on my own two feet

 

The darkness of this room was familiar, once. But not anymore. Now it was that same, quiet dark of his own room. Suffocating. Oppressing. The usual clutter was gone from the nightstand. Once that mess had been irksome, irritating. Now it was missed. *Now* he regretted coming in here to clean up the messes like he had several times before. Regretted it because *now* there was no longer anyone to thoughtlessly *re*-make them. That was, maybe, the only argument he had ever won. The cleanliness of this room. It was neat *now*. Neat, when that neatness seemed so wrong.

The darkness *outside* this room was the same as it always was. Broken, incomplete. Pierced all over the place by the unwelcome neon of fluorescent lighting and streetlamps, lit windows. Torn by the briliantly illuminated billboards a couple of blocks down the street. He wondered briefly if anything could ever break that idyllic calm. Maybe even if they *all* laid down to rest, nothing would happen. Maybe this was all pointless.

Turning briefly from that imperfect dark to grope through the shadows layered heavily over everything. As he half-twisted in his seat, his eyes caught a glimpse of boxes. Not even all that many of them. A sadly small amount of containers to hold the remnants of a life. He couldn’t believe that after working all day in here to clean and sort, that was all there was. There should have been mountains of stuff. Trinkets from old lovers. Momentos of times gone. Of people lost. Who would have thought that the old lovers weren’t even worth a trinket or two. That the times past weren’t *worth* keeping momentos of--weren’t worth *remembering*, even. That the people lost, were, in reality, the person lost. One necklace. That was Youji’s treasure. One necklace and a small stack of love notes, love letters, carefully and lovingly stored in an old shoebox. That and a small, torn piece of notepaper. He had that piece of paper in one hand. He didn’t need to read it, it only held one word. Hai--Yes. Okay.

The hand rummaging through the dark finally found what it was looking for. A rumpled pack of cigarettes. Only one left. Well, why not? What harm was there in it? Maybe it would just kill him a little faster. One point thirty minutes off your life, or something, Omi had said, standing in the sunny kitchen a few days ago. So what? Youji could have smoked all the cigarettes in the world and it wouldn’t have mattered. He hadn’t died of cancer. Or even STDs, as Ken had suggested he eventually would, as they worked in the sunlit flowershop.

No. Youji had died close enough to hear, too far away to help. To far away to touch one last time. Youji had died on the other end of the comm. Too far away for him to be of any help. Too far away for him to save. Close enough only for him to whisper a soft word or two over the comm he still carried with blind hope.

He did so much on blind hope. He waited for his sister’s awakening with it. But if he looked hard enough, close enough, at his heart, he knew it was telling him she *wouldn’t* wake. Just like it was telling him Youji wouldn’t suddenly be a distant buzz in his earpiece again. Still, he kept in with him, kept it on. Made sure the batteries were okay.

Holding the cigarette between his teeth, he reached for the lighter, flicked it on clumsily, without Youji’s practiced grace. He had to try another two times before the damn thing lit, and he burned his fingers in the process. Oh well. He wasn’t the smoker. Youji was. Youji had been.

His hand tightened on the scrap of paper. He should have left it in the shoebox with the rest of Youji’s treasures. Except that he hadn’t thought it was something *Youji* would treasure. Aya-chan had said something once, about momentos. Throw away your hate mail and keep your love letters. Even if they come to nothing. You’ll want them when you’re fifty, ‘Niichan.

But Youji must have gotten stacks and stacks of love letters and he’d never kept any of them but those from *her* and this one scrap. Youji’d only kept the ones that came to something.

Unlike Youji, Aya kept momentoes. He could count them off on one hand. One stuffed bear, to remind him of Aya-chan. One earring, to remind him of revenge. One photo, to remind him of times gone and people lost. And one love letter, because Aya-chan had said to save them. One love letter, because it had come to something. It held the question that *this* scrap of paper answered. It was long and used far more words than necessary. It was very *Youji*. It ended with the question, how about it?

Hai.

Aya leant forward, his elbows against the sill, the way Youji used to, when he had a hankering for a smoke in the middle of the night. Because Aya hated cigarette smoke and Youji cared enough to hang halfway over the street so as not to wake him with it. Or maybe because Youji just liked the night, and maybe he liked looking out at the lights surrounded by all that darkness. He had to admit it was kind of pretty. *This* darkness gave him a sense of space that the darkness of his room didn’t. He watched the smoke curl up from the burning end of the paper tube and drift up into the darkened sky, wondering how Youji had discovered *this* night-time.

It was cold out. Cold and clear, with no cloud cover to speak of. If the city weren’t so bright, he thought he would be able to see stars against all that deep velvet sky. Bright and numerous the way they were up at the cabin, with no city and no people but them for miles around. He wondered how cold it was up there now. It was almost winter. Maybe even already snowing at the cabin. If Youji’d been there, he might have suggested they go.

The wind was blowing harder now, sharp. The smell of it promising frost, and he still had it in him to be glad they’d taken all the plants and flowers in. Despite the cold, he didn’t close the window. He let the chill blow in and sweep around him and around the room. There was no longer any mess for it to scatter across the floor. There never would be again. He wondered what Youji used to think when *he* sat here in the middle of the night, smoking in this sill, letting in chilly winter air or summer bugs.

He remembered the few times he had joined Youji here, when the blonde had inadvertently woken him as he shifted away, or when he’d been faking sleep anyway. Those few nights when he hadn’t just lain there watching Youji through eyes that he kept half-lidded lest his ruse be discovered. When the cold Youji let in had seeped through the blankets, or when he just felt like having company. Like having someone close by. Remembered padding over and ducking into the circle of Youji’s arms, getting between him and the window, squirming his way in if he had to. Leaning forward to rest his chin on folded arms, the wood beneath pale skin already warmed by Youji’s presence. Leaning there and either plucking Youji's cigarette out from his teeth and tossing it to the pavement below or burying his nose against his own arms so he wouldn’t have to inhale the smell of burning tobacco as Youji blew it out over his head, stirring the strands of his red hair.

He had a sudden longing for those moments, knowing that they were now out of reach. Why had he ever been so reluctant to just… *be* with Youji? Why had he…? Why hadn’t he…? All pointless questions now. All those regrets had to be hidden, put away like the belongings now neatly folded or stacked in cardboard boxes, lest they rise up and drag him under, lest they drown him. He’d let other fears, other sorrows, suffocate him. He couldn’t let it happen again. Youji wouldn’t want that to happen again. Youji had worked too damn hard to free him of those burdens for him to *let* himself be dragged under again.

He didn’t know when he’d first noticed Youji’s scrutiny. Only remembered resenting it, seeing it as an invasion of his privacy. Saw it as an unwelcome closing of that careful distance he kept between himself and the world. And to keep that distance, there had been only one thing to do. Take a step back whenever Youji had taken a step forward. Keep running until he hit a dead end and there was no place to run anymore.

/ /So, how about it?/ /

/ /Hai./ /

One word. And he hadn’t even been able to *say* it. Hadn’t been able to look Youji in the eye as he mock-casually wandered by and surreptitiously pressed the piece of paper--impulsively torn off the bottom of Youji’s own note--into his hand as he passed.

There had been a lot of ‘but’s, a lot of conditions. But he hadn’t voiced any of them then. There had been the secrecy, as if Ken and Omi wouldn’t eventually figure it out on their own anyway. As if they wouldn’t eventually be discovered when Youji was stretched to his limits just trying to keep his hands to himself while they were in public.

But he hadn’t voiced any of that then. *Then* there had only been the one word of agreement. It suggested that he would stay, even if Youji had ignored his terms and conditions. But Youji hadn’t. Youji had been happy just to curl up with him. Youji was happy just to have the right to trail the long fingers of one hand across Aya’s cheek when he thought no one was looking.

And Aya had been…happy to have someone to lean on. There were things Youji could teach him that he would never have discovered on his own. He had never thought of Youji as particularly smart before, nor would he have ever credited him with having wisdom. Of any sort. But he was smart, if not in quite the same way as Omi. Youji knew how to brush himself off and get back up. *And* he was wise enough to do it. To not let himself sink further and further into depression. To drift father and farther from what was real for the sake of something that had only a *chance* of being real again.

And yes, Youji’d had his share of demons. They all did. But somehow, Youji’s hadn’t been killing him. Not anymore. Or maybe they had been all this time and Aya just hadn’t noticed. Maybe *they* were what had finally killed him.

/ /Hi, Aya./ /

/ /Aa?/ /

/ /Read this. Don’t kill me./ /

Could he really be so selfish as to let Youji struggle on his own? Could he really be so caught up in the darkness within himself that he was blind to *Youji’s* ghosts?

/ /Hai./ /

He chewed on the filter of the cigarette, a subconscious imitation of Youji’s own I-am-deep-in-thought gesture. Gagged a little as he inhaled. Youji had tried, once or twice, to teach him to smoke. Just for the hell of it. Aya didn’t think Youji actually expected him to take up the habit. Not that it mattered. He’d found the taste of the things repulsive. He’d told Youji so. He’d told Youji to leave him alone, and damn it, stop smoking in the house.

/ /Ne..., it’s *my* room Aya./ /

/ /Fine. *I’ll* go, then./ /

/ /Fine. Have fun. See ya./ / But he’d turned the thing out anyway. And he’d opened the window to let the smoke out. And even made a show of fanning the stifling air outside with his hands. It hadn’t helped much. The smell had long ago permeated the very air of Youji’s room. But the gesture was enough. Aya had stayed.

Odd that he found the horrid taste of the thing such a comfort now. Stranger how quickly the smell of tobacco smoke had dwindled away into nothing as soon as Youji was gone. There was hardly a trace of it in the room now. Hardly a hint of *any* scent that was Youji, except for a faint trace of his shampoo on the pillows where Aya had lain his head every night since. A shadow of the familiar smell of his cologne on some of the clothes he’d packed away earlier.

He’d never thought so many outfits could fit into one box. Well. A box and a half, if you counted the shoes. Two, if the assassin gear had been added to it. But of course, it hadn’t been. The long coat and the jeans and the cropped off shirt had been dumped with many of Omi and Ken’s tears and little ceremony along with Youji’s lanky body. Somewhere where no one would ever find it and use dental records or DNA to find *them*. Somewhere where no one could ever go to talk to him. Somewhere where Aya could never go visit him.

/ /Where’s Youji-san?/ /

/ /Eh? He quit, moved. Opened another shop in Osaka or somewhere, I think./ /

Lies. So easily spoken in Omi’s childish, cheerful voice, while Ken nodded support and Aya cast violet eyes away from them, his gaze settling inadvertently on a cluster of orchids, the last of Youji’s favored cattleya. Exotic, elegant. Like Youji. He wanted to take a stem of it. Just one, to lay somewhere. He didn’t know where to lay it. Youji *had* no grave.

He didn’t know if that made it easier or harder. Maybe it was better that there was nothing to cling to.

/ /Where’s Youji-san?/ /

/ /In a swamp somewhere. In the cold and wet that’ll rot his body quickly so no one will ever know the truth./ /

He flicked the ash from the end of the cigarette, watching the glowing bits drift down to the street, dying long before they hit the cement. For a brief moment, he hated Youji. Because Youji had knocked down his walls.

And that had been okay a few days ago, because *then* he’d had Youji to lean on. *Then* it hadn’t really mattered if he’d let go of the tears, because, Youji could hold him until they stopped. And now . . . now he could feel them drying up within him. Leaving him as dry-eyed as he’d been by Aya-chan’s bedside. As dry-eyed as he’d been when he’d planted a farewell kiss on Youji’s cold temple. Why hadn’t he ever had the courage to do something like that when Youji was alive? Why had he always, without fail, made *Youji* take the first step? How much would that gesture have meant to Youji in life? Did it mean anything to him *now*?

No tears as he’d wrapped the blanket around that stiffening form, gentle as if he were tucking him in to sleep. Still none as they watched the shrouded form sink into murky water, weighted down with several large rocks. None as Ken steered him, dazed and detached, towards the car. Omi’s sobbing faint, echoing as if it came from far away. Ken’s voice a jumbled rise and fall that meant nothing.

No tears until he was safe in Youji’s bed. Until he realized that Youji wasn’t going to appear tonight. That Youji would never be there to comfort him again.

And at that realization, old walls came back up. Thick and strong as ever, leaving him cold and unshaken when they’d opened shop the next day. Ken and Omi looking like they were severely ill, but with grim resolve written on their faces.

A glimpse at his own reflection in the store front:

He looked…tired and calm. Distant. He tried to picture Youji’s arms around him, mentally drawing him into the image. Failed. Neither Omi nor Ken came anywhere near him that day. Or the next. Almost a week before they tried to talk to him.

/ /Aya-kun? Are you okay? We’re worried about--/ /

/ /I’m fine./ / His favorite lie. Youji would have laughed and nodded and held him. Omi had frowned and nodded and blinked.

/ /Well, if you need anything, Aya…. . . . / /

/ /I’m *fine*./ / Flash of temper. Youji would have raised an eyebrow and kissed him and called him a liar.

Ken looked dubious and rolled his eyes and sighed. / /Okay. Whatever./ /

The cigarette was almost burnt down to the filter. Aya took another drag. If Youji’d had any booze lying around, he might have been tempted to finish that off, too. What else was he supposed to do with the stuff? Ken didn’t drink, and giving it to Omi just seemed wrong, irresponsible, now that *he* had to be the strong older brother as well as the leader.

And Youji had spent altogether too much money on the stuff for him to just pour it down a drain. Maybe if Youji’d had a grave, he’d have poured it over the headstone, the way they sometimes did in those old movies Youji liked to watch late at night and Aya pretended to watch with him so he could have an excuse to curl up against Youji’s body and half-drowse.

/ /Hey, Aya, are you even watching?/ /

/ /Aa./ /

/ /You’re not. You’re sleeping./ / A poke in the ribs, / /You’re gonna miss the best part./ / Wine over graves. Okay. He could go back to sleep.

/ /Why are you even down here, if you’re not watching?/ /

/ /I *am* watching./ /

It only occurred to him now that maybe Youji had only watched those awful old movies so Aya would come and curl up with him, secure in the belief that Omi and Ken were asleep upstairs instead of banned from the rec-room by a resolute Youji. Heh. That *would* be like Youji.

But… there was no more Youji anymore. He would just have to get used to that. The way he had to get used to watching those old movies by himself now. Aya was the one who kept momentoes. All he had of Youji was a trick watch and a couch that was a full half more empty than it should have been.

There was no more Youji anymore and he would just have to manage on his own again. He would just have to rip down those walls that had sprung back up. And he would have to do it on his own. Because Youji had been right. No one could live like that for very long. He would have to, because Youji had made the effort to, and he couldn’t let Youji’s time and effort go to waste.

Youji was gone, and he would just have to learn to stand on his own. No walls. No ice. No running.

Maybe he could go to his parents’ grave and ask them to tell Youji that he was coping, in case they saw him. To tell him that he was okay. That he could let go. To tell him that he would still take care of Aya-chan, no matter what, because he couldn’t let go of *everything*. And to ask him if he could keep something of Youji's other than the weapon.

Just as a momento. Just to remind him of times gone and people lost.

The cigarette finally burnt all the way down, stinging his fingers. Aya sighed and tossed it to the street below. Another of Youji’s familiar gestures. He left the window open and leaned there and looked up at the sky and all that space that Youji’d always known about and he’d only just discovered.

/ /What do you think, Aya? We could be good together, you and me. So, What about it?/ /

/ /Hai./ /

Aya-chan had told him to keep his love letters. He would want them later, even if he didn’t make it to fifty.

He put the piece of paper in his pocket and rested his chin on his arms. No walls. No ice. No running. He had to stand on his own now.

He didn’t bother to wipe the tears away.

 

 

 

~Owari

<<back to weiss fics