Vindication

Vindication

Author\'s Note: I found a beta and I have changed the original chapter with a revised version. Not much has changed, though.

Warnings: It is rated R for strong language and violence. There is implied slash but nothnig graphic.

Disclaimer: I don\'t own anything but original characters. This is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter First

The Saturday morning was quiet and peaceful considering Ken and Omi had vanished from the apartment early. Aya remembered Ken had a soccer tournament that day and had most likely left early enough to warm up for practice, Omi tagging along. Ken had a tendency to place the majority of his devotion and time into the games; it was a lifeline that Aya couldn’t blame the younger man for having. Each of them had something to cling to that drove them to find the motivation to wake in the morning, the inspiration to live their guilt ridden days with some semblance of normalcy.

Aya had his sword, although it reminded him daily of the blood he had shed with it. It drove him to repent, to find forgiveness, and to remind him what it was all for. It hadn’t been a lost cause entirely, Aya-chan’s letters and occasional visits revealing that she was genuinely happy and well cast a light on the darkness of guilt shadowing Aya’s psyche. His sister’s well being was all that mattered to him and the money he had earned while Weiss had existed was more than enough to take care of the hospital bills.

A year had passed since Weiss had been given their last mission. However, Aya knew that they were forever at the expense of Kritiker, expected to react with any given call from the agency. Weiss was not truly dead, but dormant, hibernating. Aya dreaded the day he knew was coming, but was content for the moment with the flower shop and worrying about his sister’s tuition.

The four former assassins had even remained together, roommates in the apartment above the shop. They didn’t know anything else, couldn’t imagine going separate ways despite the constant threats that had floated during their days of Weiss. Living together was a blanket for them, an odd sort of friendship that relied on the security of one another though none of them would ever admit to it. The relationships they led did not change. Aya and Yohji were constantly at each other’s throats threatening to kill one another, Ken promising to kill both of them if they didn’t grow up, Omi nervously laughing it off. It was a never-ending circle, but one, oddly enough, that Aya couldn’t imagine living without.

At the thought of the half-American, Aya realized Yohji had yet to make an appearance from his locked bedroom and probably wouldn’t face the world until close to noon. The older man slept in late on weekends, not that Aya complained about wishing the man would show some sort of responsibility. When Yohji declined to show up for early morning shifts during the week, Aya found it hard not to murder the playboy bastard in his sleep. Yohji’s reputation for partying until close to dawn was one of the many reasons Aya detested the blonde so much.

Aya shook his head, sneering at the bland, brick walls of the gym. It wasn’t worth lingering on the pathetic excuse for a man sleeping soundly on the floor beneath him. A headache that Aya didn’t care to fight that early in the day was the result of it. The katana lying in front of his bent knees, like a delicate flower in its first bloom, recaptured his attention quickly; it cleared his mind, rolling away the day’s worries with one glance. Perhaps it was the only way to avert his anger before any damage was done. It allowed him to keep a cool head when he had killed, the pressure of guilt not even a mere presence in his conscience. The katana was a foundation, much like a guardian angel, despite the amount of blood that had decorated the steel blade throughout the years of Weiss.

The sudden soft hush of the gym door opening jarred through Aya’s meditation and he tensed. He let out a steady sigh, trying to calm his temper that he had just gained control of moments ago.

“You’re up early,” he stated blandly, not bothering to turn to see Yohji standing in the doorway of the room.

Yohji closed the distance between them and stood next to Aya’s kneeled form, his hands leisurely stuffed into the pockets of his worn jeans. “And you’re being the ever cheerful self.”

Aya sniffed. He pushed his katana forward, separating the link momentarily. “What do you want?”

“Now I have to want something from you just to talk?”

The redhead sighed again, closing his eyes. As much as he wanted to tell Yohji to ‘fuck off’ he suppressed the urge for the time being. “What is it?”

The older man said nothing, a moment of awkward silence lingered between the two former assassins. When Yohji finally spoke, his voice was soft, as if unsure of how to react to Aya’s sudden retreat from a confrontation. “Would you like a worthy opponent for once?”

Aya snapped his head, staring up at Yohji. “What?”

“You know…” Yohji pointed to the shinai swords hanging on their respective racks on the far wall.

The wooden practice swords were rarely used, Aya being the only one skillful with a blade and he used his own katana. Just the feel of the used leather and the weight under his palms gave him a sense of release that no other weapon could supply.

“It’s an eye sore to see them collect dust like that,” Yohji commented casually, as though he were speaking with a long time friend about the weather.

Aya was far from that, in fact. He would rather drive a needle through his eye before ever admitting that Yohji was a friend.

“Don’t look so surprised. I think even you and I are capable of a few moments of decency.”

Aya muttered, “Don’t be so sure.” With cat-like grace, he stood and dusted off his drawstring pants with a disparaging frown. “You don’t know anything about a sword, much less how to wield it.”

Yohji turned, a smug grin playing his lips. It was the infuriating smile that meant he knew something that Aya didn’t and he wasn’t going to tell so easily. Aya hated the man’s wide range of expressions; he wanted nothing more than to slap them from Yohji’s face. He glared at Yohji until the older man was forced to look away under the scrutiny of Aya’s icy stare. There was always a bit of satisfaction when others weren’t able to handle the weight of his gaze.

“Fine.”

Yohji gasped and clutched at his chest in a mockery of pain. “Do my ears deceive me?”

Aya ignored Yohji’s sarcasm and retrieved the shinai swords from the wall rack. He tossed Yohji one and the blonde caught it easily. Facing his opponent, Aya warned his roommate to level his witty comments, knowing that Yohji would understand all too clearly what the repercussions would be. That still didn’t mean he would follow up on the order.

In a matter of seconds the gym exploded in a whirl of sharp battle cries and bodies moving in a liquid dance of parries, thrusts and blocks. Yohji convinced Aya that he was more than capable of handling the seamless motions that molded the two into a dance of death. He just couldn’t imagine where the older man had found the time away from his life of clubs and drinking to practice the techniques.

With a vicious sneer, Aya spun and brought the shinai in a wide arc aiming for Yohji’s unprotected left side. Yohji was quick, however, and he blocked the strike. Aya’s muscles trembled, his fight for dominance weighing thin when up against Yohji’s body force. Even though Aya mostly relied on his velocity, he knew he could find an advantage over Yohji’s brute strength. He just had to think of a good enough strategy to snare the older man into a trap that he couldn’t wrest his way out of.

The element of surprise was on Aya’s side when he feigned to the right, distracting Yohji’s attention for the briefest of moments. He thrust his upper body forward and used the momentum to throw Yohji off of his sword. The blonde slipped and almost lost his footing, a look of utter disbelief flashing in his green eyes.

“You son of a bitch,” Yohji muttered.

“Play my game, you play by my rules,” Aya said, snarling. No one, especially Yohji was allowed to best Aya at his own skill.

“This isn’t your game.”

Aya ignored Yohji, charging forward with the wooden sword held above his shoulder, twisting and turning as he swept the shinai with the fluidity of a ghost dancing in the wind. Although Yohji held his own against Aya’s agility, he was no match for the speed he possessed and a clean cut across Yohji’s midsection resigned his fate to a painful and merciless death. Too bad it was fake.

The momentum of Aya’s dance didn’t stop and he gracefully pivoted back, on the front pads of his feet turning in a half circle, striking Yohji with another blow to the back of his neck, this one sending him to his knees. A cry of surprise surfaced from the blonde, the shinai clattering across the room, lost in the struggles to stop his graceless fall to the floor. Aya wanted to say ‘That should make you learn,’ but it was childish and even more foolish to give fuel to the fire. And for the most part, the morning spent with Yohji was decent, and as unbelievable as it was Aya didn’t want to ruin the mood. At least Yohji was right in some things in his life; this was as far as decency got between the two former assassins.

“Damn you,” Yohji groaned as he dragged himself to his feet, gingerly rubbing the back of his neck.

Aya knew Yohji was in no real pain, except for his wounded pride. Perhaps it would have taught Yohji a lesson, stick to the booze and women and not the artful skill of a blade. He was no match for it no matter how much he conceited on the fact.

“You always have to show off…”

Aya blinked and before he had time to react on instinct, Yohji had lunged forward to tackle him. The brunt of the charge hit him in the center of his chest then traveled to his back once he landed hard on the mat, stealing the breath completely from his lungs in the process. His body hurt, but his ego had taken a harder hit, for such a small distraction to take him down so easily. Faintly, he heard Yohji’s deep laughter above him and his eyes narrowed with a deadly gleam.

“Not too quick without your sword, ne?”

Aya seethed. “Fuck you.”

“Harsh.” The blonde frowned, but the humor twitching the corners of his mouth were evidence that he wasn’t affected by the crude words.

Slowly, Aya rose to his feet. He didn’t expect Yohji’s humor to take the sudden turn, however when he looked at the older man. The blonde’s visage was serious, set hard and unmoving.

“It’s getting old, Aya.”

“What?” He blinked hard, not certain he deciphered Yohji’s words right. What was getting old? What the hell had he done?

Yohji waved his hands animatedly, answering, “This hard, cold exterior of yours. Aya-chan is alive and well, Takatori is dead – what reason do you have now to continue this…?”

Aya took a threatening step toward his roommate, his eyes so frigid that a blizzard in the artic was calmer than the rage he felt roiling inside of him. He was pissed, more threatened than anything else, and he wanted the conversation to end. Usually, Yohji was smart enough to back away before the heat of the tension grew to scalding degrees. He hated confrontations as much as Aya, though Yohji was the one that started them most of the time.

“Don’t start-” He turned abruptly; ready to retreat and avoid a brawl he wasn’t ready to start. Yohji’s words struck him, hard; the truth like a train wreck upon his psyche. He hated that Yohji thought he knew everything about Aya’s life, his past, his pain. Aya-chan was alive, yes, but Aya couldn’t fathom going back to the life he had led before the murder of his parents. He didn’t know how. That piece of him, that side of happiness was a mere presence at the back of his mind, if that.

Yohji sighed, and it was a sad sound - an emotion that Aya rarely witnessed from the other man. “Why? Just answer my question. Why do you act like there is still no hope?”

“If I didn’t have hope, I wouldn’t be here,” Aya said through clenched teeth. He closed his eyes, felt his lashes flutter against his skin as he tried to contain the anger he felt towards Yohji; for Yohji that just kept pushing the wrong damn buttons each time.

The blonde angled his head down, peering at Aya through the thickness of his pale lashes. “Then what is it? What drives this hate inside you?”

His fists were at his side, clenching, straining. It felt as if the bones of his knuckles were ready to burst through the skin, he was squeezing them so tight. Perhaps if he ignored Yohji, refused to answer, the blonde would realize his efforts to understand Aya were futile. No one knew his feelings, no one was allowed. He had closed off that part of him long ago, the lock secure and the key thrown away.

Aya wished their encounter that morning could have remained pleasant, but he wouldn’t have expected anything different from Yohji. The jackass always had to ruin a moment of peacemaking, even if Aya would never admit that he was going along with it. It was a rare moment when the two of them could interact without biting the other’s head off, and Aya respected those moments when they occurred. But then the conversation had spiraled down a path Aya refused to allow Yohji to tread and he didn’t have the patience to deal with the repercussions.

“Just shut up, Yohji. Stay the fuck out of my business,” Aya snapped after he had turned to glare at the blonde. He stared at Yohji a little longer until the older man’s shoulders reluctantly slumped in admitted defeat.

“Sometimes I hate to understand you.”

Aya closed his eyes and sighed, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. The headache was coming; it was just behind his eyes and steadily growing into a migraine. “Save us both the misery, and stop trying.”

He had less than a second to register the sharp hiss that escaped Yohji’s lips just before his fist was swinging towards Aya. His driven instinct to duck saved him from having a black eye and an even larger headache than the one forming. On second instinct it was to defend himself, attack his opponent. Yohji was being careless in his sudden rage; blindly punching at whatever he could aim for. When there was no solid target for his fist to drive home, he stumbled forward, not expecting Aya’s fast thinking.

Aya remained in a crouched position and aimed for his own attack, but with more precision and force than Yohji’s. With a right uppercut to the blonde’s midsection, Yohji jack-knifed, then went down to his knees with a painful, breathless moan. Aya was on his feet before the other man had collapsed on all fours, and he was already bringing down another strike to send Yohji to his stomach. He hadn’t expected Yohji to grab his ankle, however, and his feet were pulled out from under him too fast for him to think of the pain as he landed hard on his back again. Slowly, in tedious stages the jarring pain became a known entity and Aya tightly shut his eyes and bit back a groan.

“Fuck, man…” Yohji hissed, his voice still breathless and hoarse. “What the fuck?”

“Shut up.”

“No.”

For the second time that morning, Aya was taken by surprise. He had no time to ward off Yohji as the older man climbed on top of him, straddling his waist and pinning his arms to the floor above his fire-red head. Aya howled, once he realized he was trapped, and started to struggle, bucking and thrashing beneath Yohji’s heavy weight.

“Get off me!”

Yohji tightened his grip on Aya’s wrists, causing him to struggle harder. “Listen to me!”

“No! Get the fuck off me, Yohji! Now!”

“Not until you listen to me.”

Aya stilled his struggles long enough to spit in Yohji’s face, his act of defiance not the least bit deterred by the blonde’s stern orders. The scorching fire in Yohji’s gaze barely penetrated the glacier that encompassed Aya’s heart. He expected that the crude reaction would have stirred something in Yohji besides the hardened look in his eyes, and Aya was disappointed when the older man still did not move. Struggling only seemed futile, especially when Yohji straddled Aya to where he couldn’t defend himself – his legs spread wide and Yohji between them, Aya’s calves entangled in Yohji’s. It angered him all the more, to feel so trapped and helpless.

“Yohji.”

For a long breathless moment, neither man moved. It was down to a silent contest of wills, staring at the other until one was forced to avert their gaze. Droplets of saliva dribbled down from Yohji’s forehead and rested on the tip of his nose before languidly dropping on Aya’s cheek. Another drop followed shortly afterward, and Aya squirmed with the strong urge to cringe and wipe the substance away. But he refused to look away and give Yohji the satisfaction of seeing his discomfort, his defeat.

“Aya! Yohji!”

It was Omi. Aya stiffened, his eyes wide. Fuck! There was no time to renew his struggles underneath Yohji when the door to the gym swung open and crashed into the wall behind in a bone jarring motion of sound. He heard Omi gasp, but Aya dared not to look away from Yohji’s sharp stare.

“Aya, I-“

Yohji smirked, his back turned to the boy, and he seemed quite pleased with the response Aya gave to the unexpected interruption. There was no stopping the flush that crept up his face in a rush of heat. He wanted nothing more than to strangle Yohji with his bare hands at that moment – at Yohji’s act of complete immaturity – and watch the life slowly fade from the bastard’s eyes. The need was so strong that Aya shook with the force of it. Plots of revenge played out in his mind, he wasn’t about to let the blonde get away with it.

“Get off,” he warned Yohji, his voice dripping with venom.

The older man complied, taking his time from removing his body on top of Aya’s. It was too tedious for Aya to stand, and once his hands were free he shoved Yohji the rest of the way, causing him to stumble back and land on his butt gracelessly. Aya resisted the urge to scramble as far away from Yohji as he could manage, but he refused to show any more signs of weakness than he already had, especially with Omi standing in the threshold of the room. He did, however, wipe the remnants of his own saliva from his face with the hem of his shirt collar; disgust clearly present in his narrowed eyes.

“Aya?” Omi was cautious, taking a tentative step further into the room. His eyes were wide, like two full saucers in the middle of his face. They danced back and forth between Aya and Yohji. “Should I come back later?”

“What do you want, Omi?” Aya snapped, though it was unintentional. Once his rage set in, it was hard to avoid from attacking others.

Omi cleared his throat. “You have visitors, Aya. They were waiting in a car outside…”

”Who are they?” Yohji asked.

“It’s none of your business who they are,” Aya growled at Yohji, his fists clenching with the burning need to bring as much physical pain upon the blonde as possible.

“Tell them I’ll be down in a minute,” he told Omi, averting his gaze to the boy.

With reluctance, Omi nodded and left just as quickly as he came. Yohji straightened to his feet just as Aya turned on him. In a blur of speed, his right hand extended outward, blocking Yohji’s swift up-handed defense and grabbed his right wrist, immediately delivering a roundhouse kick to the older man’s groin. Yohji had known Aya would attack; by the way his body had tensed once he had stood, but there had been no time to dodge Aya’s momentum. The force of the kick sent him tumbling forward and Aya stepped to the side to make ample room for Yohji’s descent. A low groan ripped from his throat with the jarring impact to the floor. He lay there in a boneless heap, hands guarding his groin, as though to protect it from the pain that already burned through him.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” Aya ground out, and vanished from the gym before Yohji was able to put in the last word.

Relief poured out of Aya in waves; he felt like he was suffocating in Yohji’s presence. The man had an uncanny ability to make Aya feel uncomfortable and very bitter. Was it Yohji’s arrogance? Or that he wanted to know Aya more than anyone had the courage to? Aya shook his head, closing his eyes at the thought. As much as he hated to admit, he feared what Yohji may find underneath that heart of stone. He feared what anyone might encounter. As much as he tried, he knew he wasn’t as strong as the exterior claimed to be. There was only so much self-hate that the human soul could bear before it was truly broken. It was only a matter of time.

Omi’s ever-cheerful voice followed by a stranger’s response drifted upward as Aya reached the top of the third floor stairway. The housing portion of the flower shop was much like a loft, spacey and brick walls instead of plaster. Sounds carried faster, echoing off the bare walls. It almost gave off the sense of standing in a cave, voices surrounding him, baring down on him ready to attack. He shook the feeling off before it had time to grow stronger and he descended the steps, one hand lightly trailing down the railing. His bare feet padded on the wooden boards beneath and he barely made a sound as he reached the second floor of the building. The ground floor was the flower shop, and below that the old mission room, which hadn’t been used since their last assignment.

“Would you like more tea? I’m sure Aya will be down soon…” Omi said, his sentence trailing off. Any stranger would have thought that Omi was just another kid with an innocent boyish charm, but Aya knew better. He picked up the tightness in Omi’s voice, the tiny hint of tension that meant that something wasn’t right. Was it from what had happened in the gym moments ago, what Omi had walked in on? Or was the stranger in the kitchen the source of it?

Aya sighed, knowing the only way to find out was to face it. He rounded the corner, appearing in the large archway of the kitchen. It was the only room on this floor that was closed off by walls that had been put in years after the building was finished and fully renovated. The kitchen was spacious like the rest of the apartment, with a long rectangular table in the middle, four chairs around it. Omi was leaning against the counter closest to the doorway, a mug in one hand and the teapot in the other. The visitors were sitting at the far end of the table, facing each other. Aya’s body stiffened, his eyes widened, then narrowed once he gathered in exactly who was paying them a visit this early on a Saturday morning.

Burman was as pristine and sophisticated as ever, very little makeup applied to her pale skin and her straight black hair put up in a neat bun, stray strands framing her face almost perfectly. She wore a dark purple blazer and matching skirt, a black blouse underneath with all the but the top button closed, showing the line of a silver necklace hidden underneath. The man that accompanied her was no one that Aya had met before. He was an American in his early fifties, with gray dusting the temples of his dark brown hair. Smokey gray blazer and dress slacks were pressed and neat, a yellow tie with dark blue specks in perfect position. The only thing that didn’t mark him as a regular business man or even another Kritiker agent was the hard set of his amber eyes. They spoke volumes of a life that had seen too much too soon - not so much the bringer of death, but the one to witness it after the deed had been completed. He was a cop, a detective.

“Mr. Fujimaya…” the American greeted, standing to make it formal with a handshake. Obviously he hadn’t been taught the basics of Japanese culture before he had decided to fly all the way here.

Aya blinked, straightened but didn’t take the man’s hand. The feeling that knotted in his stomach was unnerving and he couldn’t quite get his throat to form the words that he wanted to speak. Why was Burman here? Why, after a year of silence, had she come back? Why with a detective from America in tow? Was there a new mission? He hoped not.

“This is Detective Ross,” Burman said in English; thankfully Aya had taken the liberty to learn different languages during his time as Weiss. It had come in handy more than he had imagined. “He’s from New York.”

The blood drained from Aya’s face and the room started to tilt, as if the earth had been knocked off its axis. Burman continued talking, but the words didn’t register. The only noise Aya heard was the white static of panic, New York a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. Aya-chan was in New York, studying a semester on the western’s culture of psychology. It was just a coincidence, though, Aya kept telling himself. He repeated it over until he was truly convinced that that was all it was. Aya-chan was safe; she was alive and safe.

“Ran, I…” Burman stopped short and fumbled for something in the inner pocket of her blazer. A small wrapped packet was revealed and she held it out to Aya, prompting him to take it.

At the same moment that Aya tentatively took the packet from Burman, Yohji decided to make his presence known in the room. He didn’t say anything, although the question of what Burman was doing there was heavy in the air. Aya blocked him out, blocked everyone out until all that he saw was the brown wrapping, the weight of something small inside, resting in his palm. His hands trembled and his heart thundered against his chest, roared in his ears as he slowly, reluctantly unfolded the packet. What lay inside caused his world to tumble down, down, down until the void that resided in his heart filled to the brim with an unyielding despair. He couldn’t hold back the choked gasp that surfaced from his throat; he couldn’t stop his body from shaking so hard that he had dropped the package. A single gold earring rolled out of the wrapping, twin to the one in Aya’s ear.

TBC...