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Come As You Are	By : animegher Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 6971 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Disclaimer: All characters belong to Weiss Kreuz, Koyasu Takehito, and yo mama!
Ken was screaming at him.

There was so much blood.

They had to get out of here, but they couldn’t leave Aya there.

Dead or not.

A limp, white form smeared red as he was hustled back to the ambulance on a stretcher, the nurses yelling back and forth to each other in an entirely different language.

There was just so damn much blood.

Yohji came tearing out of a nightmare, straight into a body that was broken and wracked with pain. It was centering around a throbbing burn on his chest, Yohji able to peer down the bridge of his nose, over his chin, and to the bandages covering him. There was the blurry background of a typical hospital room, Yohji too weak to lift his head up and see if anyone was around. Usually people were happy to wake up and discover they were alive when by all odds they should be six feet under. Yohji felt nothing but numbness, emptiness, like his insides had been scooped out and put in a jar far, far away from him.

"Aya?" His voice barely reached his own ears, a fractured and painful whisper the best he could manage.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Yohji. Are you awake?" Ken’s voice was soft, trembling on the verge of tears. He lifted his head up from his arms and put it into Yohji’s immediate range of vision, tired and bruised. Yohji had never noticed how brown Ken’s eyes were before, deep and clear. There was a strange kind of relief trying to come over him at being alive, at still having his best friend there; but it was blocked behind a more pressing worry. He didn’t need to know how long he had been out, or just what the damage was to his body. He only needed one thing in his life.

"A . . . Aya," Yohji insisted again, his breath more pained this time. His throat was wickedly dry, his whole mouth aching from the effort of talking. He stared up expectantly at Ken, perched in a plastic chair at his bedside. He looked empty, the usually aggressive and athletic man sitting in rumpled, old clothes with a noticeable amount of stubble coming in on his cheeks.

"You’re in the same room. He’s right here, Yohji . . ." Ken assured him softly, but something about the way he said it filled Yohji up with horrible dread. His eyes flicked about the place, straining to see that familiar, purple hair that he loved so much. Aya had grown it out just for him. He managed to make out the shadowy outline of another bed next to him, with much more machinery and equipment attached to it. The silence coming from the other side of the room was painful, even more frightening than when Yohji didn’t know where Aya was or how those psychopaths might be torturing him.

What’s wrong with Aya? He couldn’t manage to say it aloud, but he expressed it through his face and eyes, desperately pleaded with Ken for an answer in agonizing muteness. Yohji didn’t have the strength to ask that long of a question, fingers twitching on the sheets as struggled to shake off the heavy ache that had settled over his entire body. Ken seemed to understand what he wanted; it was just too hard for him to say. Yohji could only wait while Ken gathered himself; clenching his eyes shut but failing to stop a tear from tracing down his face.

"He’s in a coma. There was s-severe blood loss and . . . fuck," Ken couldn’t talk any more, head falling back down to the bed limply. Yohji just stared the shaking shoulders, taking in Ken’s words slowly.

A coma.

Leave it to Aya to make something like this into a goddamn family tradition.

Yohji could only make a choked, wheezing noises; too weak and dehydrated to even cry. It almost sounded like he was laughing at the horrible, awful irony of it all. He wanted to, struggling to express some sort of emotion- but it was simply too fucking much.

Aya was in a coma.

Ken was beginning to earnestly sob against the bed sheets, the almost perfectly normal guy who either laughed or got pissed off, unable to hold his tears in any longer. It was like he was trying to cry for the both of them, since Yohji simply couldn’t right now. All he could manage was to shift a shaky and pale hand over until it brushed Ken’s hair. He meant to pet the poor guy on the head in comfort, but he didn’t have the strength. It was fucking pathetic, but it was enough for Ken, who just snatched up his fingers and crushed them together in a desperate fist. He was just trying to hold onto a friend, all of them so easily broken apart by one small, stupid misunderstanding.

A fucking coma. Yohji wasn’t really sure what it was, beyond the fact that Aya had destroyed his life to pay the hospital bill. It was one long, expensive sleep without dreams, without the ability to survive if not properly cared for. Aya-chan hadn’t ever talked about the time she had spent completely unconsciousness . . . hell, she barely even spoke with them now after finding out her brother was gay along with the rest of them. So much for the familial bond. Yohji wouldn’t bother trying to call her to tell her that her big brother was in the hospital. He knew she probably wouldn’t care about it, and he didn’t want her to know. He was enough family for Aya, loved him more than a selfish and materialistic sister ever had.

"Omi . . . Omi’s working right now. He won’t see Aya- and I- . . ." the rest of it was incomprehensible, Ken too upset to speak properly. Yohji was pretty sure his fingers were breaking, but it didn’t matter. How long had Ken been sitting in this room, with two of his best friends unconscious and hovering toward death, waiting for one of them to wake up? Why wasn’t Omi giving his grandfather the finger and staying here with his lover? Omi would have never left Ken alone to deal with this. Hell, the kid wouldn’t even be able to cope on his own. Aya was in a coma. Yohji was still trying to fit the fact inside his head, struggling to get his eyes to focus on the space over Ken’s shaking form and what Yohji was sure was Aya’s bed. He could just feel it.

"This is so fucked up!" Ken yelled it out angrily between his tears, punching the bed with his free hand. Yohji was just thankful that the brunette hadn’t hit his legs, doing his best to comfort with flatten fingers as Ken only gripped him tighter. How long had Ken been holding these tears in, trying to be strong for all of them as everything went to hell? It didn’t feel like they had rescued Aya at all when he’d been announced into this sort of state. Ken was like he was already dead along with Omi, their lovers both too far away to touch right now.

Yohji closed his eyes, unable to do anything other than lie there and listen as Ken cried himself dry.

* * *
Crawford had been living with a constant headache beyond human imagination ever since Farfarello had taken up residence inside his head. He had immediately called Esset for medical help, wanting to fix whatever was wrong immediately. He also had them collect Mastermind from the basement before he bled himself to death as well. Crawford had signed away the proper papers to let someone else deal with the German for a while. Nagi had been left in charge of taking care of the house, a pop quiz to see if the boy could fare well enough on his own. Bradley had more than enough problems to worry about himself.

Blood tests, CAT scans, and X-rays along with a various assortment of other exams revealed nothing. It was hell just trying to get through that while he heard an Irish folksong being wailed out inside his head. Farfarello didn’t demand any attention, didn’t seem disturbed at his new location. If Crawford closed his eyes and concentrated, Farfarello’s presence could solidify into a complete mental image of the psychotic albino. He was always lingering in the space between Bradley’s conscious and subconscious, and the thought frankly scared the shit out of him. He didn’t know what Berserker might be up to, now that he was inside his head. With the Irishman’s violent tendencies, Crawford was expecting his neurons and brain cells to soon become Farfarello’s hapless victims. Crawford had made it quite clear that Farfarello wasn’t to do anything- not touch, poke, stab, or any sort of motion at all- until he could find out what the hell was going on. Farfarello had agreed readily enough when he was informed that Schuldig would be receiving the best treatment possible . . . though that was rather questionable when it came to Esset doctors. Crawford had come to the conclusion that the whole lot of them were complete idiots after the second day of observation and still having no more answers than before. Bradley could figure it out well enough on his own, once he had been forced to stay still in a hospital bed while they waited on results.

The last thing that he had clearly remembered was that he had been about to have a prediction of the future. Crawford’s instincts had told him that it had something to do with Farfarello, but the vision hadn’t come like usual. He had just gone into a dead faint, rather embarrassingly sprawled out on the carpet until Crawford had come to with a new guest inside his skull.

He wasn’t quite sure what had exactly happened, nor how; but he had never really been able to explain his gift before either. Schuldig and Nagi seemed to have the same problem with their near god-like powers. They had amazing mental capacity and could perform extraordinary feats; and yet trying to come up with an explanation for why was impossible. It was just like being aware of breathing, and yet having no true comprehension of the complexity of the act, all the muscles being moved to keep the body alive. How Farfarello could somehow retain his personality and freewill despite becoming a part of Crawford’s conscious was beyond him.

As for how it had happened . . . Crawford had a loose deduction at best. He had been about to have a premonition of Farfarello’s death, but it had happened at the same time, triggering this predicament. Instead of dying like a normal person, Farfarello had somehow escaped death by fleeing into Bradley’s mind while he was in the middle of a vision, his mentality open and vulnerable.

This could be considered scientific proof that the human soul existed, something beyond blood and flesh that created a unique personality. Crawford could give a shit about it, just wanted Farfarello out.

"I’m not so bad to live with. I haven’t done anything, just like you told me. We should kill one of the doctors. That would make you feel better," Farfarello interjected at last, able to pick up on Crawford’s loathing. He had a vague awareness of Farfarello’s own emotions as well . . . which could best be described as composed bloodlust. Crawford could only assume that his own superior intellect had influenced Farfarello into some semblance of sanity. There was still the insatiable craving for murder and slow torture to cope with. Bradley had to admit it would relieve a lot of stress to choke the life one of one of those squawking, cowardly doctors coming in and out of his room.

"We’re not killing anyone," Crawford answered back aloud, not caring if he would truly seem crazy to onlookers. It was just easier to state his thoughts aloud than spend the effort to formulate them inwards. The mouth was faster than the brain after all, and Crawford was more than exhausted after concentrating on ignoring Farfarello every second of the day. If he paid the Irishman any attention, Berserker would immediately start rambling about killing someone or how disappointed he was that he hadn’t been able to meet God in the afterlife. Farfarello had wanted to try and kill the biblical Father of Creation very badly, but now he was stuck with Crawford for who knew how long. They had experimentally run an electric current through Crawford just to see if it would have an effect . . . and he got were burn marks and a case of severe nausea. So far, no other reasonable opinions had been brought forth by the team of doctors that were desperately trying to figure out what was wrong. Perhaps they somehow knew just how short Crawford’s patience was now that Farfarello was persistently testing it; and how much of his homicidal inclinations had worn off already. He would still give them a while longer to live, just in case one of those medically trained fools actually stumbled across a plausible solution.

"Then, Schuldig better be okay, or else I will start trying to hurt you," Farfarello threatened like he actually had any sort of power in this situation. Crawford was certain that if it came down to it, he would be able to force Farfarello out before he could do any damage. Crawford’s rational and mental prowess went far beyond the telepathic and telekinetic users in his team. Farfarello had never really qualified as mentally gifted, beyond the fact he was completely insane. That hadn’t really been his choice though, manufactured into the killing machine he was . . . had been. It was becoming harder and harder to think of Farfarello as dead when the bastard was making his life hell right now.

"I’m going to get you out of my head eventually. You should behave until then," Crawford warned coldly, glaring forward-

- at a young nurse that was staring back at him in clear nervousness that Crawford was speaking aloud to an empty room, a neat tray in her hands that was no doubt his dinner.

Absolutely fucking splendid.

Farfarello started giggling in the back of his head, content and amused for now.

* * *

Thirteen active teams, two missing in action, presumed dead. Fifty-three solo agents in various countries, a large amount of names highlighted in pink for unaccountable absence.

It was hard to tell who was dead and who had just deserted after the former Persia’s death. Kritiker’s information network was still in place, though it no longer had the manpower or speed of the old days. Without agents to properly carry out missions, there was no money coming in to fuel the investigations. There was little point in knowing just how much was wrong with the world if they couldn’t do a thing about it. Omi scrolled through the rest of the statistics in dull resignation, seeing nothing but depressing numbers. If this were a business, he would announce them bankrupt and just give up. He didn’t understand how they could still afford to put him inside this spacious office with rich, wood floors and posh furniture. Omi glanced away from the latest flat-screen monitor, hooked up to a faster internet and more powerful computer than he had at home, over the spotless oak desk to his Grandfather.

The old man was wearing a loose yukata and a beaten fishing hat with hooks in it, as if this was a laid-back Sunday morning with his grandson. He was looking rather pleased with himself and completely comfortable in the leather couch, one large glass of bourbon kept constantly full by a silent, hulking bodyguard. Omi didn’t even want a liquor cabinet in his office, but his Grandfather did, and he obviously expected to be spending a lot of time in here. Why shouldn’t he be drinking to his success? The worn-out bastard now had everything he wanted, with Omi all but chained to this desk. Omi glanced back down at a red folder buried under the pile of vanilla files he was supposed to go through first, desperately wanting to read it but had to finish his work first. He had only begun reading an introductory report made for him by that awful woman he now knew as Rex and he already wanted to run home crying . . . except nobody would be there when he returned.

"How is Aya-kun doing?" Omi asked tentatively, hating how dry and weak his voice sounding as it tried to break through the oppressive silence his Grandfather and his bodyguard had made on the other side of the room. The old man took a sip of his drink without answering, and for a moment Omi thought he might just be outright ignoring him.

"You should be reading those reports instead of worrying about Abyssinian," his Grandfather suggested at last in a cold, distant voice. No one would ever guess that they were related by blood. This was the man that had abandoned him as a child, to a group of psychotic kidnappers that had been so terrifying Omi still couldn’t remember all the details to this day. He had been saved by Weiss and his uncle, probably the only good Takatori out of the whole family; but he was dead now, just like everyone else. Omi could care less- they weren’t his family. He was Omi Tsukiyono, not Mamoru Takatori, and he belonged with Ken, Aya, and Yohji. They had made their own family, outside of Weiss and missions, and Omi was determined to gain that back. He wasn’t going to let Kritiker ruin their lives again. Becoming Persia would not be a problem. Now, if he could only get Ken to understand that . . .

"I can’t concentrate very well when I don’t know how my friends are doing," Omi forced himself to control his voice, to stay calm and in control. The bodyguard crossed his arms at this little exchange, silent and angry behind dark sunglasses. Omi’s Grandfather just swirled the contents of his glass around, frowning over at him in clear disapproval.

"You’re really such a child. Abyssinian’s condition is stable and h- . . ."

"His name is Aya, damn it!" Omi yelled, cutting the old man off viciously.

"If you’re going to be calling agents by their first names and getting personally attached like this, you might as well leave now. I’d like to see how ‘Aya’ would survive a transfer to another hospital," his Grandfather sneered viciously, completely unmoved. Every word might as well of been a bullet, leaving Omi utterly speechless at the inhumanity of it. Like his Grandfather couldn’t get enough of reminding him exactly why he was here. Omi hated the decrepit old bastard, hated his bodyguard, hated what had become of his life. He just wanted to scream without end and breakdown on the spot; but what would become of his friends then?

He sunk back down into the chair he didn’t even know he had jumped out of, the uncomfortable silence resumed like nothing had happened. Ken had done some horrible impressions of Omi when he lost his temper- always long after the fact, when they were both in a good mood again- and Omi had to admit that he could be pretty ridiculous when he got upset. It was just so hard when he was really alone. He hadn’t had a chance to really talk to Ken ever since they had gotten Aya back . . . Omi couldn’t get close to them without his Grandfather knowing, and now just about everything he did could eventually be used against him. Ken, Yohji, and Aya were all in danger. Staying right here and doing his Grandfather’s bidding was the only way to keep them safe.

Omi picked up the file he had been trying to read before, hot tears blurring the words as he bit his lip and focused.

* * *

It had ironically taken thirteen stitches to close up the gash on his chest. Yohji now considered it his lucky number; fingers resting over the bandages and letting out a shaky breath as it dawned on him just how damn lucky he’d been to survive. The muscles on his right arm were fucked up, aching and protesting every movement because of the healing knife wound. He had lots of physical therapy to look forward to after he recovered enough. For now, the simple exercise of walking over to Aya’s bedside and slumping down in a chair would be enough. Yohji wanted to hold him so bad that it actually hurt, wishing that he dared to touch Aya’s hands or cheeks . . . just something to assure him that the man was really alive beyond all the machinery beeping and humming around him.

Aya’s back had been so badly mutilated that the hospital had put him in a special bed, on his stomach with a hole for his face. It didn’t really matter though, since Aya had so much plastic tubing taped up to his mouth and nose that Yohji could only really see his eyes; and even those were shut tight, bruised purple and black from too much trauma. His hair was all stuffed into a plain shower cap, too much of a sanitary risk to keep loose. Aya’s body was alive, but that was it. A monitor to Yohji’s left showed Aya’s brain activity . . . nothing but a flat green line. His heartbeat was much more active, still struggling along as the rhythm sometimes drifted off in long pauses before recovering again; killing Yohji a little bit each time with sheer terror that Aya might really leave him forever.

Even this was better than death. Aya may be in a coma, but there was still a chance. His little sister had recovered and grown up to be a successful bitch. Ken had taken the liberty of calling her to tell her that her brother was in the hospital again . . . and of course, had yet to actually get in contact with the selfish brat running around in Europe without a care. Yohji wouldn’t have been able to stand her presence there anyway, so protective of Aya that he glared and cursed at the nurses that came in to check on them. Kritiker hospitals were quite different though; having personnel that was unimpressed with physical attacks and dealt with assassins every day. They were more than used to crazed and grief-stricken friends.

At least Ken had finally gone home to sleep after the doctors had announced Yohji in no present danger and Aya’s condition was stable at this point, nothing to do wait until it was time for new medication. Ken obviously didn’t want to leave Yohji alone while they were both in such horrible, fucked-up shape, but Yohji had sent the brunette with a painful and fake smile. Ken needed the rest, needed to get the hell out of the hospital. After everything that had happened, all he wanted to do was go home and curl up in his own bed . . . but Aya had become just of much of a necessity as pillows and sheets. What could he do when Aya wasn’t even strong enough to live on his own, all these machines forcing his body to survive when he should have died long ago?

A doctor had come in to speak in private about the seriousness of Aya’s condition. Yohji didn’t glance over at the man once, focused on the still figure that had been Aya. He could only listen with numb interest, thinking to how Aya had been screaming and hitting him only a few days ago- how goddamn alive he had been at that moment. Now, Aya’s body was too weak to survive the reconstructive surgery that was needed on his arms. The concern of Aya ever being able to use his hands again paled next to the fact he might never wake up.

The doctor explained that Aya’s case was actually quite rare, since the coma hadn’t been caused by head trauma. They would need to wait a few days to be sure, but Yohji was told Aya might have a good chance of reviving. If he had actually received a blow to the head to cause the coma, parts of Aya’s brain would swell with blood and would need to be removed- and at that point, there was little hope that Aya Fujimiya would ever be the same again. The doctor had a few smart theories that the vegetative state was because there had been such massive blood loss and trauma that Aya simply wouldn’t be able to survive being conscious. He began talking about future procedures and surgeries Aya would be facing if they ever wanted him to be a fully functioning human being again, but trailed off when he finally realized how little was getting through to Yohji right now.

The man had the decency to shut up and leave Yohji alone in the room, tapping his finger to every beat of Aya’s heart monitor.

He stared at the nervous habit for a minute before halting it, glancing over at the door to check for anyone else. It was a safe enough, since nobody was there to watch and Aya would be unconscious for fuck knew how long.

Yohji started crying, softly, weakly, since any loud noises pulled at the wound on his chest . . . just the miserable sound of a man who had lost everything that really mattered. Aya couldn’t even answer back, yet another machine hissing as it pumped air into his lungs. Yohji grabbed one of the metal bars that made the edge of Aya’s bed, just needing something to hold onto as he slumped down further and further; wanting to die but just didn’t have the courage.

. . .

Ken came back a while later, certainly not long enough to have actually had a full night’s sleep. He was freshly showered and shaved, in a change of comfortable jeans and plain white shirt, but the bruises under his eyes had remained along with an assortment of others decorating his arms. He had Band-Aids covering most of them, definitely having escaped their battle with Schwarz better off than Yohji had. There was still no doubt that Ken had been in a brutal fight, but there had been worse before. It was more amazing that he still looked happy to see Yohji and the corpse-like body they called Aya. Yohji didn’t know what his face was like right now; too ashamed to even look in a mirror, but Ken’s grimace when Yohji glanced up at him said that it was pretty bad. He didn’t care, couldn’t move from the chair. It hurt too goddamn much.

"Hey. How you doing?" Ken asked, setting a large paper bag down on the rolling table meant to be kept at Yohji’s empty bedside. He didn’t bother to ask if there had been any change in Aya- there probably wouldn’t be for a very long time. Yohji let out a few hitched breaths, not quite laughter; just ridiculously relieved that someone else was there now, someone who could talk with him. He had only had the company of his own breathing and Aya’s wicked collection of machines keeping him alive for too long. Ken sighed as he realized Yohji still wasn’t ready to talk yet, turning around to drag up a chair and join Yohji.

Ken opened up his bag, smartly armed with Chinese take-out and a six pack as he spread it out on the table. Yohji stared down at the little cartons Ken was setting out, flicking them open to reveal every meat he could possibly want in some side-dish steaming in the cool hospital room. He was oddly aware of being hungry, yet had no desire to eat. Why should he, when Aya was getting all the necessary proteins and vitamins pumped into him though a plastic tube?

"Hey," Ken snapped his fingers in front of Yohji’s face, bringing his attention away from Aya. He didn’t even realize he had started drifting back to staring at the motionless body until Ken had done something. He noticed that Ken’s eyes were watering, like a dog that had gotten kicked too many times, begging Yohji to stay in some frame of mind to follow along with him.

"We got Aya back. He’s going be okay . . . he just needs to rest right now," Ken reasoned away softly, simply. Like a coma was nothing more than an afternoon nap. Yohji swallowed at how easily it had been brushed aside- and then thought about how hard Ken was trying. Neither of them wanted to cry in front of the other, wanted to look strong and cool even though this was the shittest of circumstances. Ken was doing his absolute best to keep Yohji from making the same stupid mistake as Aya had and let the depression build up to the point of suicide. So damn pathetic. Yohji would have cried, if he didn’t know how bad it would make Ken feel right now. Instead, he halfheartedly picked up a plastic fork from the pile of napkins and condiments Ken had dumped out, in no shape to handle chopsticks. Sighing painfully, Yohji set out to put substance inside his stomach, determined to stay alive until he could finally talk things out with Aya.

"So, how are you holding up? I know you didn’t sleep," Yohji forced a little bit of teasing humor into his voice even though he felt numb on the inside. He had to put the mask on; or else he was going to completely breakdown. If he just pretended to be happy, soon enough he’d be able to fool even himself. It was good enough for Ken, he just shook out still-damp hair in a negative, twisting off the bottle cap and flicking it off into the corner carelessly.

"I never realized how big the place was until I was the only person in it," Ken murmured out slowly before he began to drain his beer in a desperate attempt to wash that sour note away. Yohji smiled sadly at him, able to sympathize easily. The hospital room had been so cold and lonely, even though he had Aya right in front of him. It wasn’t the same when the man wasn’t yelling at him or storming around the place. Aya wasn’t even there right now, gone somewhere that Yohji couldn’t touch, didn’t really understand.

Fried rice was shoved up into his face, Ken shaking the box around like he was trying to entice a pet. Yohji stared down at the greasy mess, feeling vaguely ill as he accepted the food. He made a show of putting it into his mouth and chewing while Ken started picking from the other dishes he had spread out. Pot stickers, chow-mien, and various fried somethings went down Ken’s throat, dropping down into the seemingly bottom hole of brunette's stomach.

Eventually Ken even took the rice Yohji had been picking at, trading him for an open beer. Ken knew he wouldn’t be able to open it by himself with the wounds he’d received.

It was such a simple, thoughtless action; but it meant so much right now. Yohji had nobody looking out for him, nobody comforting him. He had let Aya become the sole provider of love and compassion no matter how bad the man was at it, and now Yohji was so damn alone he could feel the inside of his body aching with it. Aya and Ken were both right there in front of him, and for some reason he couldn’t touch either of them. He was so goddamn worthless in the end.

"Shit, Yohji, why are you crying?" Ken asked, frozen over his dinner and staring at Yohji in shock all over again. He blinked up at the soccer player, half-shocked that someone was even addressing him right now. Yohji had about the same awareness as the open beer in his hand, lifeless, inanimate, incapable of anything unless someone else moved him. That was supposed to be Aya. He couldn’t be so selfish as to stay in a coma, just as ridiculous as committing suicide. The stupid, stupid bastard. Ken coughed politely, catching Yohji before he sunk back into his own miserable thoughts, reminding him that he still owed the other man an answer.

"I am?" Yohji asked back stupidly, becoming aware of the salty warmth on his cheeks. "Well, I’ll be damned," he mumbled aloud, wiping at his eyes to clear it up. He smiled weakly at Ken, trying to pretend like it had just been dust in his eye or such . . . but more tears leaked out, faster this time as it to make up for the short pause. The beer was shakily set back down on the table, his chest hurting so fucking much; but yet nothing compared to the pain he was feeling inside.

"I’ve been doing a lot of this lately," Yohji muttered, brushing the wetness off his face harder, like he could pull the tear ducts into obedience. Ken was silent, his face unreadable as he watched Yohji try to hold the last pieces of his dignity together. He had already cried once in front of the brunette, and that was more than he had done during their entire friendship, beyond the occasional bullet wound he’d received while on missions and couldn’t help the pain tears from rolling out. This time was completely different. It wasn’t because of the overall aching of his body or the painful throb of the knife wound, but because his heart hurt so damn much he could barely stand it. Yohji had to have Aya there right now, talking and glaring and being anal about the weirdest shit. That was why Yohji loved him, had decided to make Aya the one person he could ever truly give himself to . . . and now there was absolutely nothing but a mangled, half-alive corpse in a hospital bed, practically the only thing he could be identified with was the clipboard at the foot of his bed. Yohji would have killed himself out of pure guilt if he could have been sure somebody would take care of Aya afterward.

"You’re just tired," Ken tried to comfort him, leaning over the table to put a hand on his shoulder. The touch felt like poison right now, Yohji jerking away violently despite the tearing agony across his chest muscles.

"How can I be tired?! I haven’t done a single fucking thing!" Yohji snarled out, wanting Ken to leave him the hell alone. He didn’t deserve the pity or the concern. It should all go to Aya right now. Yohji didn’t care if Aya was only living because the machines shoved into him at the moment; it was good enough for him. Ken paused with his hand still outstretched like he was going to try again . . . and then growled out a curse to himself, standing up violently to glare down at Yohji.

"Fine. Pass out over there, see if I care. I’m sick of this shit, so I’m going to sleep," Ken yelled at last, whatever patience he had been trying to stretch for Yohji’s sake completely gone. He swirled away from their little dinner spread angrily, not even bothering to save any of the food as he stalked off without a backward glance. Yohji didn’t blame Ken, hell; he wanted to kick his own ass if such was possible. Yohji blamed himself over and over in his own head, but it just wasn’t enough. No matter how much he hurt or regretted, it wouldn’t make up for what he had done to Aya. Yohji was ultimately the one responsible for putting Aya in this state, and he wouldn’t be able to move past that until Aya woke up. It was like someone had hit the pause button on Yohji’s life and he couldn’t figure out where the control was any more. He thought Aya had it . . .

Again, Ken cut off his self-loathing thoughts as the brunette slammed open drawers on the side of the wall. Yohji hadn’t even really explored their hospital room, just knew that his bed was diagonally across from Aya’s. He hadn’t even needed to find the bathroom, didn’t have the desire to live beyond sitting at Aya’s side. Waiting for him to wake up indefinitely. Ken seemed to know exactly what he was looking for; unexpectedly pulling out a folded and badly used futon from the cupboards. Yohji stared in a mute insensibility while Ken wrestled with the bedding, eventually getting it to lie down between Yohji’s unoccupied bed and the wall.

"You’re going to sleep on a hospital floor?" Yohji demanded, wondering why the idiot didn’t use his bed. Even if this was supposed to be a sterilized environment, he wouldn’t count on the floors being germ-free; in fact, it was more likely crawling with weird medical shit they couldn’t even imagine. Besides, Yohji certainly wasn’t going to be able to sleep any time soon, even if he was lightheaded and dizzy with exhaustion. He just couldn’t do it while Aya was so defenseless, so weak. He felt like he if blinked away from Aya’s heart monitor it would simply stop.

"What do you care? You’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself when it doesn’t do a damn bit of good," Ken snapped as he marched back over to the closet he’d been fumbling around in earlier. Yohji shut up, recognizing that Ken was no better than a wounded animal at this point, ready to snap at anything stupid enough to put its hand out. Ken could be even worse than Aya when he got into a temper, but it was uncommon since Omi usually managed to pacify Ken before things could get bad. They need Omi acting as the mediator for the group, the glue that had been holding them all together. Yohji needed Omi there now, to make Ken feel better, because seeing his friend acting like this was only making the guilt stab deeper inside him. Ken was obviously determined to leave things like this, yanking out a spare pillow and blanket.

"Jesus, Ken, just use my bed," Yohji insisted, unable to stand causing any more pain for the people he cared about, even if it was the simple discomfort of sleeping on the floor.

"I can’t sleep in a bed alone!" Ken cried out with more emotion than Yohji had expected, tossing his head down until his hair covered his eyes. He still couldn’t hide the way his shoulders were shaking, the fists he made in pillow and blanket like he was going to tear them apart. Ken had never been good at expressing himself, just usually kept it all inside until he could let the stress explode out at the right time. But, they didn’t have any missions to go on, nobody to kill, nobody to even fight with. Their makeshift family had fallen apart so quickly that they might as well of never been friends. Yohji didn’t know what to do for Ken, was having a hard time mustering up the energy to care. He had been left so numb and dead inside after finding out that his lover was in a coma that Yohji couldn’t even function properly; didn’t feel a damn thing when silent tears streaked down Ken’s face at last.

"I miss Omi. I miss Aya. Fuck, I miss you," Ken choked out, glaring forward at the wall without really seeing it. Yohji clenched his teeth, struggling around for words and unable to come up with anything. He had never felt like they had so completely lost, an empty and hollow victory to have Aya back. Yohji regretted praying for Aya to just be alive, because now that’s all there was; no brain activity, no response to any stimuli, tortured onto the brink of death. Yohji felt the same way, though the physical wounds weren’t nearly as bad as Aya’s. It was the inside that was ripped to shreds, mentally fucked over until he had given up.

Schuldig had known exactly how to hurt him, make something worse than death happen and laugh because of it. Yohji couldn’t understand why the German had done everything that he had to him, to Aya; but the man had been nothing but crazy. There was no doubt that Mastermind would come after them again as long as they were alive, but Yohji had no problem with running away. All that mattered was that Aya got better . . . and that was exactly why Ken was upset right now. He couldn’t get through to Yohji, hadn’t been able to stop Omi from working for Kritiker again. Yohji couldn’t even begin to start dealing with that on top of everything else, just thankful that they had a hospital that was sure to be a hell of a lot safer than a public one, even if it was an organization of assassinations. With their unspoken little brother running the whole mess, they didn’t need to worry now about any weird questions or being accused of domestic abuse. Omi knew exactly what was going on, and his absence was probably because he was trying to fix things right now. That predictable, stupid midget. All that was left to do was wallow in guilt, trying to get over the battle scars left over their bodies and minds.

Yohji closed his eyes, too damn poetic for his own tastes. Aya was stable, and would be for a long time. He just needed some rest, like Ken had said before. He was in the same room as Aya, and there was no chance of the man going anywhere soon. Yohji could relax enough to start giving a shit about Ken, who was ready to fall to his knees underneath all that depression.

Just like how Aya used to.

Ken had been there to keep him together after Aya had gone missing, had done his best to keep everyone from diving off the deep end. Even if he had failed in the end, it wasn’t Ken’s fault. He deserved more than this. While Aya was in a coma, Omi was walking around alive and well . . . but Ken still couldn’t reach him. Yohji had to think for a moment just how hard that must be for his friend instead of just feeling sorry for himself.

He couldn’t help a pained hiss when he stood up, bruises and aches screaming at him to drop right back into the chair. Ken watched him in confusion, eyes leaking like a bad faucet but the brunette doing nothing about the tears. Yohji ignored him, getting his feet shuffling slowly away from Aya and toward his own bed.

"What are you doing?" Ken asked at last when Yohji sat down on the edge of the mattress, taking a moment to rest before he tried lying down.

"I’m tired, I hurt, and I’m sick to my ass of everyone crying. I’m going to bed," Yohji growled out, using the exhaustion and frustration to cover up the fact that he was really worried about Ken. Neither one of them were very fond of compassion, or somebody lying about ‘everything being okay.’ There was no reason for Ken to know that Yohji was going to give up the battle for today because to carry on any further would seriously upset his friend. It was already bad enough that Ken, the most masculine, down-to-earth guy they had in a house full of gays, was crying. Yohji wouldn’t be able to bear watching Ken act like a dog that had been kicked several times too many, so it was better to just give in for now. Yohji had to recover as well, could come back tomorrow stronger than he was now. He would get Aya to wake up again.

Yohji slowly lowered himself down to bed, groaning and cursing at the protesting muscles and stressed wound; taking another rest before he even bothered with trying to pull the blankets up over himself. Ken took a moment to wipe at his eyes, pulling up his shirt to dry his face off. The brunette turned off the lights while Yohji settled down into the bed before he started over to the futon on the floor next to him. Yohji waited while Ken toed off his shoes and pants, meaning to sleep in the shirt and boxers he’d worn into the place as he kicked the bedding out so he could lay on it.

"Not down there. You’re sleeping with me tonight," Yohji insisted, not about to let his friend sleep on the floor. Truth be told, Yohji didn’t like sleeping alone either. He had grown accustomed to Aya always being in the same bed, cuddling up to that trim and pale body every night. He hadn’t slept soundly since Aya had gone missing, not just because he’d been worried out of his mind but because he needed that familiar shoulder to throw his arm over, along with a leg locked around one of Aya’s. Without Aya, something important was missing, just as essential to sleep as a blanket to keep you warm. Yohji didn’t doubt that Ken felt the same way about Omi, and was having just of hard of time as he was.

"Oh, Yohji, I thought you’d never ask," Ken whispered back cockily, in a strained voice that betrayed him easily. He had already broken on the inside, so thoroughly that it was amazing he was even able to crack a joke at a time like this. It just went to show how strong Ken was and how horrible what had happened was. Ken wouldn’t start crying over something simple. It took a lot more than that to bring the former soccer player to tears. Omi would have known how to make Ken feel better, if he was here. But, he wasn’t, and Aya wasn’t really there either. Yohji and Ken had both lost what was truly important to them, and nobody would be able to better understand that than the other.

"Stop playing cool, asshole," Yohji ordered, gesturing to the open space on the bed. Yohji was a skinny guy after all, and the hospital mattress was big enough for three of him. Ken would have no problem fitting in, and he didn’t as the brunette awkwardly joined Yohji. He laid his head down on the pillow beside Yohji, both of them lying side by side on their backs and staring up at the ceiling quietly. Even if they were good friends, even if they had male lovers of their own, it was still weird to be in the same bed. They weren’t so much as touching, but Yohji could feel the warmth coming off of Ken as any human body tended to do. Aya always tended to get too hot when he feel asleep on Yohji’s chest, his hair usually making a scarf around Yohji’s neck unless he combed it out of the way. Ken was noisy and awkward next to him, rustling around as he struggled with the sheets. Aya’s breathing device was making a steady ‘whoosh’ sound every few seconds on the other side of the room, assuring Yohji that his lover was alright for now.

Ken suddenly decided he was comfortable with their situation, rolling in toward Yohji and carelessly tossing an arm over him.

"Ugh! Shit! Knife wound, you fuck!" Yohji cried out, little flashes of white pain going off from his jostled chest. The stitches felt like they were on verge of busting, Yohji having to bite down hard to keep himself from outright screaming. Cursing at Ken was good enough, the stupid idiot nothing but apologies to his side. Eventually the hurt faded to a sufferable throbbing so he could twist his head over and really glare at Ken in the spiteful way Aya had taught him to.

"You’re such a dumb ass. Keep it below the nipples, okay?" Yohji demanded hoarsely, even though he couldn’t help a small smirk from reaching his face. Ken was a true idiot, through and through; had forgotten about Yohji’s injuries in his excitement of not having to sleep alone. He hadn’t really done any worse damage than was already there, so Yohji was forgiving.

"What kind of rule is that?" Ken asked with a little bit of humor in his voice, obviously already starting to feel better. He adjusted his arm for Yohji, letting it rest over his stomach instead as Ken nuzzled up to his side like a pet dog, forcing Yohji’s own arm up around his back. Ken was getting comfortable without a care for the injured patient in the bed, eyes closed like he could drift off to sleep in an instant.

"You can still go back to the floor," Yohji answered back softly, his fingers already beginning to thread through Ken’s hair out of habit. The soccer player’s hair was shorter and rougher than Aya’s; too different for Yohji to even pretend that it was his lover’s. Ken didn’t protest, or tell him that he was pulling too hard, as Aya tended to complain, didn’t do anything. But, from the warm wetness that beginning to soak through the thin cotton of Yohji’s hospital gown, Ken had a little bit of crying to do before he could go to sleep.

* * *

"I can’t agree with leaving the hospital in such a state!"

"As a doctor, I insist you stay for further observation."

"Didn’t I tell you fools to go to hell? I have work to do," Crawford snapped back to the crowd of Esset doctors that had formed around the lobby desk. They were doing everything in their power to get Crawford to stay despite having been able to accomplish entirely nothing in the three days he had allowed them to conduct their ridiculous tests. He was quite sick of it himself, when he was in perfect health and finally accustomed to Farfarello. Crawford had never been good at staying docile for long, a man of business in the end. Farfarello was happy just to be leaving the place, and he seemed to understand that the sooner Crawford could get back to ‘work,’ the sooner they might be ordered to kill someone. They had finally come to a compromise that if Farfarello would just sleep quietly in his subconscious, he’d find some innocent victim to randomly stab to death later. It was an easy task, just like going to the store and buying a treat to pacify a spoiled child. Crawford usually would have never allowed such behavior, but the circumstances were different when the child was stuck inside his head. The insane, selfish bastard.

The doctors continued to buzz around him as Crawford approached the front desk, trying to convince him to stay a little longer. He ignored them and ordered the secretary to give him the necessary paperwork for Schuldig to be relinquished back into his care. Crawford was thankful that Farfarello was ‘asleep’ for this, or whatever state of docility he had slipped into. He was sure that the mere thought of the German would get Berserker excited all over again. Crawford had totally misjudged the partnership between the two, not when Farfarello could care this much. He was supposed to be nothing but an emotionless killer, if mentally unstable; such complex and deep sentiments impossible for him. How could someone that could felt no pain know what love was?

Crawford sighed supposing it mattered little now that Farfarello was dead. He accepted the clipboard the secretary passed back to him, putting his signature and initials in the right spot while the woman called up whatever branch Schuldig had been taken too. After his recent independent and outright stupid actions, Schuldig had no doubt been entered in some re-correctional treatment. The German had known that this would eventually happen if he continued follow personal ambitions and disregard his own orders.

The doctors slowly began to disband as they realized they wouldn’t be able to change Crawford’s mind. He was leaving today, end of statement. Bradley was determined to resume his life in its usual order, dead Irishman in his head or not. Crawford tightened the knot on his tie, adjusting his glasses as he settled into the suit he had worn into this wretched hospital. At least it had been washed, and was much more respectable attire than that flimsy gown they had in him. He would feel better when he got back home to his desk and could start in on the paperwork that had no doubt built up during his absence.

The door to his left buzzed, signaling that it was being unlocked as a patient was roughly led in by a tall orderly that looked like he belonged in a prison himself. Crawford slowly identified the orange hair, underneath a crown of dirty bandages. He had a straightjacket on, used and stained with blood, and a pair of loose cotton pants that were ready to fall off Schuldig’s hips at any moment. Crawford had no doubt that Schuldig hadn’t been allowed to bathe the whole time he had been here, the stink of sweat becoming more apparent as he was half-dragged toward the desk. Crawford outright stared over the rim of his glasses at the man that was in front of him, not recognizing his subordinate at all.

Mastermind was waving in place, like a soft breeze would be enough to knock him off his feet. The male nurse jerked Schuldig up by his neck, loosening a collar and handing it to the secretary without a word. Crawford knew what the device was; nothing more than a sophisticated shock collar for telepaths instead of dogs. An electric current was randomly sent out, disturbing the biochemistry enough to render Schuldig’s gift useless. It didn’t seem like the German was thinking of using powers for some vengeance even though he was now free. In fact, it didn’t look like much of anything was going on. Schuldig’s eyes were dead, glassy things staring off into the air, dried blood flecked underneath his nose and fresh bruising on the side of his face that must have happened within the past few hours.

"The straight-jacket?" Crawford asked when the orderly turned around as if his job was finished. The man glanced back over his shoulder, eyeing Schuldig in a way that made Crawford possessive of things that were his. He glared, waiting for the answer while the secretary resumed her work without a care. There was no fraternization between Esset employee’s, nothing but cold and ruthless efficiency.

"You can keep it. He was pretty wild the first day or so, and I’m not sure what he might try," the man growled out indifferently, waving his hand in dismal at the German.

Schuldig flinched back, the only thing he’d done of his own will since entering the room.

KILL HIM! MURDER HIM, STAB HIM, HURT HIM NOW!

Farfarello was screaming, slavering at the mouth, wildly pressing up against Crawford’s skull in a desperate attempt to take over his body. That was all it took to have Farfarello break, nothing rational beyond the fact Schuldig was obviously badly shocked right now. Crawford’s hands twitched, doing his best to suppress the Irishman’s desire to tear this orderly’s throat out. Schuldig was shivering ever so slightly, the glassy and unfocused look remaining in his eyes as he waited for . . . something. The man smirked in satisfaction at his own work, leaving them alone while Crawford tried to wrestle Farfarello back down into his subconscious.

Damn it, Berserker, I will not have you going loose about the place! Do you want me to take Schuldig home or not? Crawford mentally yelled out in a tone he would have never taken in reality. It had Farfarello cowering up against the fuzzy gray edge of his perception, paused for a moment in sheer terror at the fury in his voice. He slowly considered Crawford’s words, thinking so deeply that even Bradley was aware of it. He took advantage of the momentary stun to grab Schuldig by one of the buckles on his straightjacket and start dragging the man toward the elevator. He could not afford to show weakness here, not now. He didn’t give a damn if Farfarello wanted to kill everyone that had touched Schuldig before- the list was too long for the stupid slut. Right now, Crawford only cared about getting out of sight so he could deal with this in an effective manner.

Schuldig stumbled just a little bit before Crawford could hit the button for the elevator. He was suddenly forced to support the man’s weight as the German nearly fell to the floor. Crawford glanced back at the secretary with her nose buried in paperwork, at the locked door the orderly had exited from. If he showed any sort of sympathy toward Schuldig right now, Mastermind was likely to be executed. He had already fouled up his record by getting a few days in here, and his value as a useable agent had gone down considerable. Things would only be worse if they knew that Crawford had some sort of emotional attachment to the German . . . no matter how much Farfarello screeched and struggled inside his head for Crawford to make Schuldig better right now.

The elevator doors finally chimed as they opened, blissful empty. Crawford shoved Schuldig in ruthlessly, pressing the button for the first floor. Schuldig made a weak sound as he collided with the smooth metal walls, knees buckling as he tried to curl up in a ball on the carpet. The doors closed just in time, Crawford moving with lightning speed to snatch the man back up to his feet.

"Schuldig!" He shook the German hard, hoping to bring some sense back to him. Green eyes flicked up Crawford’s face, a little bit of recognition pouring in as Schuldig actually saw him. He looked every bit of twelve, lost and begging for someone to spare him just a little shred of affection. Crawford wanted to take the straightjacket off right then at the expression, regardless of how Farfarello was growling and pacing alongside his consciousness like a trapped animal for him to do much worse to those who had hurt Schuldig.

Crawford didn’t resist at all when Schuldig took one pathetic, shuffling step into his chest and buried his head into his shoulder. He whispered in a dry and parched German, repeating what sounded like an apology over and over again. Crawford just stared down at the man, shocked at the sudden show of vulnerability. He didn’t know what to do, how to comfort another person . . . and Farfarello was only making it worse as he screamed incessantly for someone to be punished for treating Schuldig so.

Crawford awkwardly put a hand on the man’s limp and greasy hair, petting him like he would a dog. It was enough to make Schuldig’s breathing go ragged as he tried to bury himself up against Crawford’s side, shivering hideously. He had meant for Schuldig to learn a lesson, not to be completely broken. Farfarello kept banging up against the wall of Crawford’s own will to keep the Irishman tucked as far back inside his head as possible, almost making it impossible to rationally evaluate the situation and the true extent of Schuldig’s injuries. Crawford didn’t have to be collected and calm to know that Schuldig had been beaten long and hard to get him so scared.

The elevator doors dinged before opening to the clean and modernistic lobby, a perfectly acceptable front of a major corporation. Crawford grabbed the straps at the back of Schuldig’s jacket, trying to lift up as most of the man as he could while making it seem like he was angrily dragging a subordinate back. Schuldig was still hardly able to walk, forcing Crawford to go at a slow pace as they passed the two guards standing against the wall, the male receptionist behind his desk, and out the side entrance. Farfarello was practically foaming at the mouth, becoming so agitated that he was beginning to forget just what he was upset about, just wanted to kill something to get revenge.

The secluded walk to the parking lot had never seemed so far before. Schuldig didn’t seem like he would be able to make it, wavering forward by the grip Crawford had on him . . . and out of sheer terror of being sent back to whatever had happened to him in that building. He glanced behind them at the glass doors they had just left through, knowing that it was still too soon to reveal that he actually gave a damn. He dragged Schuldig forward, feeling a slight pang of guilt as the German began to wheeze and stumble about like an old man ready to give up and die. At least the car wasn’t far, parking always quite reasonable in the Esset lots.

Bradley tossed Schuldig over the hood of the BMW’s trunk, letting the car support the man’s weight as his legs immediately went watery and limp underneath him. Schuldig’s hair fanned out across the shiny black finish of the luxury vehicle, a bright flame of orange that hid his face. Crawford could still tell by the heaving of Mastermind’s shoulders and the continuing silence that he was a step away from outright crying; something Crawford hadn’t seen since the first day he’d been given command of the German and explained to the man he wouldn’t have to beg for every meal. Schuldig’s inflated ego and rebellious ego had kept him alive and semi-sane up until now, but it had been beaten right out of him in the few short days Crawford had left him in Esset’s care. Even his worst sessions with the German had managed to produce this kind of result.

Bradley made quick business of all the buckles and leather straps on the straightjacket, disgusted with the whole ordeal but not about to reveal his frustration. He tugged the coat open, finally releasing Schuldig enough for the man to relax his arms and pull himself out of the restraints.

The only problem was Schuldig didn’t dare move of his own accord, beginning to shake against the hard surface of the car. It didn’t take a telepath to recognize how shocked and intimidated Schuldig was right now. Crawford ended up having to pull Schuldig’s arms out of the coat himself; the German seemingly unable to grasp the concept of being free. The straightjacket was tossed carelessly to the asphalt, Crawford unable to care if Esset would reprimand him for it later. He grabbed Schuldig by the elbow, forcing him to stand up so he could see the full damage done to his subordinate.

Mastermind stood there in the hospital pants, waving about on dirty bare feet with an amazing collection of bruises standing out on his arms and sides, too scared to even look Crawford in the face. The regular staff had managed to do quite a number on the man, some bruises so deep that blood was visible swelling and splitting the surface of his skin, but there were no actual cuts or open wounds. Esset was known as the bad guys for a reason; so skillful at torture that it was an art form . . .

"Here," Crawford forced himself to make his voice soft, even though he really wanted to scream aloud at Farfarello to just shut the fuck up and leave him alone. He shrugged out of his suit’s jacket and offered it to Schuldig, who just stared at the clothing like it was a ticking bomb. The silence from the usually cocky German was unnerving, made him seem actually human; and a fragile one at that.

Crawford eventually draped the plain jacket over Schuldig’s shoulders himself, placing a gentle hand against his back as he pushed the German toward the passenger side. He didn’t know if it was because of Farfarello’s influence or just because Schuldig was so damn pathetic right now, but he couldn’t help feeling a little bit of concern and worry. Crawford didn’t like it when his agents showed up physically beaten out of their minds. Schuldig was terribly compliant as Crawford shoved him inside the car, wincing back hard when Crawford slammed the door shut. He shook his head at it, forcing himself to calm down as he walked around the front of the car. Farfarello’s anger had seemed to implode in on himself, rage coming in and out like a static-filled channel on a radio; but thankfully at an amount Crawford could ignore.

By the time he got in on the driver’s side and actually started the engine, Schuldig was already slumped against the window in a dead faint; bloody and scrapped knuckles still managing to clutch the edges of Crawford’s coat while unconscious.

* * *

It was already the next morning by the time Omi finally worked through the pile of paperwork that his Grandfather had set out for him, in the early hours when no sane person would be left awake. His Grandfather had already left a long time ago, too old to stay up very late. He had left one of his bodyguards behind in a silent reminder that Omi wasn’t allowed to leave until he finished his work.

Nothing but reading through painful, gruesome reports that horror films couldn’t even come close to, studying each one and prioritizing them by who deserved to die the most. He was sure that his Grandfather wanted him to think in terms of profit or politics; how to curry back favor so that their organization could be the top group of ‘good’ assassins again. Omi just couldn’t think like that. When he read something about rape and/or senseless murder, Omi made the conscious decision that that person didn’t deserve to live any more.

Ken was going to hate him for this.

Aya would be allowed to live because of it.

Yohji . . . Yohji wasn’t much of anything right now. Omi couldn’t help but think that this was all somehow his fault. He was always the peacemaker of the house, and he had failed completely. There had been a few, friendly wrestling matches and the rare occasions when tempers would flare and they would shove at one another, but there hadn’t been any violence like the kind Aya had randomly inflicted on Yohji. As much as Omi respected the man, Aya was as predictable as a volcano, ready to explode on someone for reasons that only he could perceive. Yohji had been a victim more than once and was quite willing to be one again, if it meant that Aya would wake up. Nobody knew the reason why everything had gotten so messed up and the misunderstandings kept piling up on top of each other. Omi had never been this afraid to speak to Ken before, terrified just to see the man because he knew that he had been wrong. Ken had every right to yell and scream at him, but all Omi wanted was for someone to give him a hug. He could only hope that Ken was still awake and in a mood to talk things over instead of just getting pissed and stomping out of the room like usual.

He felt like he should have brought a gift along, a stranger visiting his dearest friend in the hospital. He had been avoiding seeing Aya, not just because of the ridiculous workload his Grandfather had dropped on his shoulders, but because he was afraid. Ashamed. So many emotions wanted to explode forth that Omi couldn’t even figure out which one was the strongest. He had been there with the paramedics when they found Aya . . . when they had to cut loose the wire holding down his arms, the barbs catching on large patches of skin that had already been torn loose from the bloody and red muscle . . . wet noises as they got the other restraints holding Aya down to the table off of him . . . when Aya had cried out despite being unconscious as they transferred him to a stretcher . . . how Ken had been screaming at Farfarello as the two of them fought like wild animals.

Omi nodded weakly at the woman on duty tonight in the lobby. She already recognized him as Persia, leaving her desk to hit the elevator button for him. He watched her mouth move as she excitedly spat words out at him, but he couldn’t hear a single bit of it. He was relieved when she let him ride the elevator up by himself, shuffling about and not quite sure what to do with his hands. Omi hadn’t felt this nervous in a long time, and there was no reason for it either. He was going to his friends and lover. There was nothing to be scared of. It was probably the only group of people where he’d be able to actually feel safe. Omi had already done more than his fair share of crying lately, but he had never wanted Ken there so much before. It was hard enough just to walk down the hospital hallways like nothing was wrong, waiting until he could finally catch up with Ken, Yohji, and Aya . . . break down and be himself, even if it was just to sob out all the frustration that was building up.

He knew which room Abyssinian and Balinese were in from reading that damned awful report, so all it took was glancing up at the door numbers every now and then to know that he was getting closer. Ken would be there too, not about to leave wounded teammates to fend for themselves in a Kritiker hospital. Even if Omi was Persia, he still couldn’t change the reputation the organization had developed over the years. It was a group of barely sane vigilantes dishing out their version of justice, but it was necessary. Some of the criminals they had eliminated had been the scum of the earth; men that didn’t think twice about murder, rape, or betrayal; and yet still managed to avoid any serious trouble with the police force. Kritiker had made the city safer to some degrees, no matter how it happened or what it took to be completed. Some people had to die because they had passed beyond the limits of human decency and become soulless monsters . . . and now Omi would be able to join their ranks as well. He’d get to decide when someone should die as Persia, chose who was beyond redemption and deserved his final punishment. Even bad, bad men that shot others in the head without a care had families to go home to.

Right now, Omi’s family wasn’t related to him by blood but their bonds were stronger than true relatives were. Ken would understand . . . somehow. Omi was doing this for Aya and Yohji, not for whatever reasons Ken had just assumed. If they could just talk, everything would be cleared up and go back to normal. Aya would recover, go back home with Yohji, and Omi would figure out some way to quit Kritiker and join them. He wouldn’t be able to live if he didn’t have their support, the sudden tang of loneliness hitting him hard. Omi couldn’t stop the nervous clenching of his stomach, wondering why he should be so frightened when he was only standing in front of Yohji and Aya’s closed hospital door, staring back at the polished wood like it had turned into a rabid animal.

He turned the knob slowly, easing the door open to a dark and quiet room. There was a soft glow coming from the machines gathered around one bed, Omi knowing instantly that the occupant was Aya even if he couldn’t actually see the man. His feet started moving toward him without even thinking, drawn in to survey the damage. He hadn’t been able to balance seeing Aya like this and having to work for his Grandfather at the same time. He had been avoiding this like a coward, but what else could he do? Ken was probably already back at home, sleeping alone and not thinking of him. Yohji would be in his own bed, which had thoughtfully been placed in the same room as Aya after Omi had ordered it to the paramedics in a vicious tone leftover from their recent mission. Even his Grandfather hadn’t thought to argue after seeing the determined glare in Omi’s eye. He may have finally joined them, but Omi wouldn’t allow his friends to be hurt. Not as teammates, not referring to them with their code names, but as his only true friends. His Grandfather wouldn’t understand that sort of sentiment.

Maybe it was because he was alone that it hurt so much to stand at Aya’s bedside, listening to the device that was forcing him to breathe, the soft beep of the heart monitor, the hum of electric machinery growing into an overwhelming buzz. Aya had been in the hospital too damn much lately. Omi would see to it that nothing more happened to the man that he respected and adored. Not when he was facedown in this bed, in a coma, lost to them. It was somehow even worse than when Aya had tried to commit suicide, and Omi didn’t know why.

Tears wouldn’t come. Omi was so drained from before that he just couldn’t muster together the energy or emotion he should be feeling right now. All he could do was stare at Aya; too afraid to touch him when Aya was already so badly hurt. He would probably only make it worse, just like everything else. Omi stood there as the depression and guilt tried to crush him flat, wanting Ken and hating himself for that neediness. It was why Ken had become fed up with him, with Omi’s crying and sudden bouts of emotion that the brunette just couldn’t understand. Ken didn’t get why Omi should worry or fret, didn’t see the reasons behind his moods. He’d been asking too much of Ken to simply cope with the fact that Aya was in a coma and Omi had gone back to Kritiker so he was too busy to visit. They hadn’t had a chance to really talk in ages. Omi didn’t care if it was just Ken yelling at him for everything that had gone wrong the past couple of weeks; he more than deserved it and wanted it out of the way. Somehow, he would make everything normal again, no matter what cost to himself.

Omi wiped at his dry and tired eyes, forcing himself to toughen up. He was acting like some little girl that had found out Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny didn’t exist, that there was no God and their parents were far from perfect. Omi had already been abandoned by his real family, and he wasn’t about to let the one he had made up with Yohji, Aya, and Ken go to hell like the other seemed to desire. Aya’s stubbornness and pride had kept him from working anything out with Yohji. Yohji’s own assumptions and jumping to conclusions like the ex-detective he was didn’t help either . . . and Ken just didn’t want to listen to Omi any more. He was obviously sick of the excuses and whiny, nasal tone that came into Omi’s voice when he was upset.

At least now he was somewhat accustomed to repressing his true feelings after having to stay in his Grandfather’s company all day long. Omi had his old smile back again, some muscles in his face not used to holding the expression any more. He had worn it all the time when he had to go on missions, when everyone else would call him Bombay instead of Omi . . . or even worse, Mamoru. That wasn’t who he really was, even if it was his real blood name. He wasn’t a Takatori. He wasn’t Persia. He wasn’t any one.

Omi forced his feet to turn around, determined to check up on Yohji as well. He didn’t care if he already felt close to just lying down on the floor and dying after seeing Aya’s bandage-covered form, lifeless, motionless. He would see everything through to the end. These were his friends, not unfamiliar agents that he would be sending off to their deaths for the sake of ‘justice.’ He wouldn’t keep a distance between them like his Grandfather wished. He was strong enough to handle Yohji’s injuries after already seeing Aya’s. Nothing would be able to compare to the extent of damage that Schwarz had managed to inflict on him- . . .

Except the sight that met Omi’s eyes was somehow more painful. Absolutely crippling to see Yohji peacefully asleep in his bed with Ken. Like they belonged pressed up against the other, each set of arms wrapped around another until Omi couldn’t tell whose was who’s. Ken was snoring softly, actually seeming content for once with no sign of the occasional night terrors that would hit him during times like these. Yohji was all but a second blanket on top of Ken; the one they had been sharing tangled up between them. Yohji had one leg tossed over Ken’s, the thin hospital robe parting in the back with loose strings holding the sides together . . . doing nothing to conceal the bare spine and ass as the older blonde murmured in his sleep and snuggled in close to Ken’s warmth. Omi couldn’t blame him; he knew firsthand just how nice and reassuring Ken’s thick muscle and steady breathing could be at night. He had been needing it so badly tonight that it never occurred to him Ken might have found someone else to give that affection to.

Something was stuck in Omi’s throat, keeping him from breathing; from even making a noise. His lungs hurt, his heart was imploding inside his chest. Ken was supposed to be at home waiting for him, for another argument or make-up sex; Omi wouldn’t have cared. He had only wanted Ken to be happy . . . and had foolishly made the mistake of thinking that he would be able to do it. Omi loved Ken. That was supposed to be more than enough.

So why were Yohji and Ken sleeping together, so perfectly nestled against each other? Omi could hardly stand the sight of it, rationality refusing to sink in. He didn’t care if they were friends, if he hadn’t been around lately, hadn’t even sent a text message over the cellphone to Ken because he had been so damn guilty about taking on Persia’s legacy. He didn’t have any other choice if he wanted Aya and Yohji to live, though Yohji seemed like he was recovering just fine now. Jealousy was a bitter and heavy emotion Omi wasn’t used to, a slight grin cemented on his face as he kept himself from reacting.

His Grandfather had been right after all.

He couldn’t afford friends any more.

It would hurt too much.

A hard daze settled over him, like a thick fog that pushed reality away. Omi wasn’t even aware of the fact that he was outside of the hospital until he felt the open air on his face and going through his hair, far away sensations as Omi began to walk home, forgetting the limo waiting for him, the bodyguards looking for him, the friends that were cheating on him . . .

Just walked.

* * *
Nagi knew this was the biggest mistake of his life. If Crawford found out about this, he wouldn’t have a prayer left. At least Schuldig was gone as well, and the telepath wouldn’t be able to read his thoughts. Nagi was sure that he wouldn’t be able to conceal his feelings any longer, just about fed up with them himself. He was supposed to be nothing more than an emotionless assassin, Crawford’s own personal assistant and would-be successor if he could just stop caring!

It didn’t make any sense for one person to effect him so! Why should Omi even matter to him, with those trusting blue eyes that forgave everything that had happened between them before?! The blonde trusted him, even if Nagi couldn’t understand why. He had tried to kill Bombay many times before, was obviously dangerous and tremendously powerful. He could crush Omi with just a thought and slight gesture with his hand, but the boy still shared his lunch with Nagi, smiled at him and asked how he was doing; not as an enemy but as a friend. Nagi had never had such an experience before, hadn’t met someone who wasn’t scared of him, wasn’t trying to use him. Omi was just being nice to him, because that was who he was.

Nagi, however, was definitely acting out of character. He shouldn’t be here; pacing along sidewalk in front of Weiss’ darkened flower shop. There were no lights on in the whole building, not even the upper floor where the bedrooms were. Nagi could easily guess that Abyssinian was either in the hospital or dead after being in Schuldig and Farfarello’s joint care for so long. It didn’t seem like Balinese had fared too well against Schuldig either, but Siberian had managed to actually kill Farfarello.

Nagi still was trying to make up his mind about the Irishman’s death. Farfarello had been nothing more than an unpredictable terror that lurked around the hallways, unless he chained up in the basement and screaming with madness. A part of him missed the sometime rational but simple part of Farfarello that would show through sometimes, a shadow of the man he had been before Esset doctors had permanently mangled him into Berserker. On vary rare occasions, Farfarello would use his body as a human shield to block a bullet that Nagi hadn’t seen, wasn’t prepared to mentally push the steaming lead away. It wasn’t like he ever felt the pain, but Nagi had felt so responsible and guilty for the blood that had stained Farfarello.

Another part of him was thankful that he would no longer have to listen to Farfarello’s screams at night, or his ranting insults toward God. No more victims howling out in death cries as they were tortured in the basement. He wouldn’t have to worry about being attacked at night simply because he had been foolish enough to step outside of his room to go the bathroom or get a drink of water. If he didn’t have his ability to mentally toss the insane Irishman aside, Nagi would have been mauled and accidentally slain years ago. There was no way he could physically go up against Farfarello, but he didn’t have to worry about that any more.

It was Schuldig and Crawford that could still hurt him. Oracle would no doubt be angry with him abandoning the house and going to Weiss’ home instead. He just couldn’t tolerate the silence of the empty mansion, not at all relieved by the fact that he was home alone. He hadn’t been able to stay still for more than a minute, worried to death for Omi’s well being. He was sure that Abyssinian was already past saving after being tortured by Schuldig and Farfarello for so long. Nagi had been there when the man’s terrible, pain-filled cries finally began to fade into nothing more than the heavy thud of something hitting human flesh.

Nagi could always hear it when Schuldig found a fresh victim . . . and when Farfarello got the leftovers. The bitter irony was that he couldn’t hear a damn thing when he actually wanted to; ear smashed to the floor of his bedroom as Nagi struggled to find any sign of Omi, that he would be all right. He was lucky that Schuldig was already rather entertained, otherwise the telepath would be able to pick up on his panicked worry. He had fought with Bombay before. The blonde hadn’t been a very strong opponent in his prime, and Weiss had only gotten soft since then. Schuldig would skin Omi’s baby-face right off, just because he was that kind of sick bastard.

Farfarello would be able to do much worse.

Nagi tried to stop his hitched breath, his thundering heartbeat, the shifting of his weight as he lay completely flat against the floorboards. He didn’t want Omi to die. He could only hope that Siberian would be even more aggressive when actually in battle, and just as protective as he had been over Omi when Nagi had first arrived. The taller, stockier brunette had been trying to intimidate him with glares and outright insults, like they were a bunch of grade school children. Not that Nagi would know what that was like anyway. It had been so hard to stay calm in front of the man when he was so intent on being a complete jerk to Nagi, like Siberian could smell his affection for Omi. That jealousy and distrust was the only thing Nagi could depend on. Well, and the blonde’s own meager ability to defend himself, but Nagi hadn’t been putting much faith in Weiss’s combat ability from the start. He had at least given them a sure escape route and a chance to surprise Schuldig. Hopefully Abyssinian would still be somewhat alive to distract Mastermind long enough for those three idiots to rescue him . . . or save his corpse from further desecration.

He had heard the two ‘nondescript’ getaway cars take off outside the mansion in a loud squeal of burning rubber and surging engines. In the dark of night, Nagi hadn’t been able to tell how many had gotten out of the house; if Omi was safe or not. He had stayed at his desk, staring out the window in silent, desperate anxiety, flinching at every creaking noise in and outside of the house. It was almost a relief to hear Crawford storming down the hallway, because at least then Nagi knew it was coming and would soon be over with.

Oracle had not been in the best of moods. His shirt had been wrinkled and untucked, his tie loose, glasses crocked, and his hair sticking out at strange angles. It was the most unkempt and uncivilized that Nagi had ever seen of Crawford, his stomach turning into solid ice the moment his door slammed open.

His orders had been made clear, and after a few slaps Nagi was left to nurse a split lip along with taking complete charge of the house. Schuldig and Farfarello would be gone as well, and Nagi didn’t dare ask why. Crawford had already made the arrangements to give the staff a paid holiday until further notice . . . Nagi was to clean up Mastermind’s office and watch over the mansion in the same manner, treated even worse than the servants and maids because Crawford would actually hit him. It was one of the few privileges of being a main member of Schwarz. Nobody would ever know how happy Nagi would be just treated like the rest of them, ignored as long as he did his job. As Prodigy, it didn’t matter how well the mission went or how fast Nagi had been able to hack into the target’s personal computer- he could have done better. He was being crushed out of existence underneath all the pressure, and nobody noticed either.

So, why should a small, tiny part of him tentatively believe that Omi would understand?

He shouldn’t even be here. Crawford might be coming home at any moment, and when he found Nagi gone without a trace, there would be no telling what kind of punishment would await him when he returned. Schuldig would be able to tell that he had betrayed them. He would know. The longer Nagi stayed here, the worse he made it for himself. Why the hell wasn’t anyone coming home? Nagi didn’t care who came back first, wishing that just one member of Weiss would come back to their headquarters! If it wasn’t Omi, Nagi could force his location out of the others. Not that he believed that all of them had managed to escape with their lives. All he cared about was Omi. He had actually been friendly, had smiled reassuringly at Nagi before turning around and defending him from his own teammate. Nagi had never had anyone show that kind of concern before, not even from Crawford; who was the closest thing he had to a father. He couldn’t remember anything else from before Schwarz, except what came to him in his nightmares . . . and Nagi didn’t particularly care to know any more. Omi had been the first person to show him honest compassion, and Nagi didn’t want to betray that trust.

He sighed painfully, tugging at his collar and finally deciding to unzip the hot jacket, shrugging out of the uniform in pure relief as the night air hit his skin. He had been waiting outside for what felt like hours, enough to work up a sweat in this heat, and because he was worried onto the point of being physically ill. He was beginning to suspect that Farfarello and Schuldig had ruthlessly slaughtered everyone in Weiss. Nagi just wished that Crawford would see fit to tell him something, just a little snippet of what had happened. Of course, he didn’t deserve the explanation before Crawford was storming out of the office; warning Nagi once not to bleed on the carpet before slamming the door. It would have been even worse if it was Schuldig.

He could have broken every single bone in their bodies with a thought, but Crawford had trained him to be completely terrorized at the idea of disobeying him. It was already bad enough that Nagi was walking around freely outside. If they knew it was to make sure that one of the enemies was all right . . . Nagi felt like he was going to be sick.

There was a faint shuffling noise, and Nagi glanced up to see Omi’s ghost floating down the driveway. The boy looked pale and transparent, sliding along the ground in an unnatural path, fingertips trailing against the side of the house as if to keep himself upright. His two-piece suit might have been cleaned and pressed at one point, but it was scuffled and dirty as if Omi had dug himself out of the grave, or fallen down on the sidewalk more than once on the way here. Nagi felt frozen to the spot, unable to speak as Omi almost ran into him before even noticing that someone else was there. There was no emotion on his face, none of that cheerfulness that Omi had always emanated, just the numbness of a dead man. The dull recognition in those usually bright eyes stole all reaction from Nagi even a sick little smile crawled into Omi’s mouth.

"Nagi-kun! What are you doing here? Did you come over to study?" Omi’s tone could have been taken as utter delight . . . if he didn’t sound so faked and pained about it. Not a single word about the fact that they were both assassins, that their teams had fought, that Nagi had betrayed both sides to some degree and didn’t even know where he stood any more. All he knew was that seeing Omi like this hurt worse than anything that Crawford and Schuldig had done to him. Nagi couldn’t say anything as the blonde moved past him, close enough to see the reddened streaks of old tears on Omi’s face.

"Listen, Omi, I- . . ." Nagi started, determined to clear things up between them.

"Why don’t you come inside? Did you bring me the homework I missed?" Omi asked in an achingly cheerful voice, that smile enough to make Nagi’s stomach twist around. Omi didn’t doubt him, wasn’t going to question him, just complete denial of the whole incident ever happening. Seeing Omi this upset and disturbed was almost worse than if he’d been physically injured. There were medications and treatment for any kind of wound, but nobody knew how to fix a broken heart . . . and that’s what Omi looked like right now. If it weren’t for forcing himself to act pleasant in front of company, the blonde would have melted down into a puddle of his own depression. Nagi could recognize the feeling, the complete and empty loneliness that would settle upon him just about every night. He had experienced it so many times that he just assumed there was nothing else, but Omi was different. He had been smiling, really happy with his life, no matter what the past was. Nagi should have hated him for it, but he just felt pity for Omi. That the slightly shorter blonde shouldn’t have to deal with this sort of agony.

Nagi tried to say something meaningful and just ended up choking on his own breath as Omi easily passed him seemingly without a care. His smile had been officially plastered into place, playing the happy idiot as the blonde reached into his coat pocket and tugged his keys out. Nagi stood there awkwardly, watching as the blonde struggled to find the right key in the dark, then trying to actually get it into the hole to turn the lock. He was having a miserable time of it, and seemed on the verge of tears before the door finally decided it had bullied Omi enough and opened inward. The blonde stumbled as if he were drunk; his mind obviously not focused on motor control right now. Nagi could only stare after him, the black hole of the door leering back at him.

"Are you going to come inside or what?" Omi teased in a fake voice that could put Schuldig to shame. It made Nagi feel guilty for even showing up and making Omi feel like he still had to play the ‘normal’ act, just like they were at school. He shuffled into the house hesitantly when he should have turned around and left, unable to simply leave things as they were. He doubted that he would ever get a chance to see Omi again, at school or the even more impossible accidental run-in on the street. This would be the only time he’d be able to apologize for everything that had happened . . .

Stepping into Weiss’s headquarters was so shocking Nagi lost his train of thought. Omi flicked on a light to expose a bright and cozy kitchen, with a dining table in the far corner and a refrigerator decorated in pictures and odd magnets. Nagi couldn’t help but be drawn to the snapshots of Omi, his eyes blurring out the brunette hanging off of Omi’s shoulders in every single one. This wasn’t a makeshift group of amateur assassins, but a collection of friends, people that felt true affection toward each other. One picture in particular made Nagi feel a solid pain in his stomach as he looked at it.

The photo didn’t even have Omi in it.

It was Balinese and Abyssinian, the taller blonde relaxing in a chair with sunglasses covering his eyes and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. What was shocking about it was the fearless, emotionless leader of Weiss with a somewhat human expression on his face. Nagi hadn’t realized just how purple Aya’s eyes had been until he saw them captured on a piece of film, turned slightly back at the older blonde and shining with pure and utter affection as he lounged in Yohji’s lap.

Nagi hadn’t ever thought of Abyssinian as one to be affectionate or the type to even touch other people, but the careless arm thrown behind Balinese’s neck proved him wrong. Weiss actually liked each other, called themselves by their first names, lived together like a real family despite everything they had done . . . and Nagi had ruined it all for Omi because he had been so damn scared of getting punished again.

"Jeez, Nagi-kun, how long have you been waiting out there?" Omi interrupted Nagi before he could even apologize, like the blonde was able to read his mind. He finally glanced down at himself, noticing the large sweat stains that had developed on his shirt, from his armpits, neck, and back. Nagi shifted his feet about, holding his jacket closer in a sudden fit of self-consciousness as Omi continued to stare at him. Was he supposed to say something right now? He was still trying to comprehend the warm and comfortable atmosphere of the house which was so much different than his own, feeling out of place and dirty while Omi sighed at dirty dishes in the sink and a flashing answering machine on the wall.

"I’m sorry, but it looks like I have a few things to take care of first. You want to take a shower while I clean up the place?" Omi offered, too damn kind for his own good. Nagi gestured down at his soiled uniform, starting to explain that it would make no sense to get clean and change back into his outfit before he was ruthlessly cut off yet again.

"Follow me, Nagi-kun. You can borrow some of my clothes, I’m sure we’re about the same size," Omi assured him, sweeping in front of him and measuring himself to Nagi with a hand in the air. Nagi frowned at the plastic expression on the blonde’s face, even though he had to agree that they were roughly the same height and weight. He wasn’t given the chance to argue with Omi before the blonde was heading up the stairs. He was beginning to forget why he had even come here in the first place, weak with confusion. Omi seemed to have the answer before Nagi realized that he was going to ask a question, hopelessly outclassed by the blonde’s social skills. He allowed himself to be shown to a clinically white bathroom, the stink of harsh cleaners still hanging in the air. Omi left him to stare quietly at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, asking himself just what the hell he was doing.

"Here you go. I’ll be downstairs for a moment, okay?" Omi announced like some kind of maid in his own house, laying a change of clothes on the counter. Then, he was gone just as quickly, almost fast enough to make Nagi believe this was all nothing but a figment of his imagination. Schuldig had made worse fantasies before, but Nagi was sure that the German hadn’t been able to get into his head, not yet. Omi should still be safe, unless he accidentally let a stray thought wander about. Nagi was in a very, very dangerous situation . . . and the only thing he could think about was that Omi had left the door open.

Nagi was too modest to even show his shoulders in public, made uncomfortable by the thought of other people looking at him. Esset had taught him very early that he should fear those gazes, shouldn’t do anything that would make him stand out, just stare down at his feet and hope that he wouldn’t be noticed. Crawford had always allowed him a bit of lenience if Nagi obeyed him. It was a simple arrangement, and Nagi could mess it all up because of the one person he had finally become to accept as his friend. Omi was sweet and honest . . . but he was still a former member of Weiss. There was always a chance that Nagi would be the one ultimately betrayed, blinded by a smile and small acts of common courtesy.

Besides, Crawford might even reward him if he brought back proof of Balinese’s death.

Nagi closed the door shut quietly, staring down at the floor as he struggled with himself. He had lived this long by following orders and not asking any questions, never showing any sort of free will that needed to be crushed like Schuldig. Why did he have to start feeling things now, when it was too late to change what he’d become? Nagi was bound to Schwarz and Esset for the rest of his life . . . no matter how much he genuinely liked Omi; the blonde was still Weiss. There was no such thing as a former enemy, and Crawford had made it clear that there was to be no mercy either. If Nagi really cared about Omi, he would be cutting off all connections immediately, not unbuttoning his shirt, undoing his belt and pants, and climbing into the bathtub stall gratefully.

Still, all he could think of was the chance to take a shower longer than five minutes before Crawford would complain that Nagi was wasting water. Nagi suspected that it was just because Crawford wanted to make sure that his life was absolutely and completely miserable. Omi didn’t know how much all these small gestures meant to him, how it was winning him over little by little whether Nagi liked it or not. Omi was truly honest and innocent, the type of person that Nagi believed in as much as he did ghosts or unicorns. How was he supposed to think like an assassin when Omi was smiling and doing his damnedest to seem oblivious? Nagi could tell that some of the cheerfulness was an act, just like tonight; but for the most part he could trust Omi, certain that the blonde wouldn’t try to use him or lie to him like everyone else.

Just the fact that Nagi had willingly gotten naked, had let his guard down so much was unheard of. He had been trained better than this, but something about Omi forced him to loose hold of the barriers he had built up for survival. Nagi knew that Omi was a killer, the same as him, had shot people down and pierced vital organs with those darts of his . . . and yet could still grin like a child that had just learned to read. Everything was good and blameless in Omi’s eyes, nothing past redemption. At least, Nagi could hope so, for himself.

He turned on warm water, waiting until he had the temperature right before switching the flow to the showerhead. Nagi used the least amount of shampoo and soap necessary, not wanting to overstep the boundaries of this questionable hospitality. At least he was able to get clean; sighing and spending a little more time than necessary underneath the flow just for sheer pleasure. Nagi didn’t get the chance to indulge in this sort of thing often, so he had to appreciate it while he could.

Nagi eventually forced himself to turn the shower off, opening up the stall door and reaching for the readily available towel. It was like a dream come true, not having to worry about a crazy Irishman or sadistic German bursting through the door just because they knew it could still scare him. Nagi took his time to dry himself off, using the soft and clean terrycloth to wipe off the excess water in his hair before hanging it up neatly on the rack to dry. It was another thing entirely to step into the clothes Omi had decided on letting him use, doing it quickly before he could have time to hesitate- and then froze upon seeing himself in the mirror.

A loose, white T-shirt with ‘Buck Wild’ written across it in black English letters.

A pair of gray, cotton shorts with an elastic waist that went down to the top of his knees.

A perfectly normal kid with wet hair and big, brown, scared eyes.

Nagi barely even recognized himself without his uniform, feeling clean inside and out thanks to Omi’s hospitality. Better yet, Crawford wasn’t around to yell at him. He was wearing clothes weren’t hand-me-downs that still stank of cologne no matter how many times Nagi tried to wash them. He might of well as gone on vacation to a foreign country to suddenly be allowed so many privileges. He should really thank Omi . . . and apologize like he had meant to do in the first place! Nagi had forgotten his reason for coming over in face of Omi’s unwavering naivete. He shouldn’t be playing around like he was the same as everyone else, not when Crawford might be coming home any minute and Nagi still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Omi about . . .anything.

Nagi repeated that thought again to himself, determined to get business out of the way first. It took a few steadying breaths and a futile attempt to straighten his hair before Nagi just forced himself to leave the privacy of the bathroom. He instinctively started heading down the hallway toward the stairs, intending to find Omi downstairs like the other boy had said he would be.

The soft noise of someone doing their best not to cry made Nagi freeze in the middle of the hallway. He could recognize the hitched breathing, the pitiful little noises he had made himself at times, wishing to somehow escape from his own life. Lately, he’d begun to stop caring all together, the numb acceptance of his fate making things easier to deal with . . . until Omi had decided to give him a few shreds of attention. Nagi ate it up like a stray dog finding fresh scraps, but it probably kindness the blonde probably showed to anyone, even complete strangers in the street. There was no reason why he should be special to Omi, unless it was because they had been former enemies, or if just to use him to retrieve Abyssinian. They weren’t in class, in public, no point to carry on in any more charades. Nagi was determined to find out the truth; if he should hold onto the meager hope that Omi might turn into the one person who actually cared about him.

Nagi headed toward the source of the crying, standing awkwardly and mutely in the doorway of a dark, unfamiliar bedroom. It was obviously the living space for two people with a mix of clothes and style thrown about the room. Simple black or white T-shirts had been tossed into a pile by the open closet while brightly patterned or even pink tops decorated the hardwood floor. There were forgotten shoes, covered in mud with metal spikes along the soles next to discarded magazines filled with pictures of celebrities that Nagi didn’t know. Everything in the room was strange to him, except for Omi, who was perched on the edge of the bed like he was going to fall down to the floor any minute, clutching a soccer ball to his chest with both arms.

Omi had to know that Nagi was in the room. He hadn’t been able to keep himself from making a choked gasp at the sight. Omi was still in the same dirty and rumpled suit as before, lank blonde hair hanging down around his face as he seemed to grow smaller by the minute. Nagi struggled to think of something to say, some sort of excuse that he could use for continuing to stare at Omi. He shouldn’t be watching this display of emotion, had been taught that that sort of unnecessary and weak inclination should be kept to oneself. Nagi shouldn’t be going closer to the trembling figure, knuckles gone white around the used and worn soccer ball. It might as well of been made of solid gold for how Omi was holding it. His pathetically weak attempt to muffle his tears made Nagi feel even worse then if Omi had been outright wailing on the ground.

He hated himself for putting a hand on Omi’s shoulder, wishing that he had the strength to just run away, back to Crawford, admit everything, and hope that he wouldn’t be punished as badly for it. Why did he have to be so hopelessly drawn to Omi? Why should he even care if Omi was smiling or not? If it weren’t for that small, insignificant part of him that just wanted someone to show him affection of any kind, he would have left long ago. Nagi shouldn’t take so much pleasure out of it when Omi leaned his head into Nagi’s waist, another hand reaching up and pulling him closer.

"I’m so sorry, Nagi. Just . . . don’t move for a minute," Omi whispered painfully, holding onto Nagi like he was the last person on earth. The blonde needed someone to be there right now, much more accustomed to being held and consoled than Nagi had ever been. Other people were dangerous, strangers would hurt him, and Omi had once been his enemy. Even so, Nagi couldn’t have moved away even if he wanted to, struck dumb by the sudden closeness of another person, and the fact that Omi had called him by name, without that polite ‘kun’ stuck on the end.

Quite awkwardly, Nagi put his hand on top of Omi’s head, the blonde hair as soft and fine as he had imagined it would be, threading his fingers through it in a clumsy attempt to comfort the other boy. Omi nuzzled into the touch, both of them holding onto each other for as long as they needed to.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Thanks to Iie Nome, who stuck through it all since page one.

Thanks to Cgaysherman for offering to help with beta-ing.
Thanks to the people who ACTUALLY took the time to review.
Reasons why I wrote this chapter and Reviewers that everyone should aspire to be like:

Amethyst- I guess it is confusing, even if you have watched gluhen, but farfie’s not quite dead- or alive.

Beysie – Mysteriously enough, I don’t like character death- so I hope that can convince you it’ll all be good.

Bisexual Pygmie – even though you didn’t have to, you still reviewed every chapter you needed to get caught up on. I really thank you for spending that effort!

Delphinium- not only did you review, you hunted me down beforehand. Thank you for the caring support!

dimonyo-anghel- thanks for the support

Ko-chan- thank you for the compliment my dear!

Eleke – wow, what an awesome paragraph choked full of love. Thank you so much for that!

Evilkat- I love you. You ALWAYS review. ALWAYS! If not first, damn close to it.

Halcyon- I couldn’t come through on the loving part, but it IS leading up to Gluhen. Thank you for staying through it all!

Flamingolo- once again, thank you for reviewing and using the best language to describe it as well!

Lady Gackt- holy shit balls, the Lady herself has come by to comment on my work once again! SQUEAL! Thank you for mentioning your reactions and thoughts, that sort of review really makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.

lady_kail- thanks for the multiple reviews for multiple chapters, as you can see, it helped me write more.

MikaSamu – Thank you for the kind words, I hope I can continue satisfying you.

moimoi-chan- I like an evil Schu too, despite his mad sexiness.

RedQueen- I swear, there IS going to be a happy ending, just stick with me!

Sirsinna- I’m glad I could show you there’s some fan fiction that’s worth the time it takes to read.

weisslover27 – Thank you for the support, I appreciate it!
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