Yohji advised. "I never listened to mine even when I had one. And don’t make accusations about maturity when you’re the one that spends all his free time playing with children because he can’t relate to anyone his own age. Don’t judge me, kid, it’s not a healthy pastime." With that he straight-armed Ken aside, making sure to drive the heel of his hand into the other’s neck. He heard Ken choking behind him and laughed.

As he was opening his bedroom door, though, Ken regained his voice and called out, "Where did you spend the night, Yohji?"

Yohji paused with his hand on his doorknob, searching his mind automatically for the answer though he had no intention of giving it to Ken. "Fuck off, Ken," he snapped and slammed the door behind him as he went into his bedroom. His hands shook as he clenched his fists. He had lost his cool just then, showed his anger and he could not help it. He was upset, more than Ken’s nagging and preaching could ever make him.

Ken had asked where he had spent the night, and Yohji could not reply, even to himself. He could not remember anything after leaving his teammates in the city the night before; he had no idea where he had spent the night.

Yohji clawed his way to consciousness and scraped away the remnants of the nightmare that had sent him screaming from his sleep. He sat up and rested his arms on his knees, head bowed. He panted slightly, feeling like he had just been running. He shook his head and jumped out of bed and glared at it, irrationally angry with it for letting him suffer bad dreams. He turned away and scowled at his reflection. There were circles under his eyes from lack of sleep but he was not anxious to fall asleep again any time soon. His stomach growled and, failing the option of a nap, he decided to go down to the kitchen and make himself some form of lunch.

He went downstairs, walking lightly and trailing cigarette smoke. As he reached the foot of the staircase, he heard noises and wondered who else had decided it was time for lunch. He hovered on the threshold between the downstairs hallway and the living room for a minute, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen. He was distracted for a moment by the low buzz coming from the radio on the mantel. Ken kept the radio turned on at all times, even if the volume was down, because it was tuned into the frequencies used by the police. The radio monitored all calls made between officers and dispatchers. Yohji thought it was strange and rather weird that Ken liked to listen in on the police, but Omi had advised that they leave Ken be to enjoy his hobbies; however odd this one might be.

Blocking out the chatter coming from the radio, Yohji moved across the living room and stopped just outside of the kitchen. If he leaned around the corner he could just see the skin of an elbow and the curve of a leg in front of one of the counters. He heard the faint whistle of water put on to boil and a pale arm stretched up to open a cupboard and take down a box of tea leaves.

Aya.

Yohji walked in rubbing his belly sleepily and squinting against the noon sun streaming in through the window. Aya barely glanced up from the counter. He raised an eyebrow and gestured to the kettle on the stovetop. Yohji nodded and shrugged at the same time, to which Aya dropped the eyebrow and nodded.

Yohji let his mind drift to the music of peaceful cooking sounds—mugs clinking against tile and the kettle shaking on the range. He lifted his hand to cover his left biceps and imagined that he could feel a difference in his skin where his tattoo was. He ducked his head and yawned, and when he looked back up Aya placed a mug of tea on the kitchen table in front of him and then sat to his right.

Yohji nodded thanks, then picked up the sugar bowl and tipped it over his mug.

Aya stared as Yohji poured sugar into his tea, the white granules congealing on the surface before sinking down. Yohji ignored Aya’s appalled gaze and stirred his tea briefly before taking a gulp of the scalding-hot drink. He opened his mouth and fanned it for a moment before taking another mouthful.

Shadows crept slowly across the tabletop as the sun moved in the sky. Yohji looked up and was caught by the brilliant red of the light shining through a long lock of Aya’s crimson-toned hair.

Beautiful.

The thought came from nowhere but he could not deny its truth. Aya’s hair was lit up like red fire, sparkling with ruby and garnet. A soft halo glowed around his head, backlit by the window behind him. Yohji saw his hand moving as if it were not his own and watched in wonder as its fingers closed gently around one of the long wisps of hair that grew from Aya’s temples. He could feel Aya jerk away from him but he did not look up from the lock of hair—nor did he let go. Aya remained strangely silent as Yohji stroked the hair, savoring the soft, silky feel of it against his palm and following the dazzling play of light that sparkled like jewels on each strand.

Finally Aya muttered something and reached up a hand to knock Yohji’s away. Yohji caught Aya by the wrist with his left hand and brought Aya’s arm down so that their hands rested on Yohji’s knee. On the edge of his line of vision, Yohji saw Aya’s eyes widen.

Yohji began moving his fingers against the tight skin of Aya’s hand, caressing the bumps and ridges of his knuckles. At the same time, he moved the hand that was fingering Aya’s hair and pressed the back of it to Aya’s cheek. The redhead jerked away again, more violently this time, but Yohji retained his grip on the pale hand in his.

Every small sensation seemed expanded and exaggerated. The mere brush of Aya’s smooth cheek on the back of his hand made his nerve endings shiver. Every cell in his body seemed to focus on the two points where his body met Aya’s. Every inch of him wanted to be against Aya. The small curve of his lips, the long angles of his amethyst eyes and the sharp slashes of cheekbones drew Yohji’s eyes in quick studying circles.

Indeed.

Touch him.

No other choice.

Of course.

Yohji stood suddenly and, just as quickly, sat on Aya’s legs, straddling his hips and pressing their chests together. Aya opened his mouth, most likely to make some unimportant protest, and Yohji covered it with his own before he had to hear the redhead’s objections.

And hadn’t he always? God, Aya tasted so good on Yohji’s tongue and lips. He was scraping at Yohji’s arms and back with his fingers hooked like claws, but no pain penetrated the pleasure cloud that blurred out everything that wasn’t Aya’s lips and tongue and teeth and mouth on a frantically swirling tongue, and smooth throat and jaw under desperately gripping hands. There never need be anything else in the world forever but Aya, now.

A strange noise, like the high cry of a tearful child, licked at the edge of Yohji’s awareness and he focused on the mystery. It was Aya, whimpering and moaning with what sounded like helpless abandon. And then Yohji realized that he held Aya still in a grip like iron, arms and hands rigid, legs clenched on Aya’s thighs in an unmoving vice, but the other man was not fighting him anymore. The sweet taste of Aya moved into his mouth and a gently questing tongue met Yohji’s own devouring lips and tongue and mouth.

Yohji gasped and snapped his head back away from Aya. He stared for a frozen second into violet, passion-heavy eyes and swollen lips and then stood so fast he kicked Aya. He moved to the sink and gripped the edge hard with both hands, staring unseeing at the wallpaper pattern of pears and cherries and pineapples trailing up the wall. A shaking, silent second passed between the two, and then a noise in the living room drew their surprised gazes.

Omi walked into the kitchen and stopped on the threshold when he found himself under intense, sudden scrutiny. He frowned deeply and Yohji turned back to the two-dimensional fruit medley. After a moment Omi walked all of the way into the kitchen, the sound of his house slippers scuffing on the dirty tile floor. Aya made no noise but for the clinking of a spoon against the side of a mug.

Yohji gripped the sink even harder, ignoring the rushing in his ears and his vision that tunneled suddenly to block out everything but the white half-moons of his knuckles sticking up from his clenched fists and the old scars wrapping around his hands where he had sliced his flesh the first time he ever picked up a length of wire and decided to learn to use it as a weapon. He painfully opened his hands and looked at the backs of them, examining the rope of scars just below his knuckles. Light glanced off the shine of his nails, coated in Crimson Alarm 421, Yohji’s polish color of choice this week. For an instant his eyes blurred and his hands were overlapped by a wavering image of paler skin, smooth, unscarred flesh, short, bitten, colorless nails. Not his, not his. The hands he saw were not his.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the unfamiliar hands into his eyelids, feeling his eyeballs slide around behind the thin membranes. He snatched his hands away and looked warily. Bones, flesh, scars and nails were his. He sighed deeply with relief and slumped forward slightly over the sink.

"Uh, Yohji?" Omi’s voice—tentative, worried…and close. Yohji looked up and found the younger man was standing at his elbow, wide eyes stretched with concern, nails picking nervously at the label on his soda bottle. Yohji pushed off the counter and went to the refrigerator. He opened the door and looked over it at Aya. The redhead was looking down into his tea, eyes narrowed, expression a mystery. It was impossible to know what he was thinking, but then, with the obstinately closed man, it always was.

"Yohji-kun," Omi began again, voice even gentler and more hesitant.

"Omi, what is it?" Yohji asked, resting an elbow on the top of the refrigerator door and dropping his face into his hand. He pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, feeling a headache coming on.

"Yohji, are you okay?" Omi asked with rising panic and Yohji tried to wash the pained look from his face.

"Fine, kid," Yohji said, waving a hand distractedly.

Omi said something, but Yohji was staring at Aya and did not hear. "What was that?"

Aya was turned away from Yohji so that all he could see of the other’s face was the curve of his cheek and jaw.

"I said: Now aren’t you glad I made you take your cell phone with you last night, Yohji?"

Yohji stared at Aya, but the redhead would not meet his gaze. The pale skin of Aya’s cheek and jaw was flushed pink, and the curve of his neck was red with blood beneath the flesh. Aya was blushing, and Yohji could not help but find it adorable.

"Whuh?" Yohji looked at Omi and scratched his head. He closed the refrigerator and said, "Why would I be?"

"Well, without it you wouldn’t have been able to call us while you were running after Schuldig last night, would you have?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah." Yohji frowned, then looked towards the table again but Aya was gone, having left without making a sound. Yohji walked out of the kitchen.

"Yohji-kun!" Omi cried.

"I’m going out for lunch," Yohji called back. "See you later." He went upstairs to his room. After changing into jeans and a blue shirt he slipped out his window onto the fire escape and climbed down to the street.

Yohji walked a few blocks to a café he liked and had his lunch there. After paying and leaving a large tip—his waitress had been friendly and responsive to his flirtations—he slipped on his sunglasses and walked out into the bright sunlight. Shielding his eyes, he looked up. There were no clouds in the sky; a perfect blue dome stretched overhead, pierced once by the painful brightness of the sun.

He lit a cigarette and strolled along the sidewalk in the direction of home. He walked slowly, not in any particular hurry to get there. Home was where Ken surely still seethed over that morning’s more-harsh-than-usual argument and Aya had to be wondering what kind of drugs Yohji was taking.

His own feelings about his actions towards Aya were peculiarly detached. It was as if he had never woken from his nightmare that afternoon and every touch and kiss had been part of his dream. The world moved around him while Yohji stood still at the center and watched it whirl by in a motion blur.

He slowed his walk until he no longer moved, leaning against the wall of a building. His fingers grew numb and he sensed rather than saw his cigarette falling to the sidewalk. Reds and greens and blues and blacks and purples all flashed past his eyes; people or cars or birds or the passage of years while he stood and stared frozen and unfeeling on the sidewalk.

—in the shadows there, across the street—a man, watching him, it looked like—

Hello, Yohji-Weiß, klein maus. And how is my mouse this lovely afternoon?

Yohji stared, unable to speak or move. He stared fixedly into the shadows, not even blinking. Schuldig held him still, made him watch and stare, made him not want to look away for a moment.

The flash of the oddly-colored green hair, the white of a toothy grin, the pink blur of a waving hand, and Schuldig was gone. There were no alleys, no cars, no doors nearby for him to disappear into, but he vanished instantly from Yohji’s sight.

Yohji stood frozen for a moment longer before he turned and started back home.

By the time Yohji closed the front door behind him and stood alone in the foyer of their home, his eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open, and his mind was whirling with thoughts that were not his own. A part of him stood away from his body, standing in a shadowed corner and watching helplessly.

Yohji shook his head slowly, like he was moving through water.

Yohji’s forehead creased, but he stopped shaking his head.

Yohji walked into the living room and looked around. He saw Omi’s backpack in the corner and grimaced. Omi was home. He squeezed his eyes shut, turning away, but it was too late.

Yohji swallowed and shook his head.

Hm, yes, Omi-kun, Omi-kun, Schuldig sang in his mind. Oh little boy blue, where are you? Yes, let’s go see the boy-assassin, let’s make those big eyes go all round, hm? hm? Let’s have funfunfun—he will be such fun! I want to play, Yohji, be a good little mouse, find the boy, let’s play.

Yes, Yohji thought, nodding. He started up the stairs, headed for Omi’s room. Yes, it would be great fun to play with the boy.

Yohji knocked on Omi’s door, though it was ajar.

"Come in!"

Yohji smiled casually in response to the younger man’s welcoming grin.

"Heya, kid," he said with a nod.

"Hi, Yohji!" Omi greeted him happily. The young blond was sitting on his bed, books spread open before him, and rubbing his right shoulder. "What’s up?"

The boy’s enthusiasm was almost contagious. Yohji chuckled.

"I just got home from lunch and I saw your backpack. Just wanted to see what you were doing."

"Oh, studying for a math test tomorrow."

Yohji laughed sympathetically. "Poor kid. I slept through the days I attended secondary school."

"How did you pass?" Omi asked, wide-eyed.

Yohji grinned and winked. "Well, the headmaster was female, after all."

Omi stared for a moment before nodding. "Ohhhhh."

Yohji laughed again, then tilted his head and lifted an eyebrow. "What’s wrong with your shoulder?"

Omi looked puzzled, then glanced down to where his left hand was still rubbing his right shoulder. He laughed and grinned sheepishly.

"Oh, I pulled a muscle or something a few nights ago on that information job. I used that Icy-Hot gel and I took Tylenol but it still hurts."

Yohji nodded and was still for a moment.

"Move those books," Yohji ordered.

Omi cocked an eyebrow but responded to Yohji’s authoritative tone. "Why?"

"I’m going to give you a backrub; work out that knot. Here, turn around and take off your shirt."

Omi’s other eyebrow went up and he made a small, startled noise.

Yohji sighed and rolled his eyes. "It’s easier to give a back rub when you don’t have fabric bunching under your fingers."

"Okay," Omi said tentatively, nodding. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor. He shivered, though it wasn’t cold, and rested his hands on his bed. His hands clenched at the blankets and Yohji smiled.

He settled behind Omi on the bed. The kid was visibly tense, his shoulders hunched up around his neck. Yohji laughed as he put his hands on Omi’s back.

"Relax," he urged in a soothing voice. "I promise not to bite."

Omi laughed, too, though it sounded forced. His shoulders slumped visibly and Yohji rolled his eyes. He took handfuls of Omi’s flesh into his palms and started rubbing his thumbs into the knotted muscles beneath the skin. He rubbed the back of Omi’s neck, then let his hands trail softly down to the base of the younger man’s spine before digging his thumbs into resisting muscles again.

Almost despite himself, Omi began to relax, loosening under Yohji’s hands. The brunet caressed his way up to the sore spot on Omi’s right shoulder, concentrating on working the clot of tension there. Omi relaxed even more, leaning slightly back into Yohji. The older man shifted slightly so that his knees were pressed into Omi’s backside, supporting his weight while Yohji continued to rub his back.

When he felt the stiff muscles in the shoulder loosen, Yohji moved his hands down Omi’s back again, trailing his fingers lightly. Omi shivered in his hands and bowed his blond head forward. Yohji pressed the tips of his fingers to the young man’s skin, rubbing and squeezing the flesh in soothing circles. Then, slowly, Yohji slid his hands around to Omi’s sides, lifting the younger man’s arms so that he could slip his fingers along the sensitive flesh in the underarm area. He glided his palms down the skin in light caresses.

Omi shivered again, then started, half turning his head. "Yohji—"

Yohji leaned forward towards Omi’s ear and whispered, "Shhh," shaking his head.

Omi turned his face forward, though he held himself slightly tensely again. He still rested his weight against Yohji, though.

Yohji continued to stroke Omi’s sides for a long moment before slowly and gently moving his hands around to the younger man’s stomach. Omi’s head slumped back, his shaggy blond hair falling across Yohji’s forehead. Yohji smiled and let one hand trail up to circle one hard nipple. Omi was trembling in Yohji’s arms, leaning back and seeming to have completely abandoned any attempt to protest. Yohji chuckled softly and let his other hand slide down over Omi’s stomach to play just below the waistband of the boy’s pants.

Omi jumped a little but did not tense up and Yohji moved his fingers even lower.

"Omi-kun," Yohji breathed softly, quietly as he would speak near a spooked horse. "Are you a virgin, Omi?"

Omi’s shoulders stiffened against Yohji’s chest but the brunet did not stop the motions of his hands and after a moment, Omi said, "No."

Yohji raised his eyebrows. "No?"

Omi’s head rolled to the side a little and Yohji caught him looking back out of the corner of his eye. "You don’t have to sound so surprised," Omi said quietly, words a little slurred.

Yohji smirked. "Well, well, little Omi-kun. You impress me. I had no idea." And he slid his fingers even lower inside Omi’s pants.

"Y-Yohji-kun—" Omi stuttered, squirming a little.

"Mm?" Yohji sighed, pulling Omi closer and trailing his left hand up the boy’s chest and throat.

"Yohji, I—" Omi said, and Yohji felt him tense up. He shook violently in Yohji’s arms, then pushed his back hard against the older man’s chest.

Yohji furrowed his brow, confused, then felt the hard heat under his fingers and smiled. His fingertips were barely touching the soft curls of hair between Omi’s legs, but the boy was coming and Yohji tightened his grip on him to pull him through.

Omi moaned, then, and his entire body slumped, boneless and weak, back against Yohji. The brunet removed his hands from the boy and rubbed them lightly over his back. Yohji leaned forward, dropped a kiss on Omi’s right shoulder, and stood up from the bed in one smooth motion.

"Take care of that shoulder, kid," he said lightly, flashing a casual grin. Omi’s head whipped around and he stared at Yohji, eyes wide and mouth open in a surprised little ‘O.’

Before Omi gathered his wits enough to respond, Yohji left Omi’s room, closing the door behind him, and walked down the hallway while whistling happily.

Ooh, that was fun!! Good job, little mouse.

Yohji came to himself in the bathroom and immediately bent over the toilet. He vomited his lunch and then hunched on the floor, clutching his stomach and suffering dry heaves.

Schuldig laughed a silent, ghostly laugh that only Yohji could head. The fallen man clapped his hands over his ears and cried, "Get out! Get out!!!!"

........No.

Yohji curled against the wall of the bathtub and sobbed, pushing his face into his hands.

"Please…Please…" he wailed.

There came no answer, only the echoes of his own silent screams within a mind where he was very much not alone.