It was a beautiful day outside; birds were chirping, the sun was a brilliant orb in a flawless, azure sky, and every hue of nature was vibrant and welcoming. A soft breeze caressed the verdant leaves of shady trees, whispering through the branches with a soothing, gentle sound. “Fuck,” Yohji muttered, wincing as soon as his club connected with the ball. Eyes trained on the small, white golf ball went wide when it smacked into a nearby tree. He let out a rather undignified yelp and dove to the ground, covering his head. He heard a similar grunt as Ken threw himself to the ground in a similar fashion. *Thud*. It scarcely missed his head; whistling through the air, the golf ball landed dangerously close, eliciting another alarmed noise. “That was probably the *worst* shot I have ever seen!” Ken proclaimed. Yohji lifted his head, peering over his shades at the chocolate-haired boy with one seething green eye. “You’re certainly no Tyler Woods,” he shot back. Ken fixed him with a glare that was a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. “Yohji! First, it’s *Tiger* Woods. And second, that tree was right *there*!” He flung his arm wide, gesturing at the offending sentry of nature. “How could you *not* see it!? Besides, the green is over *that* way!” This time his hand was indicating a quite different direction. Yohji growled wordlessly, sitting up fully. “What’s wrong today, anyway?” Ken demanded, standing up and wiping short blades of grass off of himself. “You’re not quite yourself,” he added, studying the other assassin with a critical eye. Yohji shrugged uncomfortably. “I dunno,” he muttered. “Concentration’s off, I guess.” / I can’t seem to focus on *anything*, / he added in his thoughts, /let alone *this*! / Ken just shook his head. “Golf’s a stupid sport anyway,” Yohji snapped, standing up and wiping himself off as if nothing had happened. Glancing around, he saw the white ball about ten feet away. He glowered balefully at it. “You’re just saying that because you can’t play it.” It was Aya who spoke. The lanky, blonde assassin had not seen his golf cart approaching. Omi was getting off of the cart and looking at Ken and Yohji curiously, and Aya was simply standing there in his quiet, slender way, eyes betraying no emotion but cold disdain. “Shut up,” Yohji snapped. / He hardly ever talks, so why does it have to be *now* that he opens his mouth? / he thought, glaring at the redhead. “Aww, Yohji,” Omi said, “it’s all right. Everyone hits trees sometimes,” he said helpfully. Green eyes looked at him briefly. The boy’s eyes sparkled in the sunlight, seemingly endless depths; as much as his words were nice, however, there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “But not everyone has to dive out of the way,” Ken pointed out. Yohji prudently ignored him, instead stalking to the cart he and Ken were sharing. / We’re on hole… seventeen. So it’s almost over, / he consoled himself. Sighing quietly, he shoved his club into his golf bag. He nearly jumped when a hand landed on his arm gently, so deep was Yohji in his thoughts. His eyes fixed in surprise on a young hand with slender fingers, and he looked up fully to see deep blue eyes peering at him past sandy blonde bangs. “Are you okay, Yohji?” the boy asked in concern. / Leave it to Omi, / part of him thought sardonically. / He’s the last person I want to talk to right now. / / Are you sure? / a part of him asked. / Yes! / he snapped. But both voices knew he wasn’t. “Yeah,” he responded. He winced at how irritated he sounded, and Omi drew back slightly, his eyebrows knitting. “Gomen,” he muttered, reaching up and running a hand through his hair in an unconscious gesture. “It’s just… there’s a lot on my mind.” “Anything you want to talk about?” Omi offered. “I’ll always listen.” Yohji forced a facade of un-emotion despite the war within him. There was a part of him that was begging to speak, to simply say the words that seemed to have always boiled within him, and that had chosen now to surface. And the opposing force within was dreading those emotions, those words, and insisting they weren’t right, weren’t really there. He wasn’t sure which voice was lying, and it was slowly eating away at his mind until nearly all of his concentration was consumed. When he spoke, however, he was careful not to let a breath of wistful emotion escape with his voice, or the hint of struggle arise in his emerald eyes. He made himself sound nonchalant. “It’s all right.” The boy looked doubtful. But he seemed to know his place; not to pry where he was obviously not wanted. “Okay, then… but the offer’s on the table,” he added helpfully. “Omi!” Ken called, causing two pairs of eyes to shift, one innocent and brimming with sweet joy, the other clouded by awkward emotion. “You’re up!” Blue shifted to meet green again briefly. Green became quickly masked. “I gotta go… but like I said, if you ever need to talk, you know where my room is.” With a last bright smile, Omi turned and trotted away. Yohji watched him go, heading towards the others. / Walking away… yet... he’s still *here*. / An image of the boy’s sweet features, of concerned eyes that were so much deeper, wiser, than a normal teenager’s were supposed to be, was practically branded in his vision. / Damn it, Omi, get out of my head! / ****** “This blows.” Events were playing over and over in Yohji’s mind, like a broken film on a movie reel. Events that he was constantly aware of, of a boy he was always thinking about. Omi, stumbling downstairs every morning in his ridiculous, but endearing, night cap. / Sweet. / Omi, carefree, laughing at nothing at all. / Happy. / Omi, with sparkling eyes, handing a beautiful flower that he had been growing and grooming carefully for two weeks to a girl who had fallen outside on the sidewalk, skinning her knee. Smiling gently at her when she took it, blinked back her tears, and giggled. / Kind. / Omi, his eyes flashing with both pain and pride as he was being brutally tortured by those he once trusted from so long ago. / Brave. / Omi, his face streaming with tears, with unconcealed love and agony, as he held a single dying girl, a single, wilting rose, that was his newfound chance at support, at family. That was now lost. / Pain. / / Omi, always Omi… at first, I didn’t know these images would remain with me. But now… I’m finding myself unable to forget them. / / I know you miss her, Omi… I know you finally found someone, and thought you wouldn’t have to be alone. And I know that now that she’s gone, you desperately want her back. I wish I could tell you that I would sacrifice my life to bring her back for you; but I’m not good enough. A brutal sinner for an innocent sister… It’s not a fair trade. / Yohji was alone, laying on his back on a flat of grass in the park. It was a small area, not often frequented… there was a larger park, complete with a playground, just across the street. But Yohji liked this one. It gave him time alone with his thoughts. / Even if they are tortured, / he thought, with painful, dry amusement. The stars twinkled merrily down at him, and the wind continued to blow softly, as it had earlier, playing a soft percussion to the symphony of the night. Outside, everything was peaceful, serene. Within, everything was confused, writhing. Yohji saw none of the nocturnal beauty; his emerald eyes, dark like the sky, were unseeing. / There’s so much I wish I could tell you, Omi, / Yohji thought, despairing. / So much that I never realized was there. Of course, *now* it’s all too clear that it’s there, and been there, but… / “But what does it mean?” he whispered in anguish. “I want to tell you I’d sacrifice everything for your happiness, that you’re always on my mind, but… but you’re a teammate, right? So isn’t it just *natural* to be concerned with your welfare?” He barked a bitter laugh. “That’s shit, and I know it. You’re a teammate, and I should be concerned… but not like *this*!” he exclaimed softly, scorning himself. His voice dropped to a haunting whisper. “Not like this.” It was surprisingly painful to say it out loud. A shudder rocked his body, part of it due to a sudden gust of wind, the rest on account of the anguish he felt. / This is not right. It’s not right that I want to say those things, because… because you’re Omi, and it’s not my place. / Over the past few weeks he had come to accept it. The thoughts had plagued him for quite some time, and he had danced a wicked promenade with truth… but his cruel partner had finally won, and forced him to open his eyes. To admit he had feelings. For Omi. / And I don’t know what to do about it, / he thought. Accepting it didn’t make it any easier to deal with. He closed his eyes as a whirlwind of emotion accosted him. Pain, for Omi’s pain; the boy was desperate for someone, because he had been through so much hell, but he would never admit it out loud. Joy, for Omi’s joy; when the sandy-haired youth smiled, Yohji could almost find himself truly happy. Desperation, for his own mind; he was desperate to be with Omi, yet, paradoxically, desperate to get away, find a last way to escape these feelings. Hate, for himself; hate for his sins, hate for his dying soul. “Perhaps, if things were different,” he whispered, “this could have a chance of working. If I wasn’t me… maybe we’d have a chance.” / But I am me; there’s no denying it. God, it’s bad enough that we’re both men! I don’t *like* that… not at *all*! But the thoughts pervade, and I can’t run from myself… not anymore. / / I suppose I’ll find the courage someday… I think he deserves to know. And maybe the support would help… if he knew there was someone there, waiting for him…/ He laughed bitterly. “Give it up, Yohji,” he told himself. “You’ll probably scare him away.” Yohji’s eyes were dark with suppressed emotion at he fixed them on the velvet sky. He noted with sudden surprise that within them there was a burning sensation, encased with the emeralds. “Tears?” he whispered, one slender hand reaching up to touch his face in wonderment. His skin was dry, free of sanguine salinity, but the starry scene above him was blurred. / Tears… / “But who are they for?” he whispered, letting his hand fall back to the grass limply. “For him? Or for me?” ****** “What do you think of all this?” One slender arm gestured broadly, in a gesture that could mean anything. Deep blue eyes peered curiously at him. Ken was out, doing prelims for a mission, and Aya wasn’t around at the moment, probably in his room and in one of his brooding moods. Omi and Yohji were out in the living room of the apartment; the television was on, but Yohji currently had no idea of what was playing. He was too wrapped up in his own nervous thoughts to care; besides, the volume being low didn’t help. He was on one couch, sprawled out on his back; one arm was currently flung wide. Omi was on an opposite love seat, and sat up halfway at Yohji’s question, blinking curiously, adorably. “Nani?” he asked, frowning slightly. “Think of what, Yohji-kun?” Yohji let out a sigh. “*This*,” he said. “Our lives.” The younger boy’s eyebrows furrowed. “Our lives?” he repeated, questioning, quiet. Yohji nodded. “Seriously,” he said. “It’s not something I would normally ask, but… how does it all affect you?” His voice was unnaturally quiet. “What we *do*?” Omi slowly sat up completely, his eyes fixing on something that would be invisible to anyone else. Yohji watched him with half-slitted green eyes, somber. “I think – I feel – a lot of things,” he finally said. “It gives me pride, because we’re helping people,” he said softly. “It gives me pain, because we’re hurting others, even if they are bad; because, they’re still human, after all. It gives me hope, because things don’t have to be quite so bad if people like us fight back.” The sandy haired youth drew himself out of his reverie when he stopped speaking, his deep eyes fixing on Yohji. “Why?” he asked softly. Yohji ignored the question; instead he asked: “But what about the killing itself?” Omi, instead of pressing his question, chose to answer, speaking slowly, his eyes clouding as he spoke. “The killing... in truth, it hurts. A lot. Because I’m taking away something that can never be given back, and it’s not my right to take it away. But it feels like someone has to do it, so why not me? I figure,” he said, his voice turning somewhat downcast, “that I’ve sacrificed enough already I may as well follow through. After all, I don’t have anything to go back to. Part of it, I feel, is fate, and part of it affected somehow by choices I and others made in the past.” He trailed off. / In some way, Omi, you’re still a child... but not like *this*. Not like a killer; you know *too* much... do you know how much I would give to see your innocence returned to you? You’re innocent in one way, but in another… / He forced himself to stop thinking. “Why, Yohji-kun?” Omi repeated, his quiet voice solemn and emphatic. When Yohji didn’t answer, he formed a different question. “What is it to you?” “A sin.” Yohji’s voice was harsh, even to his own ears. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, following it’s spider webbing cracks with eyes swirling with different, suppressed emotions. “It’s a sin against what I believe, against faith, against hope, against everything. Blasphemy unto myself. I wear a white cross; I bring death in blackest night, in dark intent. I call myself good; I bring evil, erasing hope for a second chance. Sin.” Omi was utterly silent; it was enough that Yohji tore his eyes away from the ceiling to fix them on the boy. Deep blue eyes, like a sparkling ocean, were trained on him. “Do you really feel that it’s like that?” he whispered. The sandy-haired youth seemed to be in disbelief. Yohji was suddenly uncomfortable; it was *not* like him to act like that, saying those things which he had carefully hidden, carefully *run* from, for so long. / Then again, I’m hardly myself recently. And I told myself it would happen tonight... so maybe I should get it over with. / He shrugged in response to the boy, and didn’t give a vocal answer. The reason; he was steeling himself mentally. He had no idea what the outcome of this would be, but he had a deep premonition it would not be happy and joyful. “After all, what have I got to lose but my dignity?” he muttered to himself, pushing himself into more of a sitting position. “What?” asked the sweet voice. “Nothing,” he replied, suppressing a sigh. He took a deep breath, fixing an intent emerald gaze on Omi. Blue eyes blinked back uncertainly. “Can I tell you something?” the lanky, blonde assassin finally asked. Omi looked curious. “Sure, whatever you like.” / Alea iacta est, /*1* he thought sardonically. / No turning back now. / He breathed in again. Then he began. “This isn’t the easiest thing for me to say, Omi,” he said, “but I think it’s better to say it. It’s killing me from the inside, so may as well bring it in the open – at least, to you. And the fact that no one is out here to bother us helps, I guess.” Sapphire orbs studied him in sparkling curiosity. / Say it! / “I like you.” It came out in a mutter. Blink. “Well, I like you too,” Omi replied uncertainly. “No, I *like* you,” he growled, already irritated, at himself more than anyone. / God, I don’t want to be *doing* this! / He seemed incomprehensive, looking at Yohji in intent confusion. Yohji averted his eyes, flushing, to his dismay. “You mean... *like* like?” he asked quietly. Yohji almost snorted. “We’re not schoolgirls, Omi,” he snapped. When Omi recoiled slightly, he wanted to bite his tongue. But instead of apologizing, he just said: “Yes, *like* like. Love.” Perhaps the word *love* is what did it. Made it too real. Omi fell completely silent. Yohji found his eyes on the floor, found himself breathless as he waited for a response. He tried to drag his eyes upward, to place them on this boy he had admitted love to. It was perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever been forced to do; invisible weights, mental and emotional, fought against him. If he didn't look up, they said, he wouldn’t have to face what he had just said. But with all the courage he had left, he found the strength to defy those weights, and to alight emerald eyes on Omi. Blue orbs were staring at him, seeing already too much. But Yohji, with power he did not know he still had, met the gaze. Finally, the boy’s soft voice broke the silence. “I… see,” he finally said, apparently at a loss for any decent response. “K’so,” the lanky blonde assassin muttered. “Well, what was I expecting?” To Omi, he said, as more of a statement than a question. “You obviously don’t feel the same.” Omi shifted uncomfortably. “Yohji, I…” he averted his eyes. “It’s all right,” Yohji said, letting his head fall back against the couch. “I didn’t expect anything.” The blonde boy frowned. “Then why did you say something?” A bitter laugh, harsh, barked. “Shit, I don’t even know.” Silence, that queen of torture, of endless waiting, reigned. Yohji didn’t know what to say. His thoughts were in turmoil. / Why *did* I have to go say somethin’!? / he asked angrily of himself. Angry because he was a fool. Angry because he was hurting. Rejected. “Yohji.” Verdant eyes, swirling with suppressed emotion, blinked at the ceiling. “Nani?” he asked dejectedly. “What happens next?” The voice was quiet. Uncertain, but sweet. So Omi. “Next?” he said, his voice still tainted with bitterness. He fixed his eyes on Omi. “Nothing, apparently.” The youth frowned. “Nothing?” he repeated. “Can you really expect me to forget all of this?” Yohji shrugged. “Why not? I shouldn’t have said anything anyway.” He knew his response was futile. But he just wanted the conversation to end, wanted suddenly to get away. Because being with Omi hurt. “But… you said you *love* me!” he exclaimed. “How am I supposed to forget it?” “I don’t know!” Yohji snapped. He pushed himself to a sitting position, facing the bewildered boy fully. “Don’t ask, ‘cause I don’t have an answer. But I can’t deal with this right now; it’s bad enough that I said it out loud, but it’s surprisingly painful.” An azure gaze blinked, and Omi bit his lip. Yohji’s outburst continued. “Do you know what it’s like, to love someone and not have them? Not like Ouka, not like *death*, but to have them there, just behind a glass window? Beckoning, but denying? It’s no fucking parade, trust me.” “Yohji-” “Don’t say anything,” he said, his voice low and sharp. He bowed his head, letting his short hair fall forward, cloaking his eyes in shadow. “Whatever it is, it won’t help. This is shameful enough anyway. I don’t *believe* in these sort of relationships, you know,” he said, bitterly rueful. “I just *don’t*. But here I am, admitting love to a guy. It’s a twisted, cruel world. “And in spite of all that, in spite of what I said, to forget, let me say one thing.” His voice found it’s way to a softer tone, a low mixture of anguish and resignation. “I will do anything for you, Omi, whenever you ask. I would sacrifice my miserable life for your happiness. And you deserve to know that. You’re everything I wish I could be, everything I want to protect. And I will do *anything* for you.” He stood up, still not looking at the boy. It was his intent to leave, to escape before he broke completely in front of the boy – of the one he loved. / Shit, this *hurts*! But it could be worse… at least I’ve known all along I’d be denied. / “Yohji-kun.” His name was spoken timidly, spoken by a voice he could never deny. The one voice he would lay down his life for. “Hai?” he whispered. “What are you thinking?” / What the hell is that boy tryin’ to do to me!? / he thought. Out loud, he said, his husky voice quiet: “Thinking, Omi?” “Hai,” was the soft affirmative. / Well, there’s no sense in lying. I’ve degraded myself enough already. / He bowed his head, even though his back was already to the sandy-haired youth. “I’m thinking that I could never have you,” he replied. “That no matter what, it would never work.” “Why?” A whisper. He lifted his head, but did not turn. His voice was wistful, his thoughts in a dark, treacherous calm. “Because I don’t deserve you.” ****** Things were never quite the same. As much as Yohji wanted to forget, a part of him wouldn’t allow him to. He couldn’t look at women the same way anymore. / Hell, I can’t look at *Omi* the same way anymore.../ Omi was changed as well; not too noticeably, because they both did their best to hide it. There was no way Yohji was admitting anything to the others. First, it wasn’t their business, and second, the less people who knew, the easier it would be to pretend it had never happened. But it had; deep inside, there was no denying that. About a week later, it was that fateful time of cleaning up. Two of them on the job. Alone. Yohji had come to dread that time. He consoled himself with the thought that it was he and Ken this time, not he and Omi. True, he would be alone with his thoughts, perhaps questioning eyes on him from Ken because of his silence, but it was better than being with Omi. The sun had just started to bloody the sky when he flipped the sign to ‘Closed,’ suppressing a soft sigh. “Ken!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Time to clean up!” he finished, turning around to survey the room. He found a Ken quite nearby, blinking. “I’m right here, Yohji,” he said. The lanky blonde blinked, then frowned. “I know,” he muttered, and turned to walk and get the broom. Amusement sparkled in chocolate eyes. Yohji prudently ignored him and reached for the broom, his hand closing around the solid wood handle. “Ken-kun.” Yohji almost jerked upright at the sound of the sweet, now-timid voice. He schooled himself to quick stillness, and began to sweep nonchalantly. “Hai, Omi?” he heard Ken ask. “I’ll clean up for you today... I really don’t mind. I feel like being up and moving for a while.” Yohji had to bite back a curse. / No! / he thought. / Anything but *that*! / “You sure?” Ken sounded surprised. “Hai.” “Well, all right.” Yohji turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. Ken was walking past Omi, and ruffled his sandy hair as he did so. “Arigato.” Yohji turned quickly around, before those deep blue eyes could find his. Those eyes that he could never turn away from. He couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say; so he remained silent. Omi did too, for a time, and the quiet stretch of silence was perhaps the most uncomfortable experience Yohji had ever been subjected to. / Why won’t it just end? Can’t he at least say something? Can’t I!? / *Crash* Yohji jumped and just managed to stifle a surprised, undignifying squeak at the loud noise. He stared, helpless, at the pot that he had apparently knocked to the floor. It was spread out quite nicely in a thousand pieces, sprinkled with potting dirt. “I thought Ken was the clumsy one,” Omi said softly. Yohji, before he caught himself, glowered at him. He knew his mistake as soon as he made it. He should never have looked at the boy; that way, he would not have had to face the rush of emotions that nearly drowned him. He could manage to lock those feelings away, even in the youngest assassin’s presence, as long as the boy wasn’t in his line of sight. Omi offered him a small smile. The look he returned remained slightly mournful, however, for the boy’s smile faded. Omi knelt suddenly, nervously, and began to pick up the larger shards. “You don’t have to do that,” Yohji said. He did *not* like the image of Omi kneeling at his feet, even if it was to pick something up. “Stand up, I’ll take care of it.” Omi obeyed, but didn’t turn away to return to his work. He fixed Yohji with his sapphire eyes. “What?” Yohji finally muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “We need to talk, Yohji-kun,” he said. “Ya think I don’t know that!?” he snapped. Omi didn’t respond in any way to the anger in his voice; Yohji was too tired of fighting his emotions to try to stifle it. “I just don’t know what to fucking say to you!” “Don’t say anything.” It was almost a plea. “I’ll talk.” Yohji, caught off guard, blinked back at him. Omi continued. “Yohji, I... I don’t really know what to say either. But since you told me... *that*... well... I haven’t stopped thinking about it.” He took a deep breath. “And I want to try.” Yohji nearly gaped at him, the words swirling and repeating in his head, but having no meaning. “Nani?” he finally managed, weakly. Omi bit his lip, then said. “I... I’m young, Yohji. I *don’t* know what love is. Not like *this*... it was different for Ouka, because she’s my sister. I have the love of siblings, even of friends, but... nothing else. And I want to learn.” His gaze abruptly deepened, to the point that he no longer seemed meek or uncertain. It never wavered. “With you.” His emerald eyes swirled with sudden emotion, his pupils dilated slightly and he stepped back. “K’so!” he practically yelled. Omi had obviously not expected that particular reaction; he blinked, eyes wide. “What the hell are you tryin’ to do to me!” Omi was stunned. “I... what’s wrong?” he whispered. “Did your... feelings change?” “No!” he snapped. “*Nothing* changed! That’s the problem!” His words obviously did not enlighten the boy any further; rather, he appeared more confused. “Don’t you *remember* what I said!?” he asked, green eyes flashing. “It doesn’t matter if I *still* feel like this... you don’t...” He trailed off, suddenly. Omi’s gaze was intent. “What?” he whispered. Yohji couldn’t face this, couldn’t face *him*. But he had to say it; he turned away. “You don’t deserve someone like me... I’m worthless.” Silence greeted him. “Worthless?” he whispered. The soft, almost pained voice made Yohji close his eyes, wince. “Do you really believe that?” “Do you really believe I deserve you?” he countered. “Someone who’s so kind... so perfect...” Tears began to slide down his cheeks. It hurt. It hurt to admit that he could never have this boy – this angel – it was painful to admit to someone that he was better off dead. Inside, it was bad enough, when he always knew deep down that he harbored these thoughts; but now... now it was far too close to the surface. “Yohji-kun... turn around.” He stood, frozen. “Turn around!” Omi, acting before Yohji was aware, placed long-fingered hands on his arms and bodily spun him around. Emerald eyes flew open in surprise. They were met with compassionate, endless blue. “Can you look me in the eye, and admit to me you truly believe that?” he said, his voice low and quiet, but threaded with steel. “Can you tell me you feel that way about yourself?” “I...” The words were on his tongue. But somehow, he couldn’t say it. Perhaps the sapphires gazing into his own halted the words, and perhaps it was truly something deeper. He didn’t know. But he couldn’t say it. The sandy-haired youth suddenly hugged him. He was caught completely off guard, but timidly, gently, put his arms around the younger boy. “It’s not true, Yohji... and I’ll make you believe that,” he said quietly, maintaining the tight embrace. “If... if you let me.” / And now, it’s Omi asking me... / “Hai,” he whispered, his voice husky. He was suddenly beginning to register what was happening. Omi hugging him, Omi accepting him... Omi, whom he had longed for. The boy pulled back slightly, to look up at his face. A small, sweet smile curved his lips. “Don’t cry, Yohji,” he whispered, raising one slender hand to gently brush away a crystal drop. Yohji couldn’t look away from those eyes that had captured him. / Even... even if I don’t deserve him... he deserves to be *happy*... and if it takes my life, I’ll sacrifice everything so he stays that way. / ***** Owari ***** *1* Latin for, “Let the die be cast.” What Caesar said before crossing the river to begin his siege upon Rome.
Why not got back and read another fine work? This way to the Reading room.