Sometimes the young, blonde assassin didn’t really believe it had happened, that Aya had truly accepted him. Accepted his *love*. It had been completely unexpected, and he had prepared himself many times, before revealing his feelings to the tall red head, for the rejection that he would receive. *Had* received, in fact, during those days after his confession. When he had believed Aya to have scorned him, refused him. Denied him. Broken his young, already pained heart. But that’s *not* what had happened; in the end, Aya *had* wanted him in return. And for those first few days, Omi had been walking on a cloud, virtually floating, his already bright smile made ever so brighter. He lived with the stars, in a dream world, with the knowledge that his secret love returned the affection. Since that time, it had been almost two weeks. Life was good: Aya had not changed much, but it was enough. With *Omi*, that is, it was enough. The assassin with fiery hair was slightly more open – quite a feat for that particular youth to accomplish – and even spoke sometimes, at length, about his past, or something deep. Anything. And Omi would sit with his large, bright eyes trained on his love, and revel in the fact that Aya was really *there*, talking to him, trying to share some of his heart. And, even as Omi’s mind sometimes insisted it must be a dream, his heart knew it wasn’t. Aya was with him; he was with Aya. There were there. Together. But there was just one problem. They weren’t happy. Neither of the boys had foreseen this. About five weeks ago, everything had been normal, they had been like any other boys that ran a flower shop by day and assassinated and night. Neither of the boys had known the affection they harbored. And now, suddenly, their world’s were turned upside-down. Omi had thought it was for the better; he had thought that no suffering could possibly be worse than living without Aya, living if Aya left. But he was no longer sure. / Was I so naïve? / They struggled with the physical aspect of their relationship. Omi, as he stood upon the balcony, where a few weeks ago had wrestled with the thought of loving and then losing Aya, turned his eyes skyward, not really seeing the celestial beauty. He sometimes wondered who struggled more. / I mean, he’s a guy! / he thought, as he had thought to himself once before, in this similar position. / And I’m a guy. It’s not technically supposed to work that way. And yet, it *is*, because I do love him. But. . .but I wasn’t prepared! / And the young boy knew in his heart that Aya was about as prepared as he was. They didn’t really *do* anything, because they both simply couldn’t accept it. Not yet. Omi, always optimistic, expected it would just take time. But somehow, those past two weeks has stretched on for what felt like an eternity. / In stories I read, / Omi thought, with a sigh, as a shooting, fiery star went almost completely unnoticed but for a passing, dreary glance, / things like this always work out. No matter what. Whether a man loves a woman or vice versa, or a man loves a man, they easily accept it. They can so easily accept each other, in all aspects, mental and physical. And they live happily ever after. / / But that’s not what’s happening here. It’s not so easy for us…! I want it to be, more than anything, but I still can’t even be with him like *that*. Not yet. And if *I* can’t, it’s sure as hell that *he* has a harder time with it than me! / Staring at the night sky, he tried as hard as possible to find a good aspect to the situation, something optimistic. But, try as he might, there was nothing to be found. Thinking about it all made his eyes burn. “God,” he whispered. “This can’t be right! Doushite!?” He asked, looking at the sky, addressing no one in particular save his lonely heart. “Doushite?” His voice fell to a whisper. No one saw fit to answer but the wind, as it swirled itself up and tugged gently as his bangs. He lifted his hanging head when he heard footsteps approaching. The door behind him was ajar. He didn’t see fit to turn and see who it was, so he just waited, until he heard the door open further with a soft rustle. “Omi.” He turned, forcing a smile onto his face. It wasn’t necessarily *hard* to do so when facing Aya, because he’d smile for the other youth any time, but it was made more difficult in the face of his depression. “Aya-kun,” he greeted him. Aya’s eyes, deep plum, flicked over his features. They softened slightly. “Daijoubu ka?” he asked, coming to stand next to him at the railing, still facing the younger boy. Omi blinked. “Nani?” he asked. “I’m fine.” Aya only gazed at him for a time in silence. The wind tugged at his ear tails, and Omi shifted uncomfortably, although did not break the gaze. Aya shook his head slightly. “No, you’re not.” Raising one pale hand, he gently stroked Omi’s cheek, surprising the young boy. But he cherished the feel of the slender fingers. “I can see it in your eyes.” He bit his lip, then turned away, dropping his eyes back to peer over the railing interestedly. He sighed. “Hai,” he whispered. “I’m not all right.” He cast a sideways glance at Aya, but he received only a silent view of the slender redhead’s profile. He looked dejectedly back at the night. “We’re not all right.” Silence, for a long time. The crickets played their song softly, but to Omi’s ears the sound was jarring as he waited. Then, in a quiet voice, Aya said: “Why?” Omi looked briefly at him, his brows contracting. / Why? / “Aya-kun…” He trailed off, thinking and struggling with the words. Finally, he just said, frowning slightly: “What do you mean?” “Why is it like this?” The younger boy shifted uncomfortably. “How should I know?” he muttered. “It’s certainly not how I thought it would be.” Aya flicked a brief look at him. “What did you expect?” Omi squirmed. “Aya, I expected. . .well. . .I don’t really know, I guess,” he admitted. “But I expected to be *happy*.” “And you’re not.” It was a statement, not a question. He shook his head, silently. “Are you?” he returned, his voice a whisper. “I’m never happy.” Omi looked at him, his eyes widening in hurt surprise “That can’t be true, Aya,” he said, “I *know* it’s not! Even forgetting the past, when I know you *must* have had happy moments, you can’t tell me that you weren’t happy at all, in the past few weeks, with me.” He bit his lip. “Can you?” He expected Aya to turn and reassure him quickly, such conviction did he have. He waited for his love to embrace him gently, to tell him he *had* been happy with the younger boy, tell him he was only depressed. But the slender assassin never did any of those things, to Omi’s dismay. He didn’t even respond. Omi looked at his profile – perfect in it’s fineness, beautiful to the point of pain – and searched for emotion. Anything. But there was nothing; not a crack in the pale, cold mask to let the whisper of feeling through, not the echo of any emotion. “Aya-kun,” he said softly, feeling a lump rise in his throat. Aya ignored him a moment longer, and appeared to be struggling with himself, steeling himself. This was betrayed only by the flicker of an eyelash, brief and nearly unnoticeable. Slowly, he turned, and fixed his violet eyes upon Omi. “It’s over.” Silence; utter and complete. The night was silent, the physical, outside world was quiet. Calm. But within, Omi reeled. His world, with fine cracks where it had been newly pasted together, shattered in a single moment, falling down around his head. The shards scored his vision with dizzying colors, black and blue as bruises, and sheared across his heart. In his mind’s eye, he fell to his knees, surrounded suddenly by a darkness, as the proffered lantern was wrenched away, doused with rain, and he was alone. So alone as his world broke apart, bleeding and forgotten, unwanted. He opened his mouth, his eyes fixed upon the taller assassin, hardly seeing, but couldn’t speak. He didn’t register anything around him, not the night or it’s velvet beauty. He only saw a pale face, a face that had once promised happiness, that now entailed pain, and violet eyes, as hard and unresponsive as amethyst. The orbs seared his soul, burned and scorned his heart. Within, in the deepest recesses of those seemingly-endless eyes, dark emotions swirled, threads of feeling that were so thin they nearly disappeared within the blend of non-emotion. Omi thought he glimpsed them, briefly, but was not sure. His shattered vision could very well be playing tricks on him. His hope could be forming the illusion. “No,” he finally whispered, choked. It was all he could manage. It was nothing and everything, expressing his disbelief, pleading, desperation, and fear. He mumbled it again. “No…” Then Aya turned. For a moment, it felt as if the world stopped, all motion but theirs ceased. He watched the scene with a peculiar feeling of detachment, like he was an outsider looking in. The slender red head deliberately, slowly, turned away, presenting his profile to the stricken blonde boy. Without saying a word, without allowing a whisper to escape his lips or a flicker of emotion cross his face, he began to walk away, with measured, purposeful strides. His plum colored eyes were fixed only ahead, intent on the door that would take him inside. Take him away. No move was made to stop him. A slender, young hand raised halfway, in a gesture of pleading, perhaps, for the older youth to wait. Or perhaps it was an unconscious effort to protect himself from the pain that was ravaging his heart and soul from the inside. The young, blonde boy stood still, remaining motionless where he had been standing on the balcony long after the older one left. His face was a mixture of incomprehension and suffering. His eyes swarmed with emotions, and the color of the pupils shifted with every emotion change, darkening, lightening, ever so slight, but speaking volumes. He was in shock. / Aya. . .leaving. . .over. . .ended. . .pain. . .oh, God, so much pain. . ./ With a snap the reality settled into place, painful with it’s precision and certainty. Shock gave way to the flood of pain, allowing the emotion to finally stab deep into his heart. His pupils dilated. He fell to his knees, as a low whimper escaped his throat, wrenching in it’s pure agony. Inside, he was screaming. / Aya. . .no, don’t leave me here. . .don’t leave me alone. . .I’ve been alone too long. . .I hate that place, I can’t face the loneliness. . .come back. . .please. . .I’m on my knees. . ./ His eyes bled tears in the loneliness of the night. ************** Cold tendrils of air accosted his ankles, creeping around his bare feet and towards his shins. He registered this briefly, with little interest, and dismissed it. The cold didn’t reach him. His back was pressed against the rough, gray slab of wall that formed one side of the small balcony. He faced the length of the patio with a gaze that did not see. To his left, had he been interested, was the landscape of the living night, seen from his level through the slats of the railing. But his thoughts were elsewhere. His eyes burned with the cool breath of wind when it chose to stir up and caress him. They were rimmed in red, but he had ceased crying. The voice in his head, that had been screaming some hours ago, had weakened to a hoarse desperate whisper, pleading and mournful. / Just like that. . .alone. . .God, I don’t want this, to face it, to accept it. Alone, always alone. . .I thought for sure it would never be like that again. / He bit his lip, his eyes fixing on nothing. / Life, love, was ripped away from me when I was little. Then. . .I was so close, with Ouka, yet she. . .and now Aya. . .I can’t stand it! / “Aya,” he whispered to the night, “Doushite? Why are you doing this? If only you knew how it hurt. . .knew how close I am breaking…!” / Maybe he does. / A sinuous voice that he could not believe to be any part of him, betrayed his words in his thoughts. / Maybe he knows, and just doesn’t care. / “No.” He shook his head feebly, his voice anguished. “No, he wouldn’t do that. I know he wouldn’t!” The voice did not see fit to answer. It turned and fled back to the dark recesses of his mind. Shuffling footsteps suddenly reached his ears. He dragged himself out of his painful depression to glance up. The footsteps, approaching and then stopping at the door, paused. The sliding door was carefully pulled open. A head poked out. Brown eyes were immediately drawn to him. They widened in surprise from behind chocolate bangs. “Omi!” the youth exclaimed, blinking down at him. “I’m here, Ken-kun,” he said softly. “We’ve been looking for you,” he said, stepping fully out onto the balcony. “Gomen,” the boy replied. Ken, his eyes fixed on the boy leaning against thew all, studied him critically. He opened his mouth. “Ken!” Yohji’s voice cut through the darkness, floating sharply through the still-open door. Ken turned, holding back whatever words he had been going to speak for the moment. “I found him!” he called back. Omi heard Yohji’s feet approaching the door this time. A blonde head presented itself. “Oi! We’ve been lookin’ all over for you!” he declared in annoyance. “Did you try asking Aya?” he whispered quietly, bitterly. Yohji blinked, and Ken frowned. “What’s wrong, Omi?” Ken asked, his eyebrows knitting in concern. “Everything,” the boy whispered. They looked questioning. He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, “forget it.” Ken shook his head negatively. “No way.” Omi didn’t protest, didn’t even glance at him. Ken and Yohji exchanged glances. The latter didn’t look quite so annoyed in the face of Omi’s strange actions. Ken knelt down in front of him. “Now what is it?” Omi took a long breath. “I suppose you’d know someday. And I doubt *he* cares anymore…” / Because he’s made it his place not to care. / “For the past month or so, me and Aya. . .we’ve been…” he struggled with the words, shifting uncomfortably. He didn’t know quite how to put it. So he gave up with a sigh. “I love him.” Two pairs of eyes blinked in complete surprise and incomprehension. / So they didn’t know. / “Nani?” Yohji suddenly exclaimed. Ken shot a glare at him. Omi shrugged. “Yeah, well. . .I told him. And he. . .he accepted me. But now. . .tonight, he told me it’s over.” His voice was dejected, soft. Ken was silent for a long time, as was Yohji. The blonde, lanky assassin was the first to break the silence. “Ah. . .listen, this probably isn’t my place to interfere,” he finally said, looking uncomfortable. / He doesn’t even like the thought of it, / Omi thought, wistful and sad. / But that’s okay. Yohji’s entitled to his opinions. And he wouldn’t ridicule me for it. . / “Besides, Ken’s better at handling problems, so. . .good luck, I guess.” Turning and muttering softly to himself, he closed the door. Ken, moving in silence, went to sit next to the younger boy, leaning against the wall next to him and running a hand absently through his hair. “I knew he was acting strange,” he commented quietly. “Aya?” Omi asked softly. Ken nodded affirmation. “Yeah. When he came in from outside here a while ago, he didn’t say a word. Just stalked to his room.” Omi sighed. “How long have I been out here?” he whispered. Ken shrugged. “About three hours.” “Gomen,” he whispered. Ken shot him a surprised glance. “For what?” “For making you come and look for me.” Ken shook his head. “It’s hardly the time to be concerned about that, Omi,” he told the boy. He received a half-hearted shrug in response. “I guess that’s true.” Ken sighed this time, partly in frustration. “So. . .what happened?” he finally asked. “Why?” “Why?” Omi repeated. “I don’t know. I mean. . .we weren’t exactly happy. But it was enough for me that he was *there*, and I knew that I wasn’t alone. And I’m not sure why we weren’t happy; we didn’t *do* anything,” he admitted. “But he opened up to me, let me see deeper into him. And yet…” he shook his head. “I just don’t know.” “Are you sure you loved him? I mean,” he amended, his voice gentle, “love him?” Omi nodded. “Yes. I *am* sure.” He turned a mournful, tear-rimmed gaze to Ken. “So why didn’t it work?” he whispered. “With love, you’re *always* supposed to be happy.” Ken shifted uncomfortably under the deep gaze. “Well. . .I don’t like saying this, but maybe he doesn’t love you back,” Ken said quietly. “So one-sided love isn’t necessarily happy…” he trailed off. “But. . .but for a while there, even if he didn’t love me, he felt something. I *know* he did. So why does it have to end up like this?” “Are you going to give up so easily?” Ken asked. Omi looked at him, the ghost of a bitter smile playing across his lips. “I can’t force him into anything, Ken-kun,” he whispered. “And I wouldn’t want to. Not Aya. And. . .and he made it clear tonight that it’s over. He tried, and we failed. There’s nothing more to it.” Ken was silent. He could apparently find no argument for that. Omi continued quietly. “And I accept that. But that doesn’t make it any less *painful*. I’m so lonely, Ken-kun,” he whispered. “I’ve come so close to having someone. . .and it’s been ripped away. This isn’t the first time. It hurts so *much*. . .I never believed emotions could be so painful. “You don’t know what it’s like to be this alone. . .I know you’ve faced a lot of loss too, but. . .your father didn’t abandon you. . .your sister didn’t die. . .you weren’t turned away, after your hopes had risen and you were on the brink of happiness. I…. I can’t *bear* it.” A note of hysteria had crept into his voice. “There’s nothing but the pain, Ken-kun…” Ken turned, on cue, and Omi fell against him, sobbing into his shoulder as the tears ran anew, broken, liquid crystals. Talking was supposed to help someone who was hurting, he had always been told. But to Omi, speaking of the gaping emptiness only emphasized it, made it more real. Made it hurt so much more. He pushed away after a few minutes, wiping his eyes hurriedly. He hated crying. It made others think you were weak. . ./ And I’m not weak, / he insisted stubbornly. / Just so close to being broken. / The knowledge did *not* comfort him. “Gomen nasai, Ken-kun,” he whispered, flushing. Ken hadn’t said anything when Omi started to cry, but just held him gently. Now, he shook his head slightly. “It’s okay, Omi. Are you going to be all right?” There was a pause of hesitation before he asked that. Omi nodded immediately. “Hai, hai,” he said. “I’ll get over it.” Before Omi could turn away, to get up and leave the balcony, Ken caught his eyes, locking with Omi in an intent gaze. / Perhaps he doesn’t believe me. . .hell, I don’t believe myself. But I *don’t* want them worrying over me. / He finally tore his eyes away from the concerned, penetrating brown eyes and dragged himself to a stand. Ken followed suit, more slowly. “Arigatou, Ken-kun, for listening. . .I know it was awkward, but…” “Don’t worry about it.” Omi, nodding briefly, and even gave him a small, if sad, smile, before opening the door. It slid with a soft noise, barely penetrating the night. “And if you ever need to talk some more…” he trailed off Omi nodded his thanks. Then, without another word, he left Ken standing just beyond the door to the balcony, moved with actions silent through the dark interior, and found solace in the darkness of his room. ************** The night after it happened, Omi almost went to Aya. He didn’t know what he would’ve said, but something to somehow convince the older assassin to reconsider. He had stood just outside the door, poised on the balls of his feet, his heart pounding like a painful drum. His hand was raised to knock on the wood. It never moved. / I can’t! / he thought in anguish. / It is not my place. This is just setting me up for more sorrow. . .I was foolish to think it would work out anyway. / / Aya, Aya, if only you could hear me…! If only you knew. . ./ He shook his head suddenly, firmly. / No, it’s best he *can’t* hear these thoughts. . .I am not weak. . .I don’t want pity, not from anyone, especially not from Aya-kun. I am not weak. / His hand fell to his side, limp, and a sigh escaped his lips. Turning his back to the implacable door, he left the hallway in silence. ************** Omi had told them; Aya knew. It was obvious from the sidelong glances Yohji would cast him, and the furtive, thoughtful ones he would receive from Ken. / Yohji doesn’t approve. I would know without asking. Our relationship is not something he would condone. He would accept it, yes, because we are his teammates. Perhaps even friends. But he would not welcome it. / / And Ken. . .he would probably side with Omi. Omi must have told him the details. . .the boy *would*, and Ken would coax him to. He probably sees me as a cruel person now, if he didn’t already. Fine. / / Perhaps he would feel different, if he knew my thoughts. Perhaps not. But it doesn’t matter; the opinions of others don’t affect me. / / What about Omi’s? / Asked a voice in his head, suggestive and prying. / No. / He thought sharply. / It doesn’t matter. / The voice fled, banished by his icy response. He was in his room, spread out on his back on the bed and staring at the ceiling, his arms folded behind his head. He traced the tiny cracks in the plaster above him with plum eyes, disinterested. / Gomen, Omi, for whatever it’s worth, / he thought to the boy. Thinking words he would never say. / But I can’t do that. I have an obligation, to my sister. And. . .and I can’t accept it. I can accept you. . .but not myself. Not together. / / Is there a way you could understand that? I didn’t want to hurt you. . .but I have to keep my distance. I have to. / / So it’s not a matter of choice on my part. You’ll survive without me. . .I’m close to dead within anyway. / A sound pulled him out of his reverie. He was startled by the soft noise. His eyes flicked to the door. It had been a quite, hesitant tap. “Aya-kun?” a small voice asked. Aya returned to his scrutiny of the building. “Nani, Omi?” His voice was completely unemotional. “Um. . .If you have time later, there was an assignment I got back from school today. None of the others will read it. Please?” He frowned at the door. He couldn’t read the boy’s tone. . .it was different, but in a way he could not place. He tossed his head irritably, dismissing his thoughts, and rolled his head back. “Go away.” Silence. His eyes flickered sideways again in spite of himself. “Hai.” The response was soft, resigned, nearly a whisper. But he heard it. He did not respond, however. Letting the boy disappear, thinking brooding thoughts, he let the time slip away. It was an hour later that he finally levered himself off of his bed. He glanced out the window with unemotional eyes. Night had fallen about half an hour ago. Standing up, the slender assassin slipped out his door and strode the kitchen, intent to get food. Yohji and Ken were both in there. Omi was nowhere to be seen. / Good, / a voice snarled in his head. Ken greeted him absently. His eyes were trained on the television. There was a soccer game on, Aya noted without much interest. Yohji was leafing through a magazine of some sort, with one eye on the game. There was some take out food still left on the counter, so Aya settled for that. The night wore on, and he remained with the other two assassins for a time. “Oi, Yohji,” Ken had asked, while they were sitting around during a commercial. “Didn’t you have a date tonight?” Yohji had shrugged. “Hai, hai, but I’m tired.” He yawned as if to prove his point. “Won’t she be angry?” Ken had returned doubtfully. Yohji had only grinned. “I’ll make it up to her.” “Baka,” was the soft mutter. Aya watched the exchange in silence. Somehow, it made him think of Omi. / He’s the first one I’ve opened up to, since. . .since Aya-chan. He’s the first one to know me, who has cared to know me, wanted to learn more about me. Share my pain. My past. / His eyes hardened. His thoughts hardened. / But it doesn’t matter. . .I’ve made my decision. I have to keep my distance. . .I *want* to. / He was suddenly irritated by the television, annoyed by the two assassins sprawled out on the couch. He rose rather abruptly, causing two surprised glances. “What’s wrong, Aya?” Ken asked. He shook his head. “Nothing. Good night.” Ken had frowned, but shrugged, saying, “all right then, ‘night.” Yohji had muttered a response. Aya walked down the hallway, not caring to turn on any lights. He knew the place well enough. Besides, he was more comfortable in darkness. Upon reaching his room, he opened the door and slipped in. His eyes were immediately drawn across the room towards the small desk. The small lamp on top of the table was on. He had not left it on. / Did I? / He was no longer sure. Glancing around reflexively, to make sure the chamber was empty, he approached the desk with a feeling of wariness. Laying on top of it, the single object upon the smooth, wooden surface, was a folded piece of paper. He looked at it curiously. There was nothing written on the front. He picked it up with slender, pale fingers. It seemed unnaturally delicate, fragile. He opened it. In the top right hand corner it read: // Tsukiyono Omi Miuna-sensai Firth period // Beneath it, circled, and red pen, was the word ‘Excellent! A+’. The assignment. It must be the assignment Omi had brought up earlier. Glancing at it briefly, he saw it was a poem. Frowning, he began to read it. One Last Tear Cold and frigid, lovely ice, what pain those eyes entail; Beauty, pain, combined in thine, a shiver rocks my body frail. I’m fragile, close to breaking, this I must admit; But I am strong and I will face these feelings that persist. Could you ever understand, could soft words reach your soul? I’ll never find the time to ask, I’ll stay in your shadow. It’s not my place to love you, I’ve learned that through my pain. But it’s not my place to ask you why, or tell you to explain. Perhaps you’ll miss me when I’m gone, perhaps you’ll hardly care; But take this final sentiment, know the love I bear. I don’t want it to end this way, but I can no longer find hope in this shattered world that was once all that I lived for. How desperate I have come to be is now only clear; Gomen, but I cannot live with this pain so near. I couldn’t make you love me and it’s not my place to try; Twice upon a starless night, twice I bid goodbye. And at the bottom, added in pencil, was a single word: “Sayounara.” It echoed in his head like a strange premonition. There was a sense of finality heavy within the word, contained in the letters, conveyed by the young hand that had held the pencil. / Sayounara. / He stumbled back, the paper fluttering harmlessly to the desk. / He couldn’t have. . ./ His mind raced. Turning, he was suddenly at the door, moving through it. He ran down the hallway, towards Omi’s room. He had to pass through the kitchen, where the other two members of Weiss sat. “Oi, Aya, what’s wrong?” Ken asked, startled by his rushed appearance. The red head ignored him, flying down the hall. One thought echoed in his mind. / Omi. . ./ He reached the boy’s room. He burst through the door, his furtive gaze darting around the room. Empty, completely and utterly. Like it would never be used again. He returned to the hall. His eyes landed on a closed door. The bathroom door. He stumbled to it. His hand closed over the knob. It was locked. His eyes sought the floor. There was a pale ribbon of light streaming from beneath the door. Beckoning, mocking. “Omi!” No response. Silence greeted him, painful. His hand closed around the knob once more. He jerked at it, harder this time. It was unresponsive. He slammed his body against the door. / I’ve always had power. . .been in control. . .but my katana can’t help me now. . .no one can help me…. can’t help him…! He’s a child, he asked for help... just a word. . .and I…/ For the first time since that first, awful night in the hospital, Fujimiya Aya wept.
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