2

“Yohji, wake up.”

Ken’s voice interrupted Yohji’s sleep and then the door slammed shut.

Yohji opened his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow, but when he looked around his room for Ken, he found that he was alone. There could no longer be any doubt in Yohji’s mind that something was upsetting the kid, and Yohji didn’t think it was just the brunet’s concern for his fallen teammate. Suspicions about Ken and Aya-chan’s relationship solidified. He pinched his lips, trying to lasso in his sense of compassion that, blown away the storm of his anger.

First Aya, driven insane by the loss of his sister, the focus of his life, and now Ken, forced to keep silent his grief over Aya-chan, his…what? Girlfriend? Lover? They were Weiß; they knew better than anyone that death was a thing to be dealt with and put aside. Mourning was not worth the energy spent on tears. Ken should be focusing on his fallen teammate now, leaving Aya-chan in the past where she was still alive in his memories and turning towards the future—where she could have no place.

Yohji dragged himself out of bed and fumbled through his dresser drawers for a change of clothes. He found himself going slowly, dreading the descent downstairs and the circumstances it would plunge him back into. He wanted to hide in his room where Aya was still sane and lying in his arms, kissing his neck and face and chest and whispering the words of a nursery rhyme he’d loved when he was a child.

* * * * * *

The windows were open to let in the breeze, the curtains drawn to admit the light of the moon. Two bodies stretched beside one another on a bed, touching at the hips, the thighs, the shoulders. One had chestnut hair, the other red, but the moon-drenched midnight leeched all color from the room and cast everything in a pallet of dark grays and blues.

The two men—and they were men in truth, though in years they were only little more than boys—talked quietly together, their hands barely touching. One very gently caressed the other’s hand with the tips of long fingers. He watched his own movements, looking at their hands resting on the bed between them, but the other had his eyes fixed on his lover’s face, staring intently at each flicker of emotion and the way his lips formed his words when he spoke.

Yohji glanced up and caught Aya staring at him, and though Aya’s gaze darted quickly away when he realized he had been seen, Yohji noticed the look on his face and grinned.

Their conversation was not of important things, being nothing more than the idle whispers of lovers after lovemaking. Yohji was not really listening to what Aya was saying until something the other said—something about having believed that the moon was made of silver when he was a child—caught his attention.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Yohji blurted, reaching out to run two fingers over Aya’s cheek, “but it’s kinda hard for me to imagine you as a kid. It would be more believable for you to say that you sprang into being fully swathed in black leather from head to toe, katana drawn and those damn ear tails you wear already in place than for you to claim that you had a childhood.”

Aya was silent for a long moment, and in the deep shadows Yohji could not see his expression, but his tone was sullen when he spoke. “What’s wrong with my hair style?”

Yohji laughed out loud at the wonder of Aya being insecure. He hooked his left arm around the pale, moon-bathed figure beside him in bed, pulling him closer. “So tell me about your supposed childhood, Aya.”

Aya was quiet for a while and Yohji wondered if he was sulking, but then he spoke and his voice was soft—reverent and wistful. “It was good.”

Yohji smiled crookedly and thought of saying “No one on Earth had a good childhood, Red,” but kept his mouth shut. All things considered, it would not have been a tactful thing to say.

“My parents were good people. They were honest, and fair, and kind. And they loved their children.”

Yohji began stroking Aya’s hair, petting the soft thick waves and tangling a long ear tail around his index finger.

“My father used to go on business trips and bring Aya-chan and me souvenirs: candy from Switzerland, coconuts from the tropics, comic books from America.

“My mother was very small and petite, like Aya-chan, but she always seemed very big to me as a child.” There was a hint of a smile in Aya’s voice. “Especially when she was scolding me.”

Yohji chuckled and rolled onto his side so he could wrap his right arm around Aya while leaving his left hand entangled in his hair.

“Were you a bad boy, Aya?” Yohji asked. He put just enough innuendo in his voice to feel justified in adding a leer.

Aya snorted and shrugged a little. “I guess. I seem to remember getting into trouble a lot. Though it wasn’t all me. I took the blame for Aya-chan a lot of times.”

“The protective older brother, even then, hunh?”

Aya shrugged again and then shivered. Yohji put his other arm around Aya and pulled him against his chest.

“Are you cold?” Yohji asked, reaching down to grab the blanket at the foot of his bed. Aya put his hand out and stopped him.

“No. I’m all right.”

“Still,” Yohji said, and went to pull the blanket up again; again, Aya stopped him.

“Don’t,” Aya said, his large eyes glowing in the moonlight. “I like to be able to see you,” and he put his hand on Yohji’s hip, sliding it gently around to his stomach.

Yohji smiled and put his hand on Aya’s thigh. “I like to be able to see you, too.”

He moved over Aya and pressed his face into Aya’s neck, nuzzling at the soft flesh of his throat. Aya leaned his head back, exposing the bare arch of his neck, and Yohji licked and nibbled at his Adam’s Apple before working his way up to Aya’s jaw.

Aya made a happy moan and grabbed Yohji’s shoulders, then lifted his left leg and hooked it around Yohji’s bare middle. While Yohji made himself busy, Aya began talking again, his voice stopping and gasping as Yohji found sensitive spots and moved lower on the pale boy’s body.

“My mother—she—would read to us—when I was—a child.”

“Mm-hmm,” Yohji lifted his face to murmur before licking lightly at Aya’s nipple.

Aya moaned again and nodded. “Yes. Stories and—and nursery rhymes. I still re-remember my—favorite.”

Yohji spoke against the taut flesh of Aya’s stomach. “And how’s that one go?”

Aya recited, his breath hitching and sticking in his throat as he spoke

“Four children sliding on the ice

Upon a summer’s day,

As it fell out, they all fell in,

The rest they ran away.

“Oh, had these children been at

school,

Or sliding on dry ground,

Ten thousand pounds to one penny

They had not then been drowned.

“Ye parents who have children dear,

And ye, too, who have none,

If you would keep them safe abroad

Pray keep them safe at home.”

Aya cried out as Yohji dropped his mouth to the tender flesh of his inner thigh.

“Morbid,” Yohji said, looking up but resting his hands on Aya’s thighs. “Mother Goose had a twisted sense of what little kids would find entertaining.”

“It made me feel loved,” Aya said, a bit sheepishly. “Like someone cared enough to warn me.”

Yohji chuckled and lightly stroked Aya’s cock with his fingers, but he tilted his head thoughtfully as if he were doing so only idly while concentrating on other things.

“Some warning. Don’t go on the ice in summer. Sounds like the kids were asking for it, to me. They probably had a death wish. Where is there ice in the summer, anyway? Was Mother Goose an Eskimo?”

Aya glared down at Yohji, but the effect of his anger was spoiled by the way he grabbed at the bedspread and jumped slightly every time Yohji touched him.

“Yohji, you’re impossible,” Aya whispered, giving up.

“I do try,” Yohji replied, sliding one hand up Aya’s belly and stretching his arm out over his body as he lowered his face and his mouth.

* * * * * *

A pain in his stomach on the way down the stairs reminded Yohji that he had not eaten in 36 hours, and he stopped in the kitchen to grab a dry bagel from the bread basket before walking toward the sound of Omi’s voice—a soft murmuring coming from the next room.

When Yohji entered the living room, Omi was reaching a hand towards Ken’s back. Ken, who sat on an armchair staring out the window at the gray sky, jumped up just as the boy’s fingers brushed his shoulder. He turned and watched as Yohji calmly ate his bagel. Omi gnawed at his lower lip like he would chew through it, while Ken glared with burning intensity at a spot on the wall near Yohji’s head. Finding his appetite gone, Yohji tossed the unfinished half of the bagel in an ashtray and wiped his hands of crumbs.

“We should check on him,” Ken said as Yohji met his eyes, fidgeting awkwardly and waving at the door that led to the basement. Yohji looked past Ken at the door and felt that cold hardening inside that was frustrated anger and helpless fury, frosting over the warmth of memories. He slowly pulled his fingers into a fist and tightened his hand until the knuckles cracked. Ken and Omi both jumped at the noise and turned to him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw their eyes fall on him, saw them look quickly away again.

“He—I mean, he’s really—maybe he’s ready to be let out?” Omi said hopefully. Ken glanced briefly at Omi, but Yohji did not even bother. He knew his red-haired lover too well. Aya was a man of extremes. Yohji was not sure what they would find in that empty basement room, but he expected that—when they opened that door—they would be met with fists and nails and teeth, or with a corpse.

“Let’s go,” Yohji said shortly. Ken and Omi stared—Yohji’s voice sounded unfamiliar even in his own ears.

The shadows were deep in the room. The ground was gray cement, the walls uniform white, but the ceiling was unfinished. It resembled a chessboard; checked smooth, white tiles and black, gaping holes. The fluorescent lights were recessed above the level of the tiling so when there was no white mortarboard beside the light, a long shadow was cast.

Aya sat in the middle of a pool of light, holding the wool blanket Omi had given him. They all entered the room and Ken closed the door behind them. With a closer look, Yohji realized that Aya was ripping the blanket. He had already created a long rip near the edge of the blanket, leaving him with a six-inch wide length of fabric still attached to the blanket at the base. The wool was thick, though. Aya's mouth was pinched with effort and the muscles in his forearms strained as he worked the blanket.

"Aya," Omi said, sitting beside him. Aya did not even glance at the boy. Omi looked up at Ken and Yohji in consternation before settling his eyes back on Aya. He gestured to the pile of wool in Aya's lap.

"What are you doing with your blanket, Aya?" Omi asked gently, the way a mother would ask her child.

Aya ripped some more, and now the long piece of wool hanging off the rest was almost half the length of the blanket. His eyes narrowed for a moment, then he smiled. His lips were just a little too tight; Yohji shivered.

"I'm making a noose," Aya said matter-of-factly. So calm and conversational was his voice that it took Yohji and Ken a long moment before they leapt forward. Yohji threw his arms around Aya and wrestled him to the ground while Ken took away the blanket. Aya snarled beneath Yohji and worked his hands up to dig his fingernails into Yohji's arms.

"Ow, fuck, Aya!" Yohji cried and he jumped up. Aya had left five little half-moon marks; bloody crescents rimmed with pale, torn skin.

Aya scrambled away from them all and sat in the far corner of the room, back wedged where the two walls met, knees drawn up. With his black pants and short-sleeved shirt he blended with the shadows.

"Shit," Ken muttered, hands working the fabric of the blanket, twisting it and wringing it nervously.

"Aya—" Omi started towards the redhead but Yohji reached out to stop him.

"Don't," he said in a low voice, eyeing Aya, picturing him grabbing Omi for the boy's belt and snapping him in half to do it.

Omi hesitated, then nodded agreement, obviously imagining a similar scenario.

"Aya," Omi called softly, "we're going to leave you for a little while, but we'll be back soon, I promise."

Aya responded by remaining absolutely still.

The three of them filed out and climbed the stairs up to the lounge. Omi collapsed onto the sofa and Ken followed suit. Yohji leaned his back against the wall opposite the two of them and remained standing. He sighed and dropped his head forward. His jeans and too-tight T-shirt—"Sin is My Favorite Food"—weren't warm enough for the chill of coming winter, and Yohji shivered. Ken tossed the maimed wool blanket over from across the room.

"Thanks," Yohji bit out before balling it up and throwing it aside.

The silence stretched out for a minute. Yohji finally broke it when he grunted in disgust and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"Yohji-kun, no," Omi said and Yohji looked up in surprise. "You know he hates it." Omi gestured at the door that opened on the cellar stairs.

What, just because Aya had flipped his lid they were all suddenly supposed to be considerate of each other's feelings?! What was that crap about? "Frankly, I really don't think he's worried about second-hand smoke right now," Yohji snapped, but he put the box away and crossed his arms.

"What are we going to do, now?" Ken asked wearily. "We have to take away his blanket and mattress or else he'll make a noose and strangle himself."

Omi nodded sadly. "We can't leave him with anything he could use to hurt himself."

"Better take his clothes then, too," Yohji pointed out as he lifted his right hand to examine a hangnail.

"Whuh?"

Yohji looked up and rolled his eyes. "You don't think he could rip up his pants or his shirt the same way as that blanket? Aya makes even fabric a deadly weapon. He can't have any."

"And leave him down in that cold cellar with no blankets, no bed, and no clothes?!" Ken exclaimed.

Yohji lifted one thin eyebrow. "I'm sorry, what was that about you wanting him to—what was it, was it—live? Yeah, I think that was it. Live, yeah."

"Fuck off, Yohji," Ken snarled.

"You starting something?" Yohji asked coolly.

Ken half-started from his seat. "Maybe."

"You guys, stop it!" Omi ordered shrilly and they fell into sullen silence. "We can't be fighting each other right now! Now grow up, both of you, or get out of here and let me think about what to do with Aya!"

Yohji and Ken stared at Omi in amazement.

"Way to take charge, Omi," Yohji congratulated, and Omi sent him a weary smile.

"All right, then," Ken said, settling into the sofa's big cushions. “Let’s figure out what we’re gonna do. We can’t go back down there without a plan.”

Omi unlocked the door to the cellar room and Ken opened it cautiously. They were ready for Aya to rush them and try to escape, but he was back in the pool of light again. Sure enough, he had his black pants in his hands, tearing at the fabric in an attempt to pull up a long enough strip to make a noose.

Ken, Yohji and Omi exchanged a long look before rushing forward as one.

"Sorry about this, Aya," Omi said as they seized him. Yohji took hold of Aya's arms while Ken grabbed his legs. Omi ripped the pants from Aya's grasp. Aya bucked and writhed in their arms, working furiously to get free.

"Get his arms," Yohji shot at Omi who ran over to grasp Aya's forearms tightly. As soon as Yohji was sure that Omi had a good grip on Aya's arms he let go and took hold of the hem of Aya's shirt. He pulled it up, moving with Aya as their prisoner struggled and swayed between Omi and Ken like a hammock in a tornado. He was careful to keep his fingers away from Aya's mouth and teeth when he worked it over Aya's chin and face. When he had it bunched around Aya's elbows, Yohji gripped Aya's upper arms and nodded at Omi, who let go and pulled off the shirt.

"Hold on, Ken," Omi said as he hurried to his friend's side. Yohji readjusted his hold on Aya as the man twisted as much as Yohji's and Ken's vice-like grips would allow.

"I'm so sorry, Aya," Omi said in a voice throbbing with regret. "So sorry, so sorry. We just don't want you to hurt yourself, we—"

"Omi," Ken gasped as Aya managed to drive his heel into the young brunet's stomach. "Hurry, please."

"Right, sorry, Ken-kun. Aya-kun—" Omi trailed off and pulled down Aya's underwear, an ostentatious pair of black silk briefs that would never bunch and ruin the sleek lines of the vinyl pants. He switched places with Ken so that the other could pull off the briefs.

Aya was snarling and writhing still, drawing on some hidden well of strength. Yohji looked down at Aya for a moment and caught a glare sent his way. Slitted, violet eyes met wide green, and Yohji felt the full brunt of Aya's pain-driven insanity. There was no recognition in that gaze—only wild, violent anger. He tightened his grip.

"Oh, Aya-kun," Omi said. Yohji nodded and they slowly lowered him to the floor. As soon as he let go, Yohji took a few steps back. He was usually a pretty good match for Aya in a fight, but the wild, frantic way Aya's eyes darted back and forth made Yohji wonder.

“We’re going to leave you now, Aya,” Ken said, backing all the way to the door. “We’ll be back, though.”

Ken got the door open and went through, then Omi followed. The young, blond boy paused halfway out and said to Aya, “We’re doing this because we care about you, Aya. I know you’re—I know you’re sad. But—“ He stopped and sent a stricken gaze to Yohji. Yohji only looked back expressionlessly and Omi shrugged.

“Why, Aya?” Yohji said quietly as Omi left, closing the door behind him. The boy sensed, somehow, that Yohji needed a moment alone with Aya. “Shit, Aya. Why?”

Aya was crumpled in the center of the concrete floor, one knee drawn up, one leg tucked under the other. He held one arm against his chest and the other hugged his knee. Aya did not look at him; his face was lowered, his red ear tails hanging down and kissing his cheeks.

Yohji didn’t dare come any closer. Aya appeared still, his limbs at rest, but the nimble assassin could rise from a deep sleep and be deadly effective in one second. Yohji leaned against the wall and hesitated for a moment with his hand on the pack of cigarettes in his pocket before hooking his thumbs in his belt loops.

Then he heard the softest whisper and leaned forward slightly, frowning.

“What?”

Aya tilted his head without looking up and said, “For years I lived for nothing but her. Now she’s gone.”

Yohji’s frown deepened until he could feel the muscles in his forehead strain, then he was flooded with understanding and his face cleared. He had known, of course, that Aya’s insanity was grief-driven, but the true thrust of the situation had somehow eluded him. For years, Aya had trained, worked, killed and lived for Aya-chan and the need to avenge his parents. Once Takatori had been killed, Aya’s world had narrowed to his younger sister.

Now, with her dead, he had no focus, no goal, no focal point around which to base his every thought and feeling. Aya was faced with living for himself now, and finding that it was not so easy to choose to go on. Without Aya-chan, he had nothing to live for, and Aya had never been one to waste time. His determined drive to kill himself was not only fueled by grief over Aya-chan’s death, but also by a more complete loss than Yohji had ever had to deal with. It staggered him, the very idea, even while making him irrationally jealous and angry that Aya could not live for Yohji.

“Fuck,” Yohji breathed eloquently, and he slumped back so that the wall supported him totally. He had to look down and away. He suddenly couldn’t stand to look at Aya: naked, his pale flesh on display and exposed to the damp cold of the basement. His skin was darkened by bruises and marred by scars—some of which had been made while Yohji watched. He felt shame for Aya, for the indignity of it, because he was not sure that Aya even noticed.

The air suddenly seemed too thin --it was hard to catch his breath. Yohji whirled away and nearly ran to the door. He found the keys outside, locked the door and stood at the foot of the steps for a long moment, bent double, wheezing. He sucked in a few deep breaths and regained his composure before going back up to the living room, lest Omi or Ken see him and realize just how acutely he suffered.

Yohji had to get out of the house. He passed Ken in the hallway but looked until he found Omi to tell the teenager that he was going out. Ken was his own universe of grief, and Yohji had to avoid him for fear that he would be pulled down by the gravity of the younger man’s pain. He had given a brief explanation of Aya’s motives to Ken and Omi when he had reached the living room and had happened to be watching Ken when he mentioned Aya-chan.

He saw the pain deep in Ken’s eyes and it intimidated him. He found himself thinking of Her, then, for the first time in years—his Asuka, a girl that had been forever twisted and mutated in his memory by the thing the Takatoris had made her.

Ken needed attention and affection, that much was clear, but God knew Yohji was not the most comforting or consoling person to turn to in the best of times. He had to concentrate on Aya, put his energy into Aya—but that seemed so harsh and callous. The kid had just lost his girlfriend for Christ’s sake, had been forced to leave her body in a road for the birds, and worse, Farfarello, to pick at.

Maybe it was good Ken had Aya’s well-being to focus on right now, but maybe, too, it was hard for him to pay attention to Aya’s pain when he had his own to tend to. While Aya-chan’s death was being ignored and Aya-kun’s pain was the only one being recognized Ken’s own sorrow must grow and fester in dark and silence.

Ken was definitely a problem that needed dealing with—but not by Yohji, and not now.

Yohji found himself wandering aimlessly as he left a trail of cigarette butts behind him. He had no direction to his ambling, but a part of him must have been conscious of location because he never strayed too far from home—too far from Aya and too far from Ken or Omi’s cries should he be needed.

When the sun began to fall into darkness, Yohji sent his steps in the direction of home. He walked into the house and immediately felt the change in atmosphere. The interior of their house was darker, quieter, the air warmer and thicker. An invisible cloak of tension and pain blanketed him as soon as he stepped inside, but still he shivered and lit another cigarette.

He almost went right upstairs without pausing, but found himself helplessly drawn toward the back of the house. Before he went into the living room he could see Omi inside, sitting on the sofa with his legs tucked beside him. He looked even smaller than normal, somehow, and Yohji almost couldn’t bring himself to go in. Still, he slouched and ran his fingers through his hair and walked into the living room looking calm and unhurried.

"Where's Ken?" Yohji asked as he came in. Omi glanced up from a blank page in a notebook and gestured at the cellar door.

"Checking on Aya."

Yohji had barely nodded when the muffled thud of quick footsteps running up the stairs turned into a bang as Ken burst out of the cellar stairway and threw open the door.

"He's using his fingernails to rip at his wrists!"

Omi was stricken. "Will that work?"

"I don't know!" Ken cried, a hint of frustration in his voice. "But he was drawing blood."

Yohji rubbed a hand over the set of five wounds on his upper right arm. He thought for a moment, then nodded and left the living room. Omi was calling after him as he ascended the staircase and walked down the hallway to his room. Once in his room he opened the top drawer of his dresser and pulled something out. He took the stairs two at a time as he went back down to the first floor and strode into the lounge.

"Yohji—!"

Yohji ignored Omi and threw open the door to the cellar. He hurried down the stairs and rushed to the door of Aya's makeshift cell. He pulled at the doorknob, cursed.

"Ken, the key!" He turned around and found Ken and Omi right behind him. He paused only a moment before taking the key from Ken's hand and unlocking the door. He opened it as soon as he heard the lock click and almost leapt inside.

"God damn you, Aya," he growled as he walked quickly across the concrete floor. “God damn you for being so fucking determined.” He seized the redhead by the arm and threw him to the ground. Before Aya could even react, Yohji was gripping his wrists—one bloody and wounded, one whole. "God damn you to hell." He shook out the thing he had taken from his room and immediately snapped one of the cuffs on Aya's left wrist. Aya saw the handcuffs and tried to pull away, but Yohji already had his right arm and locked it in the other cuff.

Yohji stood and took a step back from Aya. He looked down at his lover and partner, a pale, bloodstained man, naked and chained, and had to grimace.

"God damn you, Aya," he said again, vehemently.

He turned and strode past Omi and Ken, ignoring their expressions, not saying a word as he handed Omi the key so they could lock the door when they left. Yohji went up the stairs to the first floor, then up to the second floor and went into his room. He kicked the door shut and locked it behind him.