/ This isn’t right. It’s not right. It’s not right. /
The words were a terror inside his head, a constant like the painful throb of a drum,
repeating over and over in an endless madness. The refrain was something he couldn’t
escape, could not catch, for it would dance away from his grasp like water through
fingers, remaining just out of reach, always in range.
His head was pounding. His heart was pounding.
/ Why? / he cried, his mind-voice anguished. / Why does it have to be this way? Why
must I be here? /
He lifted eyes the color of plum, amethysts that swirled with a darkness suppressed, a
sorrow unvoiced. White walls, white floor, painfully, stricken white. Sterile. Pure with
the grace of hope imbued falsely.
It was a reminder of what he had already lost, a tantalizing crypt for what he feared. The
images flashed through his mind, of the fateful day so many years ago that changed his
life, changed his heart, changed his identity.
He didn’t want to remember; he never wanted to remember. But now, it was all too real,
far too painful. The present events struck so close to home that he feared and anticipated
what the doctors would tell him.
/// We fear she’ll never wake up. ///
/ We fear he’ll never wake up. /
/// I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do... ///
/ I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do... /
Aya. Omi. Aya. Omi.
/ I failed them both. /
Slowly, Aya let his head sink into his hands, feeling his bangs brush against fingers that
trembled.
"Failed," he whispered, barely audible to even his own ears. He let his eyes slide slowly
shut, locking out the painful white. They burned. He embraced the pain.
/ The ones I care about most are the ones I cannot protect... the ones that I fail. That I
always fail. / A feeling of despair he had once learned to turn away was creeping over
him, suffocating. He didn’t want to be here.
He felt their eyes on him. Ken and Yohji were nearby. The soccer player was pacing
nervously back and forth on the white linoleum of the hallway, his steps alone conveying
irritation and impatience, both of which overshadowed by a heavy pall of sorrow. He
would be casting brown glances, heavy-laden with anxiety, at Aya.
And Yohji. He was leaning against the wall, across from where the red head was seated
on the small, wooden bench. He was leaning casually, but it was a false façade. He did
not maintain pretenses, not now. He may not have been outwardly expressing his
concern, not like Ken, who couldn’t keep still, but it was still quite obvious. He ignored
the nurses. His shades were no where to be seen. His hair was disheveled. His only
thoughts were of his fallen comrade.
Aya let his thoughts drift away from the other two. He listened to the steady rhythm of
Ken’s footsteps.
/ One thing steady in a world that’s not. /
Step. Step. Step. Thud. Thud. Thud. The footsteps, his heart, the headache throbbing in
his temples. It all beat in time to the same, cruel rhythm.
And all they could do was wait.
Aya’s head sunk lower into his hands and he opened his eyes. They fixed dully on the
floor. He remained still, no longer caring, as a single hot tear ran down his cheek.
***
/ Another presence... who is it? /
// The bane of your joys. //
/ I don’t understand... where am I? /
// Listen with your eyes. //
/ What’s this feeling? /
// What you must escape. What you must destroy. //
/ Why... why am I lost? /
// The life you left has no care to find you. //
/ What can I do? /
// Forget. Banish. Hide. Bleed. Kill. //
***
He couldn’t look at the still form. He couldn’t look at the pale skin, the limp locks of
hair, the lips that didn’t smile. The eyes that hadn’t opened.
It was nearing ten hours since it happened. Aya had not eaten and not slept. His thoughts
had never strayed from the shattered figure in front of him.
At first, when they rushed him in, the doctors had forced him and the other two assassins
to remain outside. There was too much that needed done for the distraction the assassins
would provide inside. And as much as Aya hated it, he had understood and waited.
/ Too much to be done... To much to salvage... or too little...?/
Six hours later, one white-coated figure had emerged from the door. Aya, Ken, and Yohji
had all gone rigid when the weary doctor appeared. Three pairs of eyes fixed heavily on
him.
"We did everything we could."
Pause. Breathing stopped, hearts pounded. Breathless silence.
"...And, fortunately, we believe he will be okay. We must monitor him closely, of
course..." and the prognosis had gone on.
Aya had nearly forgotten how to breathe when they released this information. Almost
before the doctor had finished speaking, he had asked – demanded, pleaded – to be
allowed into the room.
The doctor had studied him critically for a moment, then nodded, seeing that the red head
would not be deterred. Aya had not moved from the chair at the white bedside since.
Yohji was in there with him at the moment; Aya dimly recalled that the blonde had
entered some time ago, and become another silent, breathless shadow in the room that
was too still. Too white.
A soft touch landed on his shoulder, and he started, lifting haunted violet eyes. The green
gaze Yohji returned was solemn.
"I’m gonna go get us some more coffee, Aya," he said, his voice very quiet. "Okay?"
Aya nodded. The lanky assassin tried for a weak smile, but his attempt was half hearted.
Then his long-fingered, slender hand slipped off of Aya’s shoulder and he disappeared
through the door without another word.
The emptiness was overwhelming. Aya let his head sink back down.
And that’s when the soft voice sounded. It was a moan, soft and tortured. His breath
caught and there was the sifting of sheets. Slowly, Aya lifted his head.
Cerulean eyes opened, azure like the sky that promised faith and hope. They were heavily
lidded, the gaze slitted and weak, but the blue was the same. Omi’s gaunt face shifted,
ever so slightly, in the countenance of apparent weakness.
Blue eyes fixed on Aya, who was frozen, his eyes wide. He finally found his voice.
"Omi..." he whispered.
The gaze that reflected his was cloudy. "Aya...?" the boy whispered.
"Omi!" he repeated. He felt the threat of tears of joy well in his eyes, in his heart. He
stood, hastily enough that the chair skittered backward, threatening to fall over. "You’re
okay," he said, his voice soft, wondering, and nearly shaking.
"I..." Omi halted his weak speech. Slowly, his eyes traveled across his body. Over the
machines around him. The IV’s in his arm. They stopped on his bound wrists. "Okay...?"
His eyes shot open with a rapidity that was startling, frightening. His pupils dilated.
He screamed.
"Nooo!" The voice was filled with anguish, a sorrow that should never have belonged.
"Doushite!? Why am I here? Why am I *alive*!?"
Aya was shocked at the reaction, uncertain what to do. Frantically, he tried to calm the
boy down. "Omi-"
"I don’t want this!" The boy violently ripped the IV needles out of his left arm and the
constant thrum of the machines shifted, the beeps altered.
Aya took a step forward.
"Stay back!" The gaze that shifted to him was not one he recognized. It was frenzied,
anguished. Tortured.
Aya ignored him, throwing himself at the boy that had begun to struggle with the
bandages on his wrists, attempting to tear them off. The older youth pressed the small
shoulders down. But in spite of Omi’s smaller size, his terribly weak and unstable
condition, Aya could scarcely hold him.
"Let me go! Let me die!" Omi struggled violently, and Aya’s heart was pierced with the
words. "I don’t want this! Doushite!?" His cries rose louder, approaching a wail. Tears
had begun to stream unchecked down his face, making the pale skin acquire a wet, sickly
shine.
"Why did you let me live! Let me die! Dou... shite..." He became incoherent, his screams
failing to sobs.
The door burst open. A stream of white robed figured rushed in. Aya was caught in a
whirlwind and, before he knew it, shoved out the door, seeing only two large, white-clad
aides approach the bed under immediate cries from the doctors, each pinning one of
Omi’s arms down. A third took his legs. Then the door was slammed shut.
He stared at the offending wood, and slowly everything began to register. Omi, sobbing,
screaming... Wanting to die...
He had to get in there. He had to see Omi.
He threw himself against the door. It wouldn’t open. / Locked...!? / he thought
incredulously. He rammed it with his shoulder. He could hear the frantic words of the
doctors and nurses inside, still hear Omi’s broken voice. "Let me in!" he yelled angrily.
No answer. "Come on, damn it!" he roared. People were starting to look at him. He didn’t
care. He only cared about Omi, about reaching him.
He grit his teeth and threw his body against the door once more, his vision tinged with
red.
And then hands were grabbing him, a strong grip that he struggled against, pulled at. He
almost broke free when another grip accosted him from the other side. His muscles were
tensed as he strove against them.
He realized, suddenly, that there was a voice as well. The words registered with a sharp
snap.
"Aya! *Aya*!"
"Stop! What are you doing!? God damn it, Aya!"
He was thrown back and pinned against the wall with a sudden effort. There was a loud
thwack as his back was slammed against the plaster. He had given up abruptly, gone
slack, and those restraining him had not expected the resistance to disappear. But he
didn’t care.
He lifted his eyes from the floor where they had sunk as his mind cleared, his vision
cleared. His anger died as suddenly as it had arisen. He lifted violet orbs to the eyes of
Yohji and Ken, both of which were breathing heavily. Ken had apparently stumbled back,
but his grip had been one of the forces that restrained him. Yohji’s hands were now
placed on each of his shoulders, and the blonde had him pinned against the wall. They
stared at each other.
"Let go," Aya whispered.
Yohji nodded, slowly, and released him. He slumped, finding no strength or want to
support himself. He slid down the wall to the floor.
Ken and Yohji exchanged anxious, worried glances. "What happened, Aya?" Ken asked
quietly, his voice tight.
He took a deep breath, released a long, heavy sigh. "Omi woke up," he whispered. "He
woke up. And he never wanted to."
His words were met with utter silence. The two assassins standing above him slowly
registered the ramifications of Aya’s statement. The hush was unending, and Aya felt,
with a sudden clarity that was painful, that things would never be the same again.
***
/ This isn’t right. It’s not right. It’s not right. /
// It’s not right. //
/ It was not their right to let me come back. /
// It was not your right to kill. //
/ It was my right to die. /
// It was your right to love. //
/ It was my right to die...! /
// It was your fate to hurt. //
/ Do I deserve any more...? /
// You deserve no more. //
/ How much more must I endure? /
// You must endure. //
***
Aya had nightmares. He relived it every night. He relived it awake. He didn’t think he
would ever escape.
"Fujimiya-san," the voice was saying. The red head was seated in a small office with a
man approximately thirty five years of age. With a receding, blonde hairline and thin
glasses, he had an over-all average. He even had what one might consider a kind face.
The yellow light flashed brightly from his glasses as he shifted and Aya’s eyes lifted to
fix on him. "We are having difficulty working with your young friend."
/ Young friend... Omi... / He let out a deep breath. "And what can I do?" he returned, his
voice and gaze emotionless.
The therapist, the one they claimed would help, studied him. "He will not tell us much."
"Why should he?" he asked. "He’s trapped by you, caged."
The gaze tightened, but mostly with regret and concern. Not anger. "It is for his own
good, for his safety. He has no will for himself to live. He is not emotionally stable."
Aya closed his eyes. / Not stable... /
It had been a week since the young, blonde assassin had woken up. He had been
transferred to a different hospital. A different sort of hospital, for both the body and the
mind. The room he now occupied remained akin to a typical hospital room – for he was,
after all, still in need of physical healing – but the white bed was different. There were
restraints. Restraints that were fixed around his arms and his legs so that he could not
move.
Aya remembered when they had allowed him, Ken, and Yohji to look through the
window at Omi. The window that, on the opposite side, was a mirror. Aya remembered
with a painful flash of recollection.
The body that was motionless, strapped to the bed without movement, without will.
The face that was blank, uncaring.
The gaze that was listless, lifeless.
It was nothing any of them were prepared for. Not for Omi. Least of all for Omi.
He nodded, slowly, his eyes refocusing on the small office around him, on the man who
wanted to help. "I understand that," he said quietly. "But you can’t force information out
of him."
"That’s true," the counselor agreed. "But he will hardly speak of what happened. He
never mentions his past, his earlier life. What about his family?"
"We are his closest family," Aya replied. "Me, Ken, and Yohji."
"I see," the man said slowly. "Do you know why he did this?"
/// Blood, crimson and all-consuming. The shattered body, frail and helpless. Ken running
to the phone, Yohji dropping to his knees by the blood-stained body, blood-stained
bathtub, blood-stained knife. Aya only able to watch, helpless, as the scene before him
ensued. ///
He closed his eyes briefly at the memory. The nightmare. Then he said, "it’s not just one
reason."
"And I do not expect it to be."
He shook his head, slowly. What was he supposed to say? The man could never
understand. "I don’t know," he said quietly.
"Fujimiya-san," the therapist pressed. "If there is anything at all-"
"Gomen nasai." He stood, bowing his head slightly. "I must be leaving." And he walked
out the door.
***
Aya and the others were not permitted to see Omi. And Aya didn’t know, if they were
allowed, what they would say. But it was nearing four months after the incident when
Omi was released from custody of the hospital that treated him. Released from the care
of the physician that was supposed to ‘stabilize’ him.
Things never quite returned to normal. Two weeks passed and life continued much as it
once had been. No one really talked about Omi’s time in the hospital, or his actions that
night. Because no one knew what to say. Their words always danced on the edges of the
topic, elusive and frightened, shadows that fled from the light that threatened to be shed.
None of them believed it was their right to bring it up. If Omi wanted to talk, best to let
him choose where and when, they all thought.
Omi had briefly touched upon it. He had apologized, the first night after getting back. He
had apologized, and he had said he was feeling better, about everything. That the therapy
had really worked.
And Aya could almost believe it.
But almost wasn’t enough. He couldn’t lie to himself, not about this.
One night, when it was late, he went out into the kitchen for a glass of water before
heading to his room for the night. Ken and Yohji had long since gone to bed, but this was
the way it had been for quite some time. Aya was up later than the others, having trouble
sleeping, plagued by thoughts, by dreams.
Entering the kitchen, he padded across the cold floor on bare feet to flick on the light.
When he did, the yellow glare revealed a small figure seated at the table, head bowed. It
was Omi.
Aya froze, startled and immediately concerned. Omi’s golden bangs hung forward with
his head, covering his eyes, casting them in dark shadows.
"Aya-kun," the boy said slowly, in greeting.
Aya studied him carefully, speaking quietly. "Is something wrong, Omi? You are not
normally up this late."
A soft chuckle drifted from the figure before him. And it chilled the red head to the bone.
It had a spark of madness in it, something Aya had glimpsed in the boy’s large,
expressive eyes the first time he woke up in the hospital. A cold shiver shook his body.
"Do you really believe anything is right?" the boy countered, his soft, lilting tenor placid.
Aya frowned. "Omi," he said slowly. "I thought..."
"You thought what?" The quiet tone of iron effectively cut him off. "You thought
everything was better? Just because I said so? You’re not very good at this, Aya. You
shouldn’t just look at the surface. The real feelings – the real pain – is deeper."
His head lifted, and he fixed his eyes on the taller assassin. There was no spark of
laughter that so often dwelled in the depths of those eyes. There was no light of
innocence. The gaze pierced him with accusation.
He shifted. "I didn’t believe everything was normal again."
Omi’s barked laugh was bitter. "But does our leader know how deep the change runs?" he
asked mockingly.
Aya winced at the cruelty. It was so unlike Omi.
Omi let his head drop forward again, his bangs shadowing his eyes once more. His hands
were still folded on the table.
The silence continued, and Aya was unsure whether to speak or not. He was waiting for a
sign from the boy, for another word, for anything. But there was nothing.
"Omi-" He cut off as the boy’s hands began to tremble. He watched in horrified
fascination as a single, glassy teardrop fell to the table, shattering like so much else. Omi
spoke.
"Why did you let me live?"
Aya’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. He was speechless. But his mind was
racing. / No... God, no! I thought... I though he was past this, I really did... I didn’t think it
was better, but I thought there was progress. I thought... /
// You thought wrong. //
"Doushite?" Omi repeated, his soft voice damp with sorrow. He lifted his face and the
overhead kitchen light reflected off the saline trail on his countenance.
"I... I couldn’t let you die," he said helplessly.
"Why not!?" There was a snap to his young voice. "I have nothing to live for."
"But... but Omi!" he exclaimed, taking a step forward, raising one hand in a helpless
gesture. "You have us! You have your friends...!"
"Do you really believe that’s enough?" He asked. "I have no family. I kill, I have the sins
of so many deaths hanging over my head. Do you really think two friends is enough to
save one broken soul, Aya dear?" The voice was mocking.
Aya stared at him, shocked. / Two friends... /
Omi saw it in his eyes. "Yes, two," he said acidly.
"But Omi-"
"But what!?" Omi snapped to a stand, his body rigid, and he faced Aya, trembling. "But
you’re my friend? How? I cannot trust you! I trusted you with so much, and what did it
get me...!? You *failed* me!" his voice rose.
Aya couldn’t believe what the usually so gentle voice was saying. He didn’t want to
believe it. He couldn’t face it.
"We all make mistakes," he began desperately.
"You made too many, Aya," Omi snapped. "You lied to me. You left me. You ignored
me, failed me, the one time I needed you most." The tears streamed down his face. "Was
I ever anything? Did you ever love me?"
Aya couldn’t breathe. The accusations cut too deep, the tear-streaked face branded his
eyes. "I... I didn’t-"
"You didn’t what?" Omi snapped. "You never cared, never loved? Was I a replacement?"
"A replacement?" he whispered helplessly, his brow drawing down.
"For your sister!" he spat. "For the brat you ruined your life for."
Anger flared, deep and burning, countering the concern, confusion, and incompetence he
was experiencing. His eyes narrowed. "This has nothing to do with her."
Omi shook his head. "Oh, but you’re wrong, Aya. *Everything* has to do with her. When
it comes down to it, with you, it’s *all* for her."
"What do you know about that?" he returned angrily. "She was the one who kept me the
sane, the one who made me laugh. Do you know what it’s like to lose that?"
He bit off his words suddenly. It was the wrong thing to say, it came out before he had a
chance to stifle it. But he was angry, and the anger him not care.
"I never *wanted* to know!" he cried. "I didn’t ask for it, Aya," he said harshly. "But I
lost you, and you were keeping me sane. It’s a terrible feeling, to be like this... do you
know what it’s like? To know that you’re not all right, to know that you want to die, and,
worst of all, realize you don’t care?"
"I didn’t ask you for this either," Aya said, gesturing sharply, his eyes burning. "I didn’t
ask you to say you loved me."
"Then you should never have accepted it!" he screamed. "It’s your fault, everything that
has happened. What would your precious imouto say to that?" he snarled. "I was only a
cheap replacement, something to try to take your mind off of her. To replace her."
"You could never replace her," Aya yelled back. Omi’s words had opened a floodgate,
some bare, cracking wall that had been holding back his anger, guilt, and sorrow. Now it
came out in a torrent.
Omi shook his head slowly, stepping back. He opened his mouth, but no words came out,
in their place emerged a halting sob. The pain registered by the red head’s words flashed
across his young face, and Aya could only watch, breathing heavily with gritted teeth.
Omi turned and fled into the night.
***
/ A replacement. /
// A weak replacement. //
/ Leave me alone...! /
// Then find yourself. //
/ I don’t know where to look...! /
// In your reality. //
/ But I don’t *want* this reality! Don’t you understand? /
// Doesn’t he understand? //
/ I just wanted to die... /
// You just deserve to die. //
Omi screamed.
***
"What have I done?" Aya whispered. He was staring at the door Omi had disappeared
through. The boy had turned to run, to flee, and Aya had only watched.
The seconds ticked away as he stood there, staring at the door, unable to organize his
thoughts. They were a mass of confusion inside his tortured mind, whirling around
without form and threatening to sweep him away. And then a voice spoke behind him.
"Aya, what...?" It was Ken, and he sounded sleepy, but still concerned. Aya didn’t move.
"Aya?" the soccer player said again. "What happened? I... thought I heard shouting. But
maybe it was just a dream..." he trailed off, sounding confused.
"No," Aya whispered, shaking his head. He turned slowly. "It... it was real."
/ Real enough to make my heart bleed more. Real enough to make me hurt. Real enough
to make me hurt *him*. /
Ken frowned, studying him. His brown eyes were lighted with worry. "What happened?"
he asked, his voice soft. He sounded more awake and incredibly sobered by whatever was
written in Aya’s face.
Aya didn’t answer, his jaw tight.
Ken’s frown deepened. "Aya... where’s Omi?"
"He’s gone."
Ken’s eyes shot wide. "Nani!?" he exclaimed. "What do you mean!?"
Aya didn’t speak for a time, moving to the table. He paused before sitting, gazing at the
chair Omi had occupied, the chair that was now scraped back from the table, sitting at an
awkward angle. Then he took the one next to it, sinking onto the wood with a sigh as
some of the anger rushed out of him.
"I don’t know where he went."
"When did he leave?" Ken pressed. "Why!?" Aya heard him approach from behind,
coming to stand next to the seated, listless red head, and peer down at him anxiously.
Aya glanced up briefly, then returned his gaze to the table.
"We had a fight," he whispered. Nearly all of the anger that had flared was gone now, the
fire dying to ashes, hurtful and black.
"Oh, God... Aya. What did you say?"
Aya closed his eyes. "Everything wrong," he said. "Ken... I was angry. I couldn’t help it."
"And he left," Ken whispered.
A silent nod.
Then Ken spoke again. "So why are you still here?" he demanded, his voice acquiring an
urgent tone.
Aya looked up at him, at the figure with tousled hair and chocolate eyes. "Nani?" he
asked.
"Why aren’t you looking for him?"
Aya barked a bitter, mirthless laugh. "Why, Ken? To hurt him some more?"
"Do you want to leave him out there?" Ken asked angrily. "He *needs* you."
"He doesn’t need me," Aya said. "I only make it worse."
"Aya, you owe him this!" Ken exclaimed. "You’re the only one that can undo this. No
matter what he says, or what he may think, I *know* it’s true. Only you can truly help."
Somewhere in Aya, a voice reached out, adding nameless agreement. That voice was
Ran, a voice he had ignored for long years.
He slowly lifted his eyes and let them fix back on the door.
"Please, Aya," Ken begged, his voice more urgent. "This is so important, and not just to
him... if not for him, do it for us. For me, for Yohji... for your sister!" he added. "Omi
doesn’t deserve this... don’t let us see you give up."
The eyes the bored into his were desperate, pleading. The door was beckoning.
And slowly, he nodded.
Ken’s voice was a whisper. "Go now."
***
The stars were gone, blotted out by a cruel darkness.
/ The darkness of my life... the darkness of a broken soul, shattered vision... /
His thoughts were broken, nearly incoherent. The rain streamed down, a constant flow of
tears from the angels that wept with him. Bled for him.
His hair was plastered against his flushed face, his clothes soaked and clinging to his
slender body. He was shaking uncontrollable.
/ Shattered life... broken hope... /
In his mouth he dimly registered a strange taste. The salt of his tears, the coolness of the
rain, the terrible, sweet copper of blood. Blood. A very small part of his wandering mind
remembered biting his lip until the blood ran down, biting his lip to keep the sobs from
escaping. But they still rocked his body frail, as he sat with his back pressed against the
alley wall, against the rough brick.
/ It’s not right, it’s not right... /
He was hot, feverish. He couldn’t concentrate, could hardly walk. It wasn’t right.
The rain continued to pour down. The heavens continued to cry.
A pale visage materialized before him. A hallucination, a dream, as he drifted away from
reality in a way that was horrifying. It was so because part of himself was still present, a
very small part that didn’t want to leave, that wanted to hold on. But that small part of his
consciousness could only watch as his thoughts scattered some more, as the figure
without substance that he imagined took on the form of Aya.
/ Aya... /
He closed his eyes, but he knew he couldn’t escape it. The vision would follow him, for it
was not real. His dreams were not safe, his consciousness was not safe.
"Omi!"
He jerked at the sound, squeezing his eyes tighter. It sounded too real. But when he
opened his eyes, he knew it would be gone.
"Omi!" Aya’s voice beckoned again. It was nearby, so close...
He let his eyes slide open, unable to resist. He was too broken to care anymore
But there was nothing to meet him. Only the rain, constant and dark. His imagined vision
was gone, vanished like so much smoke. But he had expected no more.
He shivered.
And then there was movement. Omi blinked eyes the refused to focus clearly, trying to
clear rain from their blue depths. He was incomprehensive and a figure materialized
before him from the blackest of nights.
The street light caught a flash of hair. Red. Like fire, like blood.
/ Red... /
"Aya...?" he whispered, his voice coming out a wordless croak.
Aya entered the ring of yellow light cast by the lamp. Rain ran in rivulets down his hair,
face, body. He froze when his eyes fixed on Omi.
They gazed at each other for an instant, an eternity. Aya acquired the look of a trapped
animal. He looked indecisive, uncertain.
Omi searched his violet eyes with a feverish intensity. And he saw that the anger was
gone. In it’s place, he saw concern. He saw fear.
/ Fear... / he thought dimly. / Fear... for me? /
A sudden clarity accosted him.
"Aya..." The word came out a broken sob. He tried to move from his curled-up ball, tried
to stand, but his body wouldn’t respond. His muscles felt cramped, his face flushed
heatedly, and his vision danced with the effort of movement.
But then Aya was there. The red head was suddenly at his side, kneeling, helping him up.
Omi threw himself into the arms that welcomed him, clutching the red head with sheer
desperation. He couldn’t stand without him, he was too weak; but he didn’t want to stand
alone.
He sobbed into Aya’s already wet shoulder, shaking violently.
"Don’t leave me," he whispered, choking on his words as he tried to get them out through
his tears. "Please, don’t leave. I need you, Aya. I always have... I need you to be there. I...
I don’t want to be like this, don’t want to be afraid. I need someone... I can’t be alone..."
"Shh," Aya hushed him, stroking his copper hair with a gentleness Omi had feared he
would never know again. Aya hugged him tighter, and Omi felt the older assassin
trembling.
"Gomen," Aya whispered. "I should never..."
"Don’t, not now," Omi begged, pulling back just enough to look up into Aya’s deep gaze
with large eyes. "Please... I..."
Aya nodded. Then he leaned down, pressing his lips against Omi’s forehead that was
warm with fever.
But for the first time, Omi’s eyes were bright, despite the rain streaming down his body,
the tears running from his eyes, the fever dancing through his body. Their blue depths
had lost the frightening spark that had appeared in his darkness. The blue was pure. Sane.
"I love you, Aya," he whispered, burying his face again in the red head’s shoulder, feeling
his warmth. "I never stopped. But you don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to say
it back... just... please... let me know I... I won’t be alone..."
Aya’s voice was husky. "I won’t leave you, Omi," he whispered. "I promise... I promise
that I’ll be here. That I’ll be the person you need, because... because I need you..." He
couldn’t continue; Omi dimly registered the catch in the red head’s voice.
The smallest of smiles curved his lips, and he ignored the pain as the cut cracked, as the
crimson the had caked over the wound on his lip from his teeth reopened. It didn’t
matter, just as the fever that was ravaging his body didn’t matter. Because he could
recover from it. Because he wanted to recover.
And for the first time since he had woken up, Omi began to believe everything might be
alright.
***
Owari
***
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