kaigou: this is what I do, darling (gimme tea)
[personal profile] kaigou
[I was going to say to hell with this and delete it, but if [livejournal.com profile] kagemihari wants more, then that's good enough for me, and any lurkers can enjoy the benefits.]

ratings: PG-13, this chapter
warnings: language, violence, adult situations, major liberties with medical facts
pairings: Aya/Ken friendship; Schuldig+OC; developing Aya/Yohji
disclaimer: I don't own WK, but if I did, I'd spend at least a few pennies more on animation quality and less on seiyuu.

Occurs between ep19&20. Apartments & appearances per manga.




She wonders if her shoulder is broken.

The afternoon light angles down into the city streets, glazing the office buildings in a glow of orange and gold, but she ignores it, along with the early spring heat sending tendrils of sweat down the small of her back. She crosses at Koshukaido Avenue and her bare feet tread on broken glass. She gasps, almost stumbles; a car swerves around her. She grits her teeth, pulls her work shirt tighter around her, and keeps walking, looking neither left nor right.

Fifteen blocks, twenty-five blocks. She's lost count. Her feet are raw. She's reached that comfortable numbness from having covered nearly six miles of city pavement in two hours of fast walking. People step out of her way as she heads down the sidewalk, her head up but her eyes firmly focused on the sidewalk. Her left hand clutches her right elbow as she struggles to keep from jarring the arm. Her right shoulder is visibly lower than the left. A grimy envelope is clutched in her right hand.

A shop owner in Harajuku calls out to her, startled by her gruesome and battered appearance. Each time someone hollers for her, or steps in front of her, she snaps her awareness back long enough to step around them without breaking her pace.

She's heading somewhere specific. And she's going to get there, even if she has to crawl the last twenty blocks.





At a ramen stand where Yamate Dori crosses Dogen Zaka, a delivery boy is locking his bike when a girl stumbles past, muttering to herself.

Stupidest fucking name, she's saying. Stupidest fucking name ever.

Glancing over his shoulder at the retreating figure, the kid notices the dark patch on the left shoulder of the navy-blue work shirt. He shrugs. It isn't until he stands up that he can see red spots on the sidewalk where she'd walked. Blood. He looks at the girl, but she's already a block away and moving fast. His boss is yelling for him, so he's got other places to be than still on the sidewalk, wondering about another crazy, a junkie, a runaway.





The flower shop is empty. Omi sees the last of the customers to the door and flips the sign behind them. Aya pulls up a stool behind the counter and begins to tally the day's sales. Omi's bringing in the last of the displays from outdoors. The bell on the door rings.

"We're closed," Aya says without looking up from the register.

There's no answer.

"I'm sorry, we're..." Omi's voice trails off as he stands up and turns to face the door. The customer is standing just inside the door, her left hand clutching her right elbow. Her right arm hangs stiffly at her side. The long-sleeved work shirt has a patch on the chest pocket that says Kancho's Garage. Under the work shirt is a once-white shirt now covered with grease or dirt, and that familiar brownish-red he knows from long experience is dried blood. There's another large stain on the thigh of her cut-off jeans, and a large bruise trailing down her bare legs. Omi frowns; there's blood mixed with dirt in her footprints.

The girl's dark brown hair hangs down in her face, filthy and matted with sweat and dirt. She twitches her head, enough for the hair to fall away momentarily, revealing a single gray eye staring at Omi. Her other eye remains hidden. There is a line of blood running from her nose down past her lip, down her chin, and scratch marks on her cheek that had bled a little as well. Her lip is split, adding more blood to the gruesome stain that had dripped from her chin onto her shirt. She turns her head and the curtain of brown hides her face again.

"We're closed," Aya repeats, and Omi glances over at the counter. Aya's head is down as he records the day's sales in the accounting book.

"Aya," Omi says softly. "I don't think this is a customer." At Omi's words, the girl's head comes up, eyes barely visible. Omi can't tell if the girl is scared or just really pissed off. He isn't sure which would be better.

"Hidaka-san," the girl mutters.

"Pardon?" Omi takes a step forward but freezes when the girl shuffles back a step. "Oh...Hidaka! No, Ken's not here."

The girl dips her head, looking down at the small grimy envelope in her right hand. Her left shoulder slumps, and she looks away from Omi. "Well, fuck." Her voice is flat. "Never mind." She drops the envelope, and doesn't seem to notice, and lets go of her elbow long enough to pull the door open without looking. "Sorry for bothering you."

"Wait," Omi says, taking another step forward. "Ken works here -- he's just out right now." His hands are out, the palms up. "He should be back any minute now. You can wait for him." He leads her to a chair by the flower-arranging table.

Aya comes around from behind the counter, and Omi smiles at the girl, trying to make up for Aya's glare at the dirty footprints across the shop's floor, and another for the girl herself. Aya's irritated sigh is audible, but he leaves without a word. Omi fetches the outside displays, and returns to find Aya's mopping with an impassive expression.

When Aya's done, he speaks to the girl. "Your arm."

The girl flinches, just a little. "What about it." She doesn't look at him directly.

"It's dislocated."

"That's one theory." Her tone's a shrug and a dismissal at the same time.

Aya narrows his eyes. Omi comes to stand by the table, and brushes his hands off on his apron. He leans over, studying the girl's hunched shoulders, noting the pull of muscle, the peculiar bump that tells him Aya's guess is right.

"We can fix that," Omi says. "Or would you rather go to a doctor?"

"No doctors," the girl hisses.

Aya grunts, and Omi gives him a worried look. Before the girl can react, Aya's hands are around her ribs. He hauls her to a standing position. Omi's used to Aya acting without warning and thinks nothing of it, idly noting the girl's hair is cut high in the back, revealing a long tanned neck. Then he catches the fear on the girl's face.

"Ayan," Omi protests. "Shouldn't you--" He's not fast enough. Aya is.

Swift as any lethal strike, Aya takes her right arm in one hand, other hand on her shoulder. She makes a strange whimpering sound in her throat but he's commited to the move. Arm up, back, and out, and a harsh yank. A bell chimes. Omi registers the front door's opened just as the store echoes with a popping sound. The girl screams, a sound sharp with pain.

Aya lets go of her.

She falls, barely landing in the chair, clutching her elbow. To Omi's surprise, the girl manages to glare up at Aya, through her tears. "You fucking--"

An orange blur streaks across Omi's vision and tackles Aya with a shout. "You bastard," Ken yells. "Get the hell away from her!"

"Ken, no!" Omi leaps in the way, rethinks and backpedals. Ken's focused on Aya. He'll take Omi down, a minor obstacle in his way.

A solid punch, and Ken follows through with all his weight onto Aya's jaw. Aya falls back a few feet from the force, one hand rising to his jaw. Aya drops his hand, gaze fixed on Ken. Omi grabs for Ken's sleeve, and just as fast lets go when Aya retaliates. A right hook, moving from the waist, without warning, fast.

"Aya, stop!" Omi yells, even as he readies himself to grab the next opening -- and wonders why he wastes his breath. They no longer know he exists, that anything exists. Spark hit tinder, and they're both fully aflame.

Aya gets in a second punch, aiming for Ken's face, almost lands it. None of it seems to faze Ken. He just spins with the blow, comes around into a crouch, then rises to drive his fist into Aya's solar plexus. It throws Aya backwards, wind knocked out of him. The girl scrambles to get out of the way, clumsy with one arm held tight to her body.

"Stop, both of you!" Omi screams. Shit, just what he needs, the two of them killing each other and Yohji's not even around to help break it up.

Omi times his next grab for Ken's next swing, grabbing at Ken's waist. He can't hold Ken back, but he can at least hold on. The punch lands low in Aya's gut, sending him to his knees. Ken advances, Omi feeling like an idiot for digging his hands like claws into Ken's shirt and still being ignored.

"Ken, Ken, stop," he keeps yelling, but no one's listening.

The girl's crying. Aya's spitting mad, and that's nothing compared to Ken's fury.

"I'll break your arms," Ken shouts. "I'll snap your wrist for hurting her--" His arm comes up, muscles tensing against Omi's arms, a move Omi knows too well. Ken will bring his fist down with all the force of his full weight.

Aya's sprawled on the floor, back to the refrigerated units. Cornered, and outranked by Ken's hand-to-hand. The doorbell rings again, and it must have startled Ken enough to hesitate. It gives Aya that split-second he needs to get himself under control.

"Idiot." Aya comes to his feet, slowly: a controlled, graceful rise. A trickle of blood runs down his jaw where Ken busted his lip; his eyes are narrowed. Omi lets go of Ken, knowing it's too far gone, now, and another step back and he nearly trips over the girl, crouched behind the chair. Damn it, he could knock both his teammates out in two seconds with the right darts, but explaining that would be far more trouble than Ken and Aya breaking each other's heads open. Omi puts out a hand, motioning her to stay behind him, and shuffles out of the fighting range.

Aya and Ken circle each other, and there's no use wasting breath yelling, now.




Yohji halts on the threshold, his usual greeting dying on his lips, and takes in the entire schema in a glance: envelope on floor, unfamiliar girl half-hidden behind Omi, baby's breath scattered across the floor, teammates trying to kill each other. On instinct, Yohji bends over, snatching up the envelope, then straightens up to see the girl reach for the nearby mop. Omi's back is to her, but her intention's clear enough to Yohji. She hefts it with one hand, aiming for the back of Aya's knees. It's a wild swing, hardly graceful, wide enough to give Aya warning. He snags the mop handle at the same instant that Yohji jerks the handle from the girl's grasp. She yelps, recoiling.

Yohji releases his hold on the mop. It clatters to the floor, the other end still in Aya's hands.

"Have you all gone insane?" Yohji raises his voice, certain his face is the picture of incredulous. If there weren't a stranger present, he might even add: thought we ended the pissing matches six months ago. Aya's knuckles are white around the mop handle. He's shooting death at both Ken and the girl half-hidden behind Omi. Ken doesn't move, but his fists are clenched.

"She had a dislocated shoulder," Omi finally says. "Aya was fixing it when Ken walked in..." He mumbles to a halt, too distressed -- or perhaps aggravated, it's always hard to tell -- to continue. "She was already hurt when she arrived," he adds.

Yohji turns to Aya with an expectant look.

"You're welcome." Aya's snarl is directed at no one and everyone, it seems. He flings the mop away from him and stalks out the back door of the shop. A door slams in the back.

"Do tell." Yohji picks up the mop, rights the bucket. "What made you think that would be a good move?" He says it conversationally, though he's tempted to laden the question with sarcasm. She had to be stupid or suicidal to get between those two.

Her hair swings down in her face. It's just now registering on Yohji the garish bruise down her leg, the blood on her sleeve, but she's curled over and he can't tell if there's more. It gives him pause, until he realizes the tiny nods of her head are towards the door, her weight shifting to the balls of her feet. Preparing for a rapid retreat, it seems.

He stifles his amusement to be proven right: not as confident as she wants him to think, is she. He tells her, "in the future, avoid crossfire." If Aya and Ken were truly fighting and she got between them, she'd be dead in two seconds. Omi's lucky to last ten, when those two are in a blind rage.

Ken's glare has transferred to the girl, who hunches her shoulders and doesn't look up.

Yohji lets his sunglasses slip down his nose and brings out the envelope, turning it over in his hands. It's covered with bloody fingerprints, mingled with the dirty sweat of being held in a hot palm for too long. He gives the girl another long, steady look, taking in more of the tiny details. He purses his lips. Pity when people think girls make good punching bags. It turns his stomach, and he stares down at the envelope for another second before opening it. He doesn't bother to hide his bemusement at the short note. He holds it up with two fingers, displaying the shop's logo, and gives Ken a pointed look.

Ken's jaw juts, ready to argue.

Yohji rolls his eyes, fluffing his hair as though he has no clue of any underlying meanings. "Well, well, and here I thought I was the only one with an open-door policy." He's got to play it light, else Ken will fall back into fighting mode without a second thought. Or a first thought, for that matter. "Just remember, strangers tromping up and down the stairs at odd hours will send Aya through the roof."

"Too late," Omi mutters.

Ken freezes, then exhales, giving Yohji a flash of sheepish grin. The fight's gone out of him, and Yohji is satisfied. The girl, behind Ken, watches with a wary expression. Yohji casually pushes his sunglasses back up a finger, using the slight reflection in the darkening shop to cover his curious gaze. Whoever she is, she means a great deal to Ken, if he'd risk Kritiker's displeasure by giving the girl a tip on his present location. But really, it's not like this is out of character for Ken, really. He might be clumsy and loud, but his heart and hands are always at the ready for a friend, and this girl looks like someone who needs a friend, and badly.

Hell. Yohji knows he wouldn't protest -- much -- if he were asked to lend a hand pounding the girl's attackers, despite his natural preference to stay out of such things. She's got a glare like Aya's must've been at that age. Sixteen, if the flowers were for her most recent birthday... sixteen, bruised, bloody, and scared to death. Her glower abruptly worsesn, as Ken turns around to face her. How unshocking a reaction: Yohji's well aware that attitude is the last refuge of the cornered.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Ken says, and takes the girl by the elbow. She winces, and he lightens his grip with a slight frown. When she doesn't move immediately, he pulls more sharply. She makes a noncommittal grunt, her feet dragging.

The edge of Yohji's mouth wants to curl up at the girl's recalcitrant scowl, but more because Ken looks fit to be tied, and that's always amusing to Yohji. He slides the card back into the envelope, tapping it against his palm several times. Omi's normally wide blue eyes regard the two with a calculating expression. When Omi notice Yohji, his expression modulates into a pleasant half-smile. Yohji isn't fooled. Omi knows the difficulties this presents, as well as -- if not better than -- he.

"Move, Rai." Ken's words are clipped, tone heavy with frustration. "My apartment's upstairs."

"Ken." Omi finds his voice as Ken guides the girl into the back hallway. That's not the chirp of a high school student going in eighty directions. It's the solid, commanding voice of their team's strategic leader: an order, a reminder. You can play at having a friend visit, but there will be consequences.

"I know," Ken calls over his shoulder. "Later. I need a shower, and I'm starving."

The back door opens, shuts, bell clanging once. Yohji pockets the envelope, musing the oddities, while Omi steps outside to pull down the gate. He has no more clue, really. "I need a smoke," he tells the empty room.

Aya and Ken in blood lust is enough to make a person either need to get seriously drunk, or swear off alcohol forever. They're both just too damn intense, and always over the littlest things. Yohji rolls his eyes; things would be so much easier if those two would learn from his example, but that's never going to happen. Bullheaded idiots. He leans back in the chair and stretches his arms over his head.

When Omi returns, keys rattling, Yohji gets up. "You hungry?"

"Sure." Omi removes his apron with a grin. "You buying?"






Ken stands in the hallway, listening to water slosh. She made a production when he set it at lukewarm, but he gave her no choice. He didn't want to get into how he knew that extremes would affect her blood pressure, and that would mean she'd bleed like a stuck pig while he sewed up that gash along her shoulderblade. It was bad enough having to clean it the first time; it gave him a headache, really, to be cleaning such a wound on someone who'd been his little sister for five, six years. It didn't help that she seemed acutely embarrassed about taking her shirt off, even with her back turned. He'd been glad to leave her about to climb into seven inches of water -- not a bit more -- and let her clean what she could reach, herself.

He raps sharply on the door. "Are you done yet?"

"Almost." Rai's voice echoes in the bathroom's close confines. "Do you have an extra toothbrush, too?"

Ken sighs. "Use mine."

He wanders back to the living room, snagging a leftover pizza crust to munch on. He both does and doesn't want to be aggravated with her, then he thinks about his own slow movements after a rough mission. He'd sent her flowers so she'd have at least one day in her life she'd gotten flowers. He works in a florist's shop, and it was the least he could do. He isn't sure he would've been so generous if he'd known she'd show up on his doorstep with the crap beaten out of her.

Problem is, he's not sure if he's mad because someone hurt her or mad because she's there at all.

He stares down at the medical supplies spread across the coffee table. Hydrogen peroxide, sterile pads, bandages, surgeon's tape, sutures, needles, tweezers. Ken squeezes the tube of Xylocaine. This isn't going to be enough. Oh, it'd be enough for her leg and shoulder. Doubtful there's enough for her feet, too, and he picks up the phone, speed-dialing without really paying attention.

He hangs up when Omi's machine answers. Ken tries Yohji's line next. No answer. Which means Ken has to go ask Aya, or figure out a way to break into a pharmacy and pick up some sleeping meds and some extra topical painkillers. One mission a night is enough. He drops the tube back on the table and heads back to the bathroom door.

"When you come out, don't walk."

"What?"

"Scoot on your ass. I don't want you walking on those feet." Ken crosses his arms and leans against the doorjamb. "And don't put that tank top on until I have a chance to bind up your shoulder."

"I am not walking around naked!"

"Use a towel."

There's silence for a moment. Finally she says: "Anything else?"

He grins. "Yeah, if I'm not here, don't panic. I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

He doesn't answer.






Ken takes a deep breath and knocks. There's no sound from inside; Aya's footsteps are too light. But the light is on in the front window, and it's not like Aya would go out.

"I need Xylocaine," Ken says when the door opens.

Aya raises a single eyebrow.

Ken dips his head for a second before he meets Aya's stare. "She's the closest thing to a sister I've got."

Aya seems a little surprised, then nods as he steps back to let Ken enter the apartment.

Ken tries to appear calm, but his stomach flips at the sensation of entering Aya's space. He hates intruding on Aya's minimalist interior. Hell, Ken thinks, Aya makes minimalists look cluttered: the modern, austere sofa; the two metal chairs sitting by the simple glass-topped table. The kitchen countertops are completely bare of appliances; the walls are plain. No pictures. No calendar. Nothing. It's a stark complement to Aya's own appearance, the whiplash-lean body that would seem slender, breakable, but for the steel running through the center. And that crimson hair, which always leaves Ken just a bit confused as to how someone who looks that... strange...could possibly blend in so well. As if through sheer will, Aya simply ceases to exist, becomes part of the steel and glass and emptiness of the space around him. It bugs the frickin' hell out of him, sometimes.

He chews on the inside of his mouth and tries to act suitably appreciative when Aya returns with a large white box. Flipping it open on the countertop, Aya rifles through the properly and precisely catalogued interior. Idly, Ken wonders why Aya bothers to look. He probably knows perfectly well what he has and what's lacking. Another thing that bugs the hell out of him, Ken decides. The list is pretty long, sometimes.

Aya hands him a full tube, silently.

"And any of the sedative? Whatever it's called."

"Demerol," Aya replies, handing him a bottle.

Ken takes it with abashed grin, cheerfully forgetting he ever had a list of things he hated about his teammate. "Thanks." Ken turns to go, but Aya's voice stops him.

"Do you need help?"





Ken returns to find Rai slowly making her way to the sofa, only halfway obedient: instead of scooting on her ass, she's walking on her knees. He drops the medicines on the table and looks her over as she climbs onto the sofa. He has to stamp down a surge of rage at the damage. The deep bruises on her legs are easily visible; she clutches the towel in one hand, a washcloth pressed to her forehead with the other. The towel just reaches her hips, and blood drips down her thigh. Her feet and shoulders are bleeding, too. He suspects she added a strong dose of hot water the second he shut his front door. Figures.

Ken doesn't even look in the direction of the silent man standing in the darkness by the front door. He just motions, once, and expects Aya to catch the meaning. He wants time to get Rai settled. "Tuck the towel in and raise your arms a little." He needs time to settle, himself, too.

He grabs the bandages and perches himself on the sofa arm. A temporary bandage on her shoulder wound will have to do, but it's definitely going to need stitches. He starts wrapping the ace bandages around her chest, under her arm, up over her shoulder, and back around again.

"You going to tell me what happened?" His voice is neutral.

"Do I have to?"

"Hell yeah." Ken shoots a look over his shoulder at Aya. Rai doesn't seem to have noticed the second man's presence.

"I need to borrow forty-two thousand yen."

"What for?" Ken frowns at the blood-soaked gauze. "Don't jerk me around," he warns. "I'm tired, I had to cook dinner for two, I still haven't had a shower, and I punched a coworker this afternoon. What happened?" He holds up the tank top and she puts her arms up so he can pull it over her head. "Who did this?"

She ignores the question and straightens the tank top around herself, then pulls the towel out from underneath the shirt. The tank top runs low on the sides, and he can see the ripple of her bones under her skin.

Ken looks over her head to see Aya holding out a glass of water. Ken takes it with a grateful nod and hands it to Rai, who stares at it. There's a line appearing between her eyebrows, and she gives the glass a bewildered look. Ken takes her other hand, dropping three pills onto her palm.

"Take these," he tells her sternly.

"What are they?"

"Pills."

"I can see that."

"You rather I shove them down your throat?"

"I don't like pills."

"Take them anyway." Ken crosses his arms. Way he sees it, easist to intimidate her into taking the medicine, but if he has to, he'll demonstrate he's never lost the knack for holding her down. To rub his knuckles into her scalp, to tickle her, to wake her from-- he forces the memories away.

"I didn't ask you to take care of me, you know," she retorts. She still hasn't swallowed them.

"You showed up. Far as I'm concerned, that's a request." He blows hair out of his eyes and gives her a weary look. Has she always been this obstinate, or did he just forget that part in the years since? "Just take them."

Her left shoulder slumps a little in defeat and she shovels the three pills into her mouth, following it up with a large swallow of water. Ken points to the sofa and she sighs, turning to lie down on her stomach.

Rai flinches when he puts a hand on the small of her back. Carefully he twitches at the bottom of the tank top, pulling it down a little to completely cover her panties. She lies still while he bandages her knee, and for that alone, he bites back the impulse to lecture her about having had a damn good reason for her to scoot on her ass. Every now and then he glances up at her prone body, wondering whether the sedative has kicked in.





"I think she's out," Aya whispers. He'd moved to watch at the top of the sofa as Ken finishes wrapping Rai's knee.

"Took long enough," Ken replies.

Aya surveys the damage. "I'll do the feet."

The two men work in silence. No words are needed; the distance between them is the natural course after one more argument that came down to fists. Ken swears under his breath as he digs the needle through Rai's shoulder, pulling it tight with a soft snapping motion. Aya ignores the sound; his mind is on the night's mission, but he can't help but note the girl's injuries.

Absently he plays with theories, not sure why he's bothering. Corner of a glass coffee table, maybe. Or the end of a countertop. Something hard, protruding, that she hit with a great deal of force; add the damage she obviously did on her own, and she's nothing but a mass of cuts, bruises, and prickly attitude lost in drugged sleep.

Ken speaks without moving his gaze from the girl's shoulder. "How's it coming down there?"

"Slow." Aya's gaze flickers to Ken over the tops of his reading glasses before he goes back to plucking gravel out of the girl's right foot. Ken's tongue is out, flicking at his lips as he concentrates; every few minutes he tosses his hair to get it out of his eyes. Aya extracts a sliver of glass from the ball of Rai's foot. "Time?"

"Eight." Ken scoots down the sofa to sit next to Rai's thigh and cleans the wound with a rag soaked in hydrogen peroxide.

The thigh muscle twitches. She might be coming around. No, her breath is still deep and even. She's still out. Her left arm hangs over the edge of the sofa. Ken stretches, then leans over to inspect her hand, holding it up. Aya gives Rai's hand a disapproving glance; her fingernails are filthy. Ken wraps his hand around hers, bending her hand backwards so he can look at her palm.

Aya raises his head, tweezers poised above another embedded sliver.

"Her fingers aren't broken," Ken murmurs.

Aya waits. There's no need to ask; Ken doesn't know the value of not saying out loud what runs through his mind. Sometimes it bothers Aya, but at least, it means he doesn't have to waste breath to ask questions. Ken will answer as if they were asked. Still, several seconds go by, and Aya wonders at the pause.

"She's a mechanic," Ken finally says. "Her hands... most important tools of the trade."

That makes sense to Aya. Getting nimble fingers in and out of tight places in engines, car bodies, holding a torch in one hand and a scraping brush in the other, running a spark plug against the circular gauge, fiddling with butterfly valves.

"Seen her work, once," Ken says, half to himself. "Her sixteenth birthday. That's when I sent her flowers..."

Aya doesn't react, but listens intently.

Ken purses his lips, as though Aya's silence were a complete response in its own way. "If her hands aren't broken, it means those jackass brothers of hers didn't want her unable to work."

"Brothers?" Aya asks despite himself.

"Her real family." Ken snorts. The way he says it, the meaning is clear: like real family means shit these days.

Aya wonders what Rai would need money for, that she'd come all that way to Ken, rather than turn to her own family, her blood-brothers.

"She has two older brothers, one younger," Ken mutters. "She got placed with them two years ago, when her real father finally kicked the bucket. Oldest brother got custody back from the government. Don't know why," he mumbles under his breath. "Useless trash...Wannabe yakuza, low-rent thugs."

Aya puzzles over the fact that Ken automatically assumes the culprits were Rai's brothers. Personal abuse, in Aya's experience, centers on the face, the arms, the torso. It's personal. Rai's injuries fit the other category, where the person's just tossed about and left in a heap. The yakuza style for a second warning on unpaid gambling debts. He doubts the irony would be missed even by Ken; he has to admit in Ken's place, he'd choose any other cause, as well.

Ken ties a knot and snips the suture thread. He gets up, rests his hand softly on Rai's head for a long heartbeat, then withdraws his hand. His fingers trail across the dark brown strands, tucking a few behind her ear. She twitches, moving against the pressure of his fingertips, then falls back into sleep.

"Going to take a shower," Ken says.

"About time," Aya murmurs, too low for Ken to hear. He wipes down her blood stained feet with antibiotic cream, and trying not to think about the touch of Ken's hand on Rai's face. It's not the touch that keeps coming back to his mind. It's the fact that Rai moved, just a little, responding to the caress.

Aya scowls down at Rai's feet, and begins to bandage them.





Yohji follows Aya to his apartment, rather than head up to his own place. Aya glances behind him, the glare warning him away, but Yohji just smiles lazily and holds his ground. After a few seconds of stand off, Aya's gaze falls away, and it's the most surrender he'll give.

"Med kit in the same place?" Yohji rolls his eyes at Aya's growl. "I'll take that as a yes."

In the living room, Aya's stripping off his shirt, and feeling along the small of his back and across his side. Even as stoic as he is sometimes, his fingers jerk when they touch the edges of the knife wound. Yohji drops the towels and the med kit on Aya's glass coffee table.

"Sit down," Yohji orders, and after a second -- long enough to indicate he's not giving in, just deciding on his own to cooperate -- Aya perches on the edge of the coffee table, his back to Yohji.

If there's any sign of trust in him, it's that moment of turning his back willingly on anyone. Of course, he turned his back on one of their targets tonight, and it nearly cost him a kidney, but it wasn't like Aya had a choice, Yohji tells himself. Three others coming from the opposite direction made the odds easy to calculate.

Yohji kneels down, grimacing at the hard floor under his knees, and swabs carefully at the wound. "Clean cut," he reports, and studies the wound. "No stitches needed, I think."

"Then leave it," Aya says, starting to move away.

"Don't move," Yohji replies, catching Aya by the hips and pulling him back down. Aya's back stiffens at the unwelcome touch. Goddamnit, you boneheaded asshole, Yohji wants to snap, you've made your displeasure clear for the record. Now just shut up and sit there and take a bit of help like a man. But he doesn't say it; Aya's katana is only an arm's length away, and he does value what little living he gets to do. He'd like to keep it up a bit longer.

In retaliation, Yohji covers a gauze pad with hydrogen peroxide, and Aya's incensed hiss is a pleasing sound to Yohji's ears. He smirks, but Aya doesn't move away or protest, though his skin shivers and twitches at the sting of the chemical running down the wound. Yohji dabs it up, covering the thin wound-slice with cream, and bandages it neatly.

"Done," he says, getting to his feet.

"Now go away," Aya replies, pulling his shirt to his chest when he stands up. He turns away slightly, but only enough that he's looking at Yohji out of the corner of his eye. He's standing at the edge of exhaustion, but he's not going to give way, not until he's alone.

Yohji figures it's time to get to the point. "You took care of that girl's arm this afternoon."

Aya narrows his eyes, and looks away. His lips are set in a firm line.

"Well, well," Yohji says, just a hint of mocking, but not so much it'll set off Aya's delicate proximity alarms when it comes to ridicule. "There is a human being under there."

"What's your point?" It's not bristling; it's a complete stillness. He always seems so braced for someone to hit him, though they'd lose an arm -- or both -- if they tried.

"And then I hear you helped Ken clean her up." Yohji casually gathers up the bloodied gauze, and strolls past Aya to dump it in the kitchen trash. "Good of you," but he says it like it could be an insult, because a compliment wouldn't be accepted anyway. "Get some sleep, Aya, long day tomorrow dealing with flowers." --While the rest of them deal with Aya's thorns. Yohji ponders requesting frontline pay for Aya's attitude, and he smirks, amused by his own wit.

"If you're going out drinking, don't expect me to wait up for you," Aya spits. His arms come up, holding the shirt against his chest as he crosses his arms, glowering. He opens his mouth, but Yohji holds up a hand.

"I know, I know, I'm a slut," and he laughs, shrugging. "They love me. Don't know why you insist on being the only one not in the crowd. More love in this world, and it might be a better place. Especially love for me."

He sighs melodramatically, and leers at Aya's bare chest, the curve and dip of pectoral muscles down to a lean, flat stomach. Not quite as classically masculine as an athlete's body, and almost girlish, but Yohji's never going to repeat that observation out loud, though he gets a kick out of it. Aya freezes, and Yohji realizes too late he crossed a line somewhere, then he takes in the rest: the lowered lids, raised chin, mouth relaxed, lips slightly open. It's a startling change, even if only in minute details on an otherwise inscrutable face. Yohji lets the moment hang, not sure how to go forward or move backwards.

Heartbeats pass, until Aya turns away. "Ken would've fucked it up, if he'd done it all on his own."

Yohji accepts that as dismissal, but he remembers Aya's expression. He won't forget what he learned.

Date: 23 Jul 2007 11:46 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ravensilver.livejournal.com
Delete? O.O Oh no, no, no... then I wouldn't have had the pleasure of an intense read this noon!

WK? Is this a change of pace for you? ^^ I loved the tension between the members and how you explained it without really explaining. How Ken immediately went into fight-mode and Aya had no problem going right along. How they managed to find a shaky middle ground again, yet keep a definite distance. The whole chapter just *sings* with underlying tension and unspoken grievances.

I look forward to seeing where this goes.

Date: 31 Jul 2007 06:33 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] solitude1056.livejournal.com
Boy, aren't you going to be missing the updates while on vacation... *whistles*

In some ways, this is the third attempt at revising this story. It's one of those that I know could be decent, but what I want from it, and what it's got, aren't always matching up. I mean, as I got farther into fandom in general (not to mention more comfortable with writing explicit material, which does require a level of vulnerability, regardless of the final product's quality), I found I'd like to have this story go as deep into the physical interactions as the emotional.

'Cept... getting Yohji to buckle down and talk is damn well hard. One thing I do recall from the episodes I watched (oh, these many years ago!) was the curious sense that Yohji seemed to be the only character who watched.

That, and even when I was first writing this (and hadn't read that fandom to any deep degree), I found it bothersome that Ken was constantly shown as some goofy, brainless, jock. Y'know, jocks can be smart, too -- you don't get far in a strategic game like soccer/footy without having a certain kind of smarts. It's not, y'know, track -- all they have to do is start here and run to there!

Date: 24 Jul 2007 01:04 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] flamesword.livejournal.com
*glee* You did more! mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. *happy sigh* Oh yes. Definitely yes. awww Ken. oh, boys, it's ridiculous I love you so much.

I am so delighted! ♥

Date: 31 Jul 2007 06:33 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] solitude1056.livejournal.com
In that case, for you m'dear, I will continue!