Melting Dreams

******************************
  Disclaimer: Weiß belongs to Koyasu Takehito and all those talented,
  important people in Japan. deena knows that so don’t sue her since this is
  purely for entertainment purposes only.
  ******************************

          The windowpane seemed to be made from ice. He could feel the frigid
  frost beneath his fingertips. Slowly, with movements like unraveling silk,
  his long fingers scraped away a portion of the frost and he gazed outside.
  It was snowing bitterly. Cold twists of snow curled around the city,
  splashing into the buildings and onto the asphalt roads. Shrouding people as
  the wind shrieked. Everything was frozen. Frozen and blanketed with snow.
          He didn’t mind that it was bitingly cold. He preferred it that way. It made
  him feel complete. The snow complemented him, providing him with a veil to
  hide himself in. Just like the snow hid so much, so too did he hide beneath
  the winter. Was that silly? Perhaps. He didn’t know anymore, didn’t care
  anymore. Watching the snow fall was the only pleasure he would receive on
  this icy Sunday afternoon.
          Aya hated Sundays. There was nothing worse than the drowsiness of a Sunday,
  especially a Sunday afternoon. He disliked it. Disliked the fact that no
  matter what he did, he wasn’t able to flee from the truth that it was and
  would remain Sunday. Sunday was like fate. There was no escaping it. A tiny
  death at the end of every week. He died a little every Sunday. Sundays
  killed him, just like fate inevitably would.
          He could feel the languidness of Sunday flow around him, as the snow flowed
  outside. The silence of the afternoon was swallowed up by Sunday. He liked
  the silence that came in the late afternoon, as the world seemed to slow
  down. And he despised Sunday for taking it away. It didn’t matter though, he
  supposed. Nothing mattered on Sundays. The world continued to dance with
  change and he was alone. Alone  and dying on a cold Sunday.
          The sudden shrill of an ambulance siren far off in the distance jarred him
  from his thoughts. He felt his cheeks flush as he tugged at his hair. Sanity
  was slipping away from him. It was that simple. Snowflakes were falling and
  he was thinking about how he died on Sundays. He had to be losing his mind.
  That scared him, insanity did. He was afraid. Afraid that he would loose all
  rational thought and become a mindless vessel of hatred and emptiness. Or
  was he already there? Was he incorrigible? That scared him even more than
  descending into madness. The fact that he was already crazy. Crazy meant
  without hope. But had not hope had died with them? Insanity had come when he
  had stood by helplessly and watched her body being crushed. And revenge...
          It was a dream that he hoped to make a reality; revenge was. He knew that
  it had taken over the frail remnants of his soul. Gone was everything in
  that moment when he had seen the shine of those mirrored sunglasses. There
  was nothing left inside. Eternally empty and ugly. Already dead. He was a
  broken shell of nothingness.
          "It should have been me."
          His frost covered fingers pulled harder at his maroon colored locks. He
  knew it.

                              ********

         Ken bounded up the stairs, trying his best not to drop the
  overflowing laundry basket that filled his arms. He paused only once to tuck
  in a shirt that was in danger of falling out of the basket and then he
  continued up the stairs singing X-Japan’s ‘Weekend’ loudly.
          "Week End Week End  Week End Week End
          I’m at my wits end, Week End
          I still love you, Week End
          But I cannot carry on..."
          "Yo Ken, keep it down!" Yohji hollered from his room, interrupting
  Ken’s fine performance. "Some people are tryin’ ta get some sleep around
  here! Bugger off, will ya?"
          Ken grinned mischievously, stopping outside Yohji’s room. He sang
  extra loudly, knowing that it would royally piss off the older boy. It
  didn’t take a brilliant scientist to figure out why Yohji was still in bed
  so late in the afternoon. He must have had some hot lovin’ last night, that
  was for sure. That thought made Ken smile as he began to sing higher and
  louder.
          Yohji’s angry expletives and threats of violence filled the air. He
  laughed and quickly scrambled down the hall to his room, still singing at
  the top of his lungs. He was in too good of a mood to be bothered by Yohji’s
  sleepy grumblings and empty threats.
          Ken carefully balanced the laundry basket on his hip as he attempted to
  open the door to his room. "I’m not gonna trip and fall down and drop my
  laundry," he told himself. "I’m a well balanced, graceful person. I’m an
  assassin. Assassins aren’t supposed to be clumsy. A rule of thumb to be
  certain. I am *not* clumsy."
          The door wouldn’t open. It was stuck...again. "Aw crappy," he muttered,
  blowing his bangs from his eyes. "Why do these things always gotta happen to
  me?"
          Omi, hearing voices, stuck his head out of his room, wondering what was
  going on. It was Ken giving himself his famous 'I’m not clumsy' pep talk. He
  grinned. That little talk never worked and whenever Ken gave it to himself,
  it usually meant that some kind of disaster would occur shortly after.
          Omi leaned against the doorjamb, watching Ken precariously try to
  balance the huge laundry basket while violently shoving at the door with his
  shoulder while muttering 'why me' and curses under his breath. Omi was
  patient. He knew it was coming. He waited, trying his best not to erupt into
  giggles.
         Ken took a step back from the entrance, the basket slipping a notch.
  He didn’t notice. Instead he hurled himself into the door, thinking to teach
  the stubborn piece of lumber a lesson. This would be the last time the door
  would not open for him. He would give this stupid door such a what-for that
  next time it would think twice about getting stuck.
         Ken was one who was pure-hearted and gentle. He was many wonderful
  things, but he was also naïve and rash and hotheaded. He wasn’t the best of
  planners. The door *did* open. Afterall, he had thrown his entire body
  weight against the entrance. But in his eagerness to get the door open, he
  had neglected to remember one thing. The laundry basket.
         The door jarred open with such a force and ever so quickly that Ken
  had no time to even think. He promptly lost his balance as the door was
  thrown open. He fell flat onto his face, clean clothes splashing all around
  him, the laundry basket sailing into his apartment.
         Omi, watching the spectacle of Ken bash the door open and then
  proceeding to fall on his face, was unable to help himself. He let out a
  hoot of laughter and sank to the floor, burying his face in his knees. It
  was too much for the little boy. He laughed hysterically.
  Ken, however was not amused. Well, he was rather stunned actually. He still
  wasn’t sure what he was doing lying flat-faced on the floor. All he knew was
  that the pep talk to himself hadn’t worked. Again.   But...was that laughing
  he was hearing?
         He sat up and twisted around, pulling a pair of corduroy pants off of
  his lap. He glared at Omi who was sitting on the floor, laughing. "What’s so
  funny, Omi?" he demanded in an intimidating tone.
  Omi gazed at him with a wide-eyed expression. "I don’t what you’re talking
  about, Ken-kun." He blinked innocently.
          Ken muttered curses as he scrambled about, picking up his laundry.
         "You really should learn to be more careful, Ken-kun," Omi said,
  hugging his knees. "And why do you still bother giving yourself that little
  talk anyways? You know that it never works."
        Ken gave him a look of Death and then slammed the door.
        "Keep it down!!!" Yohji yelled from his room. "I’m trying to get some
  sleep, blast it!!!"
        Omi shook his head as he stood up., still laughing. There was never a
  dull moment. He headed back to his computer.

                            ********

         "Whymewhymewhymewhyme?" Ken grumbled as he stuffed his favorite blue
  shirt into his overflowing drawers. "It isn’t fair. Why am I destined to be
  the goof of the group? Why do I always hafta mess up?"
         "Is life always raining down upon you with unexpected problems?" a
  cheerful voice on the radio announced.
         "It sure is," he said, examining his favorite pair of Jeans. They
  were still covered with grass stains. Crap.
         "Are you sick and tired of being sick and tired?" the lady continued.
         "Yeah, I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired," he declared,
  tossing his Jeans back into his ‘dirty-clothes’ pile.
         "Does it seem like everyone around you is having fun while you’re
  bogged down with responsibilities?"
         He snorted, as he hunted for his other blue and green striped sock.
  "Hell yeah."
         "Well with ‘No Maybes, no Babies’ birth control pills, you won’t have
  to worry about---"
         "AHHH!!!!!"
         The horror...the horror.
         Ken hastily changed the radio station. The peppy beat of L’Arc en
  Ciel’s ‘Caress of Venus’ filled the room.
         "I even botched up with that stupid ad," he muttered darkly, peeking
  behind a chair to see if his other sock was there. He frowned, his hands on
  his hips as he surveyed the room. "Where the blue blazes did that other sock
  go?"
          The search continued, since they were his favorite pair of socks.
  But all investigating processions came to a halt when, instead he found an
  orange sweater. "How’d Aya’s sweater get in my laundry?" he wondered. "Maybe
  then Aya’s got my other sock?"
          He grabbed the sweater, stumbled over his pajama pants that were
  lying in the middle of the floor and hurried to Aya’s room. Rapping sharply
  on his door, Ken prayed that Aya was in a good mood.  Lately, he’d been even
  more quiet and angry and withdrawn, if that was possible. He had completely
  isolated himself, saying nothing no matter what the circumstance. Only his
  violet eyes betrayed the fact that he was hurting. They flashed like an
  angry mirror, crying out with all the anguish of a lost soul. That was Aya.
  A lost soul. His eyes fairly begged for salvation.
          Aya didn’t answer, which of course was hardly a surprise. He pushed
  open the door slowly, sticking his head inside. "Aya-kun? You in there?"
          He opened the door further and stepped inside. The room was very
  dark. It was strange, the darkness was. It seemed viscous and thick, as if
  shadows had melted. Or...more appropriately, as if dreams had melted. Aya’s
  dreams. His own dreams. Weiß’s dreams. All melted to make this sticky
  murkiness. Dreams that had meant nothing.
          His eyes adjusted to the gelatinous-like duskiness. He could make
  out Aya standing next to the window, watching the snow fall. It was odd, how
  little light the whiteness from outside provided the room. Light was dying.
  He shuddered.
          "Um...Aya-kun?" His hesitant voice seemed unnaturally loud in the
  small, dark room.
          Aya didn’t move, giving no signs of having heard him. Ken wished he
  would turn around, wished he would say something. Anything. Even if it was
  just to tell him to get lost.
          He walked towards him, trying his best not to walk into anything,
  babbling all the way. "The snow is really something, huh? I’m so glad that
  it snowed today. Omi and I built a snowman this morning. Looks more like a
  snow pile, though. We didn’t have a carrot for his nose and I couldn’t find
  any rocks. Not a single bleedin’ rock. All the little kids must have gotten
  to them first, huh? Maybe you’d want to help us build one next time? It
  would be---"
         Aya suddenly turned around, and Ken stopped under the flare of his
  eyes. They were so vibrant, so vehement against the dark. "Was there
  something you wanted, Ken?" he demanded coldly. His eyes narrowed, pinning
  him to the spot.
        Ken cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone dry. He shuffled his
  feet and nervously wiped at his face. "I was just...um...you know...ah..."
  he gaze fell upon the orange sweater in his hands. He had forgotten about
  that. "I came here to return your sweater," he blurted out, holding it up.
  "It was in my laundry and..."
        He trailed off, seeing that Aya did not look impressed. His face
  remained glacial, his eyes cold. Ken quickly laid the sweater down upon his
  bed and hurried for the door. He turned once to look back. Aya had turned
  back towards the window, not bothering to acknowledge the fact that he was
  leaving. Ken left without saying another word.
         Aya heard the door shut softly but firmly behind him. One tiny part
  of him wished to call Ken back, to apologize to him. He knew that he had
  hurt the younger boy. Ken was so soft hearted. He cared too much, always
  worrying about him. And he always ended up hurting him.
         He wanted to talk to Ken, to let out what he was feeling but he
  didn’t. Would it really have made a difference? He couldn’t anyways. There
  was nothing that he could connect to. Only this soul searing loneliness
  remained and no one, even Ken, could help him now.
  The darkness of his room was suddenly oppressive. He hadn’t noticed it
  before. Despair seemed to hang on webs of smoky shadows. The sun was slowly
  setting, swallowed by the winding snow. Everything hurt. The need to be free
  was overwhelming.
         He grabbed his coat and stalked out of his room.

                              ********

         "Where’s Aya?" Manx demanded impatiently, tapping her shiny heels
  against the floor. "I don’t have all day to wait, you know."
         Yohji propped his feet upon the coffee table before him. "Who knows
  with that bloke? He’s in another world, babe."
         "I thought I heard him go out," Omi said thoughtfully. He looked up
  at Ken from his position on the floor. "Weren’t you in his room a little
  while ago, Ken-kun?"
         Ken absently wiped at his face. "Yeah I was. He was in one of those
  moods again. I didn’t want to bother him."
        "Man, he’s always in those moods," Yohji muttered.
        "Well, I don’t have time to wait for him," Manx announced, taking out
  the video tape from her purse. "Persia-sama is expecting me back soon. We’ll
  have to start without him."
        Ken stood up. "I’ll go find him."
        Manx sighed loudly. "Ken-" she began warningly.
        "He deserves to know."
        She raised an eyebrow at his tone. This wasn’t the Ken that she knew.
  His voice was quiet but firm. Not loud and passionate.         
      "Alright," she muttered. "I’ll call Persia-sama and tell him that  I’ll be late." She
  leveled her blue gaze at him. "But I’ll only wait ten minutes Ken."
        "Twenty minutes," he responded.
        "Seventeen point five minutes and not a second more," Yohji
  proclaimed.
        They ignored him. "Fifteen minutes," Manx argued.
        "Done," he replied quickly. Fifteen minutes was all he had wanted
  anyways.
        She glared at him but said nothing. She simply took out her cell phone
  and headed to the corner to phone Persia.
        Yohji yawned, stretching. "Never seen this bartering side of ya, Ken."
        He shrugged. "Aya has a right to know. These missions involve him as
  much as they involve us. But I gotta scarper now. I’ll be back in a bit."
       "Don’t fall," Omi advised snickering behind his hand.
       Ken smacked him on his head as he exited.
       "Ow!!!"
       "That’s your own fault," was Yohji’s addition.

                              ********

        The wind bit at his cheeks, jerked at his hair. It splashed around
  him, shrieking like the dead. A winter’s Sunday. Colder than revenge. He was
  frozen with his burden of hatred. Living like an ice sculpture. Carved from
  despondent ice shards. Hanging from frigid misery.
        But still, life continued. The world was enveloped in action and he
  was nothing. Life would continue if he just left. There were so many choices
  and none of it would matter in the end. Nothing mattered. He was nothing.
  Worthless. It was his fault.
        How was he to bear it any longer? Hiding beneath a façade of glacial
  silence. Anger waiting to erupt forth in viscous bubbles. He was only human.
  Life was ripping his soul apart. He was never meant for this world. Would
  anyone shed tears for him? A child of sorrow. Always empty. Underneath the
  silence and the anger and the revenge he was nothing. Always melting. His
  dreams, his life. He could feel himself melting on a cold Sunday afternoon.
        The dying sunlight shone weakly upon his footprints. He loathed to be
  the first one to taint the fresh blanket of snow that covered the
  playground. But he knew that soon the snow fall would cover his footprints,
  obliterating all evidence of his existence. No one would know that he had
  been there. Such was the fate of one who was empty.
        "Empty and alone, without footprints," he thought bitterly as he sat
  down on a swing, his numb hand clasping around the metal chains. His fingers
  trembled as he raised his can of acerola juice to his lips and took a sip.
         The cold, viscous liquid poured into his mouth, sliding down his
  throat. He could taste the fibers washing over his teeth. He loved the feel
  of the juice, as it gave him a brief moment of pleasure. It tastes of
  delight, filling him with memories. There had been a time when little things
  like a can of acerola juice had filled him with an enormous amount
  happiness. Things had been so different then.
         If only happiness lasted. He wanted to so much to be happy in that
  moment. Return to those days when he had sat innocently swinging in the
  playground drinking acerola juice. The only difference was that she had been
  there too.
         The moment did last; seeming to span forth from delicate strands of
  blown glass. The slightest jar would shatter everything. In his mind’s eye
  he could see his red juice filling his mouth. That same red color. It was
  everywhere, clouding his vision. It made the dropping snow a crimson color.
  In the distance, the bare trees appeared like grotesque skeletons, looming
  towards the heavens. The sky was white, blindingly so. Everywhere was
  falling snow. It covered him as the wind tore at his face, ripped at his
  coat. The chains of the swing were cold beneath his fingers. He wished he
  had a pair of mittens. Acerola juice swished in his mouth, its taste lost.
  He should have been happier.
         "I knew I’d find you here."
         A shadow fell over him. The moment was broken as he looked up.
  Strange that he hadn’t even noticed him approaching.
  Ken sat down on the swing next to him, gazing out at the empty playground.
  Night was descending. Ken appeared to be made from the nighttime shadows.
          "Manx is waiting for you," he said quietly, cracking the silence.
          Aya looked over at him. "And you came for me?"
          He nodded, pulling the sleeves of his jacket over his hands. "We’re all in
  this together Aya-kun."
          Aya took another drink of his juice to keep from bitterly jeering. "That’s
  where you’re wrong, Ken. We aren’t in this together at all."
          "Why do you have to be so damn stubborn all the time?" Ken demanded
  frustrated. "I’m just trying to fucking help."
          He quickly finished the rest of his juice and stood up. "I’m no more
  stubborn than you are," he replied coldly. "And I don’t need a shadow. I’m
  perfectly capable of taking care of myself." He tossed his empty can into a
  nearby garbage can and stalked off into the darkening night.
          Ken twisted the sleeves of his jacket around his cold hands but said
  nothing.

                             ********

          He could still hear it. Despite the fact that eight hours had
  passed. Her shrill screams still rang in his ears. Screams of the dead now.
  She looked otherworldly  somehow, as she had pleaded for her life. Those
  luminous green eyes...haunting him like her cries. He could see her blood on
  his sleeve. Bright and thick in the pale florescent light of the store. A
  jarring reminder of what he’d taken from her. She would leave him no peace.
  They never did. But it wasn’t his fault.
          The stain grew bigger, spreading over the fabric of his shirt,
  leaking from his sleeve onto the floor. Upon his shoes and striking the
  bougainvillea leaves littered on the ground. Tainting the cream colored
  lithium tiles. Red. Cold red. Everywhere.
          "Aya!"
         Ken’s voice shook him and suddenly he was beside him. “You spilt
  water all over the place!”
         Aya blinked. A puddle gathering at his feet. No red. Save for the
  dark strand resting upon his cheek. He tugged at it.
         "Omi how many times do I gotta tell you to put the leaves in the
  can?" Ken demanded as he mopped up the water. "It’s such a hassle ‘cause I’m
  the one who always has to clean it up."
         "You never clean up anything!" Omi retorted from behind a table
  filled with spider plants. "I’m the one who cleans up everything! And
  besides, Yohji was the one who made that mess. Don’t blame me for everything
  just ‘cause I’m the youngest!!!"
         Aya moved to water the clematises in the corner, away from their
  bickering. He could still see her. Strawberry blond hair falling around her
  bare shoulders. Pale pink satin sheet covering her breasts. Red lips
  pleading. And he hadn’t listened. Hadn’t cared. Her body was small. Dainty
  even. It didn’t matter now. It hadn’t been hard to fit her into the gutter.
  He could still see her. And it didn’t matter. Her screams continued. Eyes so
  green...
          He lurched back from the purple clematis. They were twisting into
  cords of desolate green…and now red. The fragile petals were red. Dripping
  slowly. Melting like a dream. Dying softly. Everything he touched. So red.
  Like saddened ribbons in the night.
          "Aya? Are you okay?"
          There was nothing left to say. It was silent now. No more screaming.
  No more words. And the flowers were melting.
          "Aya?"
          She had been screaming. Red painted mouth screaming. Quiet at that
  moment. She didn’t blink. Green eyes that would forever stare straight
  ahead. Empty orbs never again to seek. Her burning memory, like fading
  ashes. Even if it was just to keep his dreams from melting...he would
  remember.
          Sharp slap of boots on the shiny floor. Bells above the door
  jingling. A gust of wind. Bitterly cold.
          "He never says anything. He just leaves without saying a word. Not
  one fucking word."

                              ********

           Ken absently wiped at his cheeks as he made his way through the
  crowds. It was snowing again, if it ever would stop. Snowing on the crowds
  of people that made their way through the icy streets. Snowing on the tall
  building and on the noisy cars. Snowing on houses and streets and parks. And
  on assassins too. Even the ones who were already frozen.
           "Why am I even bothering?" he wondered as he stood behind a crowd,
  waiting for the light to change green. The red light stared boldly at him.
  Vibrant against the backdrop of glass buildings and falling snow. He looked
  down at his hands. Covered in brown mittens littered with snow. They were
  too big for him. Just another thing that didn’t quite fit. "Aya won’t talk
  to me."
           So many reasons. Everything was logical. It was the same story.
  Nothing new. So why did he still try? Did he honestly think that something
  would change? He wouldn’t make a difference. Not today, not ever. Like
  trying to open that locked door without the key. A door frozen shut. Lost
  souls in the cold. They never could be reached. So foolish for trying.
           "Then why am I going to find him?"
           The light changed green.

                               ********

           The image of the tall, overly thin boy in the windowpane wasn’t a
  distortion. The blood cracked violet eyes and wan cheeks, framed by locks of
  vibrant red stared back harshly at him. Silently, he watched as long, bony
  fingers reached up to pull at those red eartails. To wipe at pale, sunken
  cheeks. Foreboding purple eyes gazed back at him. It was so cold.
           The flower splashed carpet smothered his steps as he moved away
  from the windowpane. All he could see was the snow. Eternally falling it
  seemed. Snow and himself. Only a grotesque semblance. He wasn’t really like
  that, was he? Or maybe he was. Ugly and cold. Like a sullen statue, made of
  stone, emotionless. That was how the world saw him. Ugly and cold. Aya the
  assassin. Killing without remorse.
          Ugly and cold. Without remorse. Ugly and cold. Without remorse.
  UglyandcoldwithoutremorseUglyandcoldwithoutremorseUglyandcoldwithoutremorse.
          It coiled in his mind tightly and relentlessly. Praises that danced
  so furiously, driving him towards the cliffs of insanity. Jagged and torn,
  quiet and stoic. Those words wouldn’t leave him. Jumbled and scattered, they
  chewed on his brain, sucked at his intellect. Feasting on brittle remnants
  of rationality. Slimy parasites cooing in his ear, buzzing incessantly.
  Rotting within him, feeding upon him. The hum grew in volume, tattering his
  reason. Lying in shreds. Icy fingers scratching at his skin, bloody tracks
  dripping. Red again. Bloody red and black filth and his mute tongue lying in
  heaps of mushy pink brains. Masses of cancerous, black entrails and hard
  bits of purple eyes. A meaty heart still pumping, gushing blood. Red and
  flesh and red and flesh. Warm and slithering. Winding around his legs,
  roping his hands. Spewing protoplasm onto his cold skin. So taut, so pulpy.
  The spurting mire of lunacy.
         Scratching.
         Ugly and cold.
         Tearing.
         Without remorse.
         Banging.
         Ugly and cold.
         Screaming.
         Without remorse.
         Crying.
         Blessed tears. No longer cold and ugly. Sliding down his cheeks. No
  longer without remorse. Aya’s tears.

                             ********

           It was Ken who found Aya. He always did. He knew it to be Aya’s
  habit to return to the scene of the murder, if it bothered him. And killing
  the yellow haired American lady had. He kept so much inside. Soaking and
  absorbing the pain until it burned. He would eventually rupture. Ken knew it
  but still nothing could have braced him for the sight he beheld in the
  lady’s elegant, perfumed room. Aya had broken. Cold, silent, cynical Aya had
  broken. Broken Aya. Broken dreams. Broken existence. Broken Weiß. Broken
  broken broken broken.
           He was on his knees, weeping into his shaking hands. Hands that
  bled red onto the floral carpet. Scratch wounds. Looking so small, so frail
  as his thin body was wracked with sobs. He wept as if his soul was
  shattering, reality snapping. Sounds like cries of the dead. Moonlight
  splattered upon his shaking body. Every detail was etched. The image was
  poignant, shattering. Ken would remember it. Laughing like a rippling flame.
  Perpetually.
           The window was opened just a little, kissing the lacy pink
  curtains. Snowflakes fluttered onto the floor, fleeing from the night. And
  as the wind screamed, pregnant with lost souls, he took Aya into his arms.
  Just to stop the heart jarring weeping. Just to keep the dementia from
  steeping. Just to.
           His heart raced against Ken’s blue shirt, tears falling down his
  neck. It seemed natural somehow to stroke that red hair, so luminous against
  his hand. Aya’s thin arm wound around his neck, seeking. This time needing.
          "I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Not ever."
          "Aya."
          "I never did. Not once."
           He gently pushed his head against his neck, touching, needing also.
  He was weeping too. "I know."
           Hot tears. Like liquid glass. Winded so close, they seemed as one.
  Far from insanity. A net of salvation. Fingers stroking over ashen, bloody
  hands. Assassin’s touch. Opening like a blooming bell.  Silent room serene
  with ragged breathing. And then...placid conversation.
           Outside the snow fell. And dreams melted.