The boy typed at the illuminated screen in the dark, his small hands moving hastily over the keyboard as he surveyed page after page of the documented autopsy reports he had been sent only moments before. With his apron still on, with mud and blossoms still caked down the front of his lap and brown fingerprints dotting his full cheeks, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It was difficult reading about the deaths of two women he had seen no more then a week ago; too difficult in fact, to stare into the swollen, bloody faces of a woman that loved to teasingly curl his hair between her fingers whenever she met him, or of a woman who had given him such warm smiles every time she entered the store to check up on the four of them. Omi, like the rest, had been traumatized by the death of Hanae and Kyoko. His Birmen, his Manx, his oneechans, were gone.
He pulled at his dyed bangs, fluffing them against his soiled forehead in a quick shake of his hand. A deep sigh left his thin lips as he watched a small cloud of soil and fertilizer dust rain down on the desk before him. A few more shakes of his head; a few more small clouds. Finally, he rested an elbow beside the monitor and stared at the photograph. The finger-width bullet hole at the side of the brunette’s head was purposefully tainted a dull, reserved gray at his person request to Estelle and Kritiker headquarters. His large eyes, such a piercing black that they mirrored the inky azure from the monitor, blinked away a few stranded tears. Courage and resilience to such a turn of events were a given in this profession, but unfortunately they could only be learned after years of practice. The other three had been completely emotionless at the sight of the pictures, completely numb to the fact that two of their co-workers had been violently murdered on a routine mission that should have posed no threat to their safety. A boy, just approaching his second decade of life, had no understanding of exactly how much practice that numbness entailed.
Omi jumped as a small mug of tea was placed beside his left arm. The screen’s light reflected off the young man standing beside his chair, also dirtied and a bit weary from a long day’s work. Ken, with his russet hair twisted up in a clip to bare his forehead, leaned over the boy’s shoulder, sighing gently through closed teeth.
“Doesn’t seem real, does it, Tsukiyono?” Ken flashed his dark eyes away from the computer, his head arched as he listened to the door at the top of the wooden stairway open. “Manx was so cocky you would have never guessed anything like that would happen to her.”
“She knew the risks.” Omi rolled his legs out from underneath the desk and stretched them. He leaned back far in his chair, following Ken’s gaze as two men descended the stairs into the basement. “Death was always a possibility.”
“That’s pretty insensitive for someone your age.” He nodded as Aya stepped down onto the concrete floor, the redhead’s back curved in extended weariness. Overlooked, as he normally was, Ken then bowed to the tall brunette closing and latching the door overhead. He recieved a reply, a very nice one in fact. A full smile despite the older man’s fatigue; sparking, warm eyes despite the crusted soil at the side of his nose, and a generous pat on the back despite the strain in his neck. Youji was tired, but he managed to swing one long arm around Ken’s shoulders and, in spite of a few mumbled protests, rested his weight against the boy’s back.
“Estelle may think you’re a bit of a nerd if you keep running downstairs to play on your computer every time she stops by the shop with a disk.” Youji hummed, his voice rather lively given the arduous day that had just passed. His arm detangled itself from around Ken’s neck as he sat back on the armrest of the nearby couch. With both hands stretched high above his head, he let out a mighty, somewhat vulgar yawn and flopped backwards.
“Well, she had Kyoko-san and Hanae-chan’s autopsy reports.” Omi spoke gently, his hand groping to the side for the generously brewed cup of black tea near his keyboard. Surprisingly, his petite fingers felt nothing but the cold metal surface of his computer desk. As he turned an inquisitive glance around the room, the gurgling sounds of a drink chugged too fast reached his ear.
“Milk tea. Umai.” Youji hummed his complement and set the glass down on the throw rug beside the couch. Both hands reached back up towards his face, rubbing and kneading the back of his neck during another muffled yawn. His hair was pulled back, a rubber band snapped tightly around an auburn ponytail, and he closed his eyes. “Ok, Persia, where are you?”
“If Estelle-san didn’t even know where he was…” Omi furrowed his brow and arched his back over the rim of his chair. Stretching, his slight joints popped in relief. He watched the burgundy-haired man rest precariously up against the side of the wall, head bowed, facial features obscured by a thin cloak of red, arms crossed. Aya brought a hand slowly to his face, his fingers disappearing behind his thick bangs. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, groaned into his palm, and brushed his hair away from two piercing black eyes.
“What do you want, Omi?”
“Oh, uh.” The boy quickly turned his head, frightened as coming off as too impolite, and folded his small hands in his lap. “You just looked like something was bothering you. Like you had something on your mind. Is anything wrong?”
“Is it a woman?” Youji piped up from his seemingly yawning sleep. He didn’t bother to open his eyes or even turn towards them. His arms stayed perfectly folded behind his head, cradling it softly. “Aya honestly never came off as someone who would be bothered by a woman, but I guess there’s a time and day for anything, ne. Before I came into his profession, when I was a detective, you couldn’t even imagine all the ass I got. Then again I’m not trifling enough to keep track of such things—“
“It is about a woman.”
Youji was caught of guard; his rambling quickly ended, and turned his attention to the man standing up against the wall. Surprised, with a bit of his mouth jarred open to exclaim his shock, the brunette swayed between cracking a smile and wondering when hell had officially frozen over.
“Well, are you going to elaborate?” Youji threw a quick glance at Ken, sitting quietly on the armrest of his cough. “You want him to elaborate, right?”
“It’s his own business.” Ken bowed a slight apology for his honesty, only to pull a noisy, disapproving grunt from Youji’s throat. The room then, much like before, fell into an awkward, tangible stillness.
Aya remained silent, a stone statue incapable of speech or passion, and lowered his head once again to his chest. He had been thinking of a woman, that much was true, but not in a sense that other men would. He felt no sexual tension, no yearning, no desire or ache to see her again. Confusion clouded those emotions; an amazing puzzlement had covered his mind for hours after he had encountered her. A hunch, the slightest ache of intuition lay upon him. Takatori Sofia. He knew who she was. No one had uttered a word, no one had filled him in and broken the vow of confidentiality, but he knew, he felt, exactly who she was.
Tödliche Künste.
That was the only explanation, and whilst he had no one to substantiate his claims, there was something about her, something in the way she moved, something that jarred his memory. There had to have been a time he had met her, long ago, in some distant remembrance, where he had known exactly who she was. That time had vanished, easily forgotten like his sins were today.
The small basement suddenly became awash with a pulsing, shifting blue light. Their eyes all followed the sullen glare to the flat screen television hanging precariously against the far wall. It flickered, the intricate photo lens within the wide, glass monitor buzzing to sapphire life. A second of snow interrupted the transmission before a weathered, recognizable face darkened the screen.
“Weiß,” The voice, choppy and barely identifiable from the prying storm brewing outside, greeted them gently. Persia raised his head towards the camera, peering at the four men on the other side. “You have a mission to be completed this night.”
“This is sudden.” Youji pulled himself up from the pillows of the couch and braced his broad body against the armrest. “Better pay well.”
“There is a covert meeting this night concerning the purchasing of the illegal biochemical substance known as Variola minor, a derivative of the Smallpox virus.” Persia spoke from memory, laying the lines of the mission down in fluid, quick words. His listeners nodded as he continued, already familiar with such information. “We have sent our own emissary to that meeting, in hopes that he will secure enough proof for prosecution under the federal government against such an atrocity.”
Persia braced himself, pausing for a moment to pinch the soft skin between his eyes. He pretended to glance down into his hands, unseen by the scope of the camera, as though he was reading the official statement from Kritiker herself.
“Fumihiko Tachiki, otherwise known as Botan is, at the moment, undercover at that very meeting. Regrettably, I have found evidence of betrayal, and fear that he will use the information he obtains at this meeting for his own greed.”
It was impossible for Persia to pick his head up. He had nether the courage, nor the stomach to see the expressions on the faces of his men. Strangely, he could feel their utter alarm cutting through the miles between them. He would never know their reaction; forever it would be a taunting mystery in his mind.
“Weiß, your mission tonight is to retrieve any information he may possess on his being,” Still, head bowed. His eyes now winced shut. “And dispose of him at your will.”
It had worked perfectly, flawlessly. He had stood outside with the dark veil of night covering the sly, proud smile on his face. Between sporadic blinks of the moon through the cloud cover, his large hand had patted his chest, smoothing his narrow, flat torso along his expensive Michael Kors’ suit. Fingers slipped within his breast pocket, and the slightest bump poked out from the smooth fabric. A microphone. The plastic-coated cord that ran to the transmitter tucked away safety at his hip was so small that he was unable to even locate it by the same means.
The whole conversation, every detail was sheltered at his side. The men he had shared tea with, a light reddish ocha, rooibos enthused, yet still slightly bitter, had so openly chatted about the chemical’s reveal. Their voices were now burned onto a single filament of carbon tape tucked gently under the front seat of his black Mercedes. Their odd accents, their loose pronunciations of English, their sloppy, practiced greetings in Japanese, their slow, cumbersome movements and scuffling against the round table before them, and proof, rock solid proof, all recorded onto a single cassette.
Now, Botan was able to rest easy that his objective had been completed. He leaned his sturdy back against the cushioned recliner and stuck a cigar lightheartedly between his teeth. He took a long, comfortable glance around the room and beamed an easy smile towards the four legendary yet covertly pompous men sitting around him. Unexpectedly, for a moment, he almost felt like them. He almost felt as powerful and as great and as important as them. But the moment was fleeting. With every new word uttered, with every second chronicled to soon be transcribed and positioned in the court of law, for every life that would not be lost in the days from the sold Variola cotangents that Hirofumi graciously advertised to the unworthy with a glinted smile, Botan felt his own sense of power and greatness, a feeling that so quickly surpassed the titles of the men around him that it was laughable in its enormity.
The Good in every fairy tale, in every child’s song, in every story and legend and epic ever written, always won. That greatness masked a tyrant’s threats or an oppressor’s luck. Sitting there, woven so carefully into all the Badness that circled the room, he knew in the end, he would be the only one standing at the finish line. He would leave safety. He would deliver the tape of this very meeting to Kritiker. They would deal justice swiftly. His side would win.
He kept his one-sided smile on his face even when the double doors opened. The silhouettes of two impeccably dressed men still in mid-conversation was the very object of the interruption. Crawford, his black hair combed tightly back from his forehead, a vast difference to the messy, slapdash fringe that normally veiled his eyes, folded his hands behind his back as Hirofumi, the very doctor whose presentation was the main dish of the evening, took center stage at the head of the board. The room immediately fell into a hush; the silence vastly overpowered by excited gasps and murmured words. When the man spoke, his voice commanded the attention from those sitting before him. His English, his German, each word that fell from his lips were crisp and pristine. Perfect fluency. Perfect pitch. A gorgeous string of poetic gibberish dribbled from the neatly tucked and primed man. He needn’t really speak in all actuality. His very presence and demeanor set the stage for what was to come.
The Doctor voiced his desire for the meeting to start, continue, and end as neatly as possible. His audience agreed willingly. They were in a risky environment, and reasonably enough, no one wanted to prolong something that would take mere minutes.
Botan mimicked the exact actions of those around him. Laughing when they laughed. Nodding when they nodded. He waited his line as one by one the Doctor took them on a short journey down the hallway and through a set of interlocking, hermetically sealed glass doors. He was shown an example of the virus and it’s genius. He watched a rat die in seconds, and was then asked to sign the bottom line of a contract. A financial transaction was made from one private account to another before it the goods were finally handed over.
A small vial, half the length of his thumb and barely as thick, was passed to him in a transparent cylinder, it’s small, round body suspended in the center by spotless, glass rods.
The whole presentation was merely a formality, simple yet imperative for the type of men like these who’s whole lives dwelled on such formalities. The contents of the container and the vial within were minute compared to the actual individual shipment that was to occur later the next morning. The vials were just a promise of better things to come.
Botan left that night with unmistaken proof in his hands. Confident, almost cocky, he strode through the darkened hallway leading to the back entrance and parking lot. It took considerable control to keep his lips from grinning or from a self-righteous laugh expressing itself.
He had already won.
Suddenly, unease. It started small but grew, slowly and festered upon the very back of his neck below his hairline. A ripple of cold. A flickering chill bubbling just beneath his skin. He shrugged it off as jitters, yet failed to find any truth in that conviction. He was not nervous or anxious; nothing was bothering him in the least. He had been working and planning this very moment for months. His superiors, Estelle, Shuuichi, everyone below them as well, had dwelled on detail after detail for weeks. This arrangement was failure-safe.
But it was still there. That icy pinprick against the tip of his spine. As the door to the parking lot opened, he reached a hand back to sooth the feeling, only to find fleshy, warm skin. He then turned then, for no real reason and glazed around as though his eyes would pick up the culprit for his discomfort instantly. Exactly how he had figured, he saw nothing. An empty hallway, dimmed by the lazy lights above. The last men leaving. Crawford with his hand still on the conference room handle, watching down the hallway as they all left...
It’s an odd sensation to feel a person’s eyes on you. Botan, naïve in a sense that he never really believed in such superstition, failed to give it another thought. He walked across the asphalt driveway, his prized possession wrapped in his trench and tucked with care under his arm, and reached his car, the only one still in the lot, within seconds.
His hand had only touched the roof briefly before he noticed movement behind him. Turning, eyes slowly widening, he confronted a face he knew all too well. Littered with bruises, streaked with gashes, snorting an angry, tired breath from his nose, the man straightened his long back and stood, his shadow imposing against the shady street lamp.
“Fujimiya?” Botan set the glace cylinder from under his arm on the front seat and turned towards his friend. Vastly confused and surprised, he extended a hand towards the younger man, but only to found the same emotions mirrored on the redhead’s face. Aya started to move towards him, only then did Botan notice the sharp glint of metal protruding from the katana in his hand.
T ö d l i c h e K ü n s t e
Koneko no Sumi Ie
Two Hours Prior
There is a covert meeting this
night concerning the purchasing of the illegal biochemical substance known as
Variola minor, a derivative of the Smallpox virus.
Silence. All three sat in a perfect, deadened silence. The delicate hum of a computer monitor, the low, faint purr of the conditioner system a story above them. No voices. Hardly even the sound of breathing.
We have sent our own emissary to that meeting, in hopes that he will secure enough proof for prosecution under the federal government against such an atrocity.
Movement started. The fabric of shirts, jeans, workpants ruffled. The sticky leather coach stuck to skin now bare from rolled-up sleeves, crunching as bodies shifted around uncomfortably. Teeth ground against teeth. Aya had started to move.
A finger was placed against his lips, picking roughly at the smooth skin. He leaned away from the wall; his free hand clutching the back of the couch. His back arched up from his new position; one leg crossed nervously in front of the other.
Regrettably, I have found evidence of betrayal, and fear that he will use the information he obtains at this meeting for his own greed.
The leg uncrossed itself. Then crossed back. His heel clicked against the linoleum floor.
Weiß, your mission tonight is to retrieve any information he may possess on his being, and dispose of him at your will.
Aya had already picked the edge of his bottom lip until it bled. He now sucked it into his mouth as the colored figure on screen blinked away into nothing. He saw a darkened image of himself mirrored back by the inky, glossed surface; he wasn’t aware the anger welling up inside him was so obvious on his emotionless face.
“I don’t understand.” The youngest spoke first. Naivety, the small bits and pieces that had somehow stayed with him since he entered this tainted, corrupted line of work, made itself known in his bewildered, shaking voice. “Botan?”
“Well shit,” Youji pulled himself up from the sofa and smacked his large hands against the round corners of his knees. He rubbed them gently, taking a moment to think, to flip over the situation in his head. “I guess I’m going to miss that date...”
“But it’s Botan.” Omi stood, both palms pressed on either side of his keyboard as he watched the older brunette over his computer’s monitor. “This is ridiculous, Youji. He’s your friend.”
Youji made his way slowly around the coach, his fingers brushing his thick bangs from his eyes. He patted the boy’s head, using it to pivot around the computer desk. Omi watched up through moving blond fringe as a deep chuckle resonated through Youji’s chest.
“I don’t have friends.”
The heavy hand lifted from the boy, his hair now bunched and gathered in loose knots at the crown of his head. He nodded quickly at Ken, who still stood motionless from shock, before disappearing up to the first floor.
“I can’t believe Youji would…” Ken shook his head and rubbed his palms over his face. Fingers massaged the edges of his eyes, running across his eyebrows to his temples. “He’s taking it so well.”
“He isn’t.” Aya started towards the stairs, rolling and picking at his sleeves in a failing attempt to quell his nerves. “This is bothering him just as much as it is you. He just doesn’t want us to see that.”
“Then what do we do?” Ken immediately turned, looking for reassurance after what he had just heard. He was met with his leader’s blank stare, void of the frustrating confusion that played on his face at that very moment. “None of us want to do this.”
He was ignored as Aya rushed past him, hitting the steps two at a time, and practically sliding against the slick wooden floor at the summit of the stairwell. The redhead was followed by the two younger members as he quickly scanned the back of the dark, shady store. From the outline of the doorway, he lashed out an arm and grabbed onto Youji’s forearm. He would have otherwise escaped had he waited a second longer.
“Don’t.” Aya spoke a single word, but his dark eyes gave it the intensity that it deserved. His grip tightened, the veins in hand growing around his knuckles and wrist.
“What the fuck is this?” Youji jerked his arm away and raised it away. He circled his shoulder, pretending to distance himself from the building pain in his chest by stretching and kneading it in aggravation. He let out a frustrating though insecure sigh and stepped back. “You heard Persia.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange?” Aya motioned towards the blackened doorway leading back downstairs. “Why would Persia so suddenly ask us to do something like that?”
“He said he found evidence of betrayal.” Youji tried to make another escape out into the flower shop, but again his forearm was grabbed, his entire body yanked back and swiveled around to face the shorter redhead. “Aya…”
“We would have known.” He pleaded with his eyes, the only part of him that gave away his emotions. “You know we would have somehow known if Botan was betraying us in any way.”
“Aya, it’s just a job.”
“You can live with yourself if you say that?”
“That’s the point.”
The hasty, heartless reply sent lightening through Aya’s fingers. They twitched and softened allowing Youji to gently pull his arm from the redhead’s solid grasp. He turned and would have left the building had Omi not blocked his exit with his small, fragile body.
“He’s lying.” The boy’s eyes had narrowed and within them, glinted the soul of a person vastly older then his material age. “You don’t believe Persia.”
“Persia has no reason to lie to us.” Youji turned his body sideways, hoping his half-assed remark would somehow lessen the boy’s resolve. A small arm jutted out and planted itself firmly against the doorframe, indefinitely blocking his progression.
“We would know.” He quoted Aya, throwing his leader a quick look. “Botan is too much like us. He’s too loyal to us.”
“What do you expect me to do then?” Youji raised a hand to push the boy away, only to have it pulled down and restrained. He glanced down and saw Ken’s warning gaze. Youji, finally sick of being held back, suddenly lashed out, jerking his body away for the last time and rudely shoving the brunette back into the wall.
“We were chosen to do these jobs because Estelle and Persia believed we didn’t have to go through this shit. I have no fucking problem doing what they tell me to. If that means killing someone I’ve known for years because of some stupid suspicion,” He scoffed, a chiding grin growing on his face. “Then I guess that’s how it works--”
His words were choked off mid-sentence by a clenched fist to the jaw. Head spinning, skull too rattled to think right, Youji instantly clutched his cheek, pressing a hand to the tender, reddening area in his daze. He tripped backwards over Ken from the force, but managed to look over just long enough to give Aya another perfect shot at his face.
Ken held one man back and Omi tried desperately to help, but a fight started nonetheless. Sparked not by the anger the two men had against each other, but by the impossible task that was asked of them, they fought as hard and as fast as they could, knowing quite well that the other was able enough to protect himself. Eyes blackened. Lips cracked and bled. Jaws were hit so hard that they swelled almost immediately. A shirt ripped. An arm was pulled back so forcefully that it slid right out of its socket. Cursing, rage in its audible form, slurs, and personal attacks flew just as readily as punches. At the end, Aya felt his chest being pressed hard against the wall; his shoulder twisted around his back and pulled in a way that a grunted, guttural moan escaped his throat. He felt the older man press against his back, breathing hard, curses still muttered under his breath. The fight was over as soon as it had started. Fast, quick, just long enough to burn the fear and pain away within them.
“The next time you go at me like that, I’m going to break your neck.” Youji gave one more firm shove into Aya before releasing the man’s limp arm. He ran the pad of his right thumb over the corner of his lip, smearing a red stain down his the side of his chin. A large, blood filled wad of spit left his mouth, hitting the white wall a few inches away from Aya’s legs. Turning, he pushed through Ken and Omi into the flower shop, his hands running over and over again through his hair to calm himself down.
Aya shrugged away Omi’s worried glances, but slid his tongue around his mouth to check if all his teeth were still intact. He felt his face, but winced and decided he rather not know the full extent of the damage just yet.
‘One such buyer
seems to be working undercover for Kritiker.’
The three jerked to a standstill. Ken, with ice already tucked in a plastic bag, and Omi, already pulling out the First-aid case, froze the moment the unfamiliar voice reached their ears. Aya was the closest to the shop door and had heard Youji’s footsteps come thudding back towards him. He never though he would hear the recorded whining of a tape player before that of his teammate’s.
‘ To test your
loyalty to EssZet, I want you to take care of him with your own team.’
Slowly, the shop door opened. The fresh scent of flora, leaves, the earthy aroma of soil and ceramic pottery filled the small employee room they called their own. Youji stood in the doorway, bloodied and beaten but with his mind now focused on the two small items now clutched within his fingers.
‘But Botan has a
very intimate friendship with the leader of Weiß. Despite their own loyalty to
me, I would never be able to get them to agree to it.’
That voice. Aya knew it. There was no doubting the man who spoke on the small, metallic tape recorder sitting in the center of Youji’s palm. Persia.
“Where,” Aya almost threw himself at the older man, snatching the miniature device and holding it closer to his ears. The others, as if physically drawn together by a rope, moved in closer around him. “Where did you find this?”
“It was right in front of the door.” Youji’s eyes had turned into saucers, large and wavering, as he listened. He almost forgot the other item held between trembling fingers. “Someone was in here.”
‘Then you won’t have
to worry about anything, I guess.’
Treason. It hit them hard. Persia had committed treason.
‘Botan’s death will
be easy, I assure you.’
The tap spun out a low hiss of static before automatically clicking to a stop. Within the shattering, lonely silence of the room, Ken was the first to break away from the paralyzing shock and glance down at Youji’s hands. Small, yellow-hued pedals fanned out from a crooked yet elegantly bowed sapling. The chilly breeze from the doorway, still filled with the delicious scents of the flower shop, picked up and swirled the small pedals off the twig. They littered the floor at their feet, twirling and tumbling over their boots.
Birdsfoot trefoil, a
delicate, elegant flower that stood for revenge.
There was a fine line that he knew all too well. A line that etched itself between being dependable, being loyal, albeit stupid as others relied on you to accomplish certain deeds that may not be completely right or moral, and between the very morals that screamed and begged to be respected. It was impossible to tell which direction one should step towards, and most of the time regret followed despite which path taken. He knew this, but he had never thought it was a problem. He never thought he would be straddled on the line, one foot on either side, looking both ways as he neared an inevitable decision he was not ready to make. Somehow, walking that line, he found himself, cold, beaten and sore, standing before the very man that was making it hard for him to choose.
“Fujimiya?’ Botan repeated his name, inching closer despite the menacing glint of metal hanging from the redhead’s hand. “Aya, what happened to you?”
It was obvious he was angry, but in a dazed and scared sort of way. His eyes had started to dart; his head had lowered but remained glued on the figure in front of him. He watched Botan check their surroundings carefully, using the broad side of his red Cadillac and the overhanging trees as cover. They were alone but vulnerable nonetheless, which tensed and pulled the situation into uncomfortable knots.
“Promise me...” Aya flicked the katana in his wrist, shooting flashes up and down the thin blade. He took a step forward, turning his body slightly and bend his legs. His hands connected in front of him, slowly inching the handle up past his ear. With the blade aimed forward, he searched Botan’s confused face.
“Promise you what?” The man knew the stance Aya had positioned himself in. He still stepped forward, raising both his hands before his chest, palms frontward to show his defenselessness.
“Promise me I can trust you.”
The uncertainty intensified on Botan’s face, so much so that it morphed into an impervious pain. He was almost bothered by the utterly worthless question.
“What’s wrong with you, Fujimiya?” He bent slightly, lowering his voice. It hissed between them in the empty parking lot, roughly obscured by the whistling breeze rustling the leaves overhead. “I’m in the middle of something. What is this nonsense?”
“You’re a target, Fumihiko.” Aya said slowly, his voice deep and haunting. He kept the emotions on is face mutual as he continued, frightened that the moment the fright showed, everything else, the fear, the panic, would spill out. “Persia sent Weiß here to kill you.”
The words slid right through Botan. It took him a preciously long moment to regain himself, to repeat the frightening words over in his head. Still, he didn’t believe them. It sounded too stupid. He cracked the largest smile he could muster, but it was so cold and trembling that it morphed into something ugly and fearful. He straightened his back, clutching his hip with a hand as the other cupped his mouth. He muffled a laugh, glanced at Aya for confirmation he wasn’t ready to accept, then laughed again.
“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” Aya flicked the blade beside his pale cheek again. His shoulders had started to ache from his position; not from standing for so long, but from how tense he had become. He gripped the katana handle too hard; his biceps flexed and stressed over a weight that otherwise would not have bothered him. Even his jaw clenched and grinded against each other, nicking at the delicate insides of his cheeks.
“Why would Persia do that?” Botan rubbed his chin nervously. His eyes had jerked up from the ground to watch the tense redhead before him.
“He sold Weiß.” It had become harder for Aya to keep his voice in check. He practically screamed the words over to Botan. “Prove to me you weren’t in on it with him and he’s just pulling some retribution shit on you.”
“Fujimiya,” All he could do was shake his head. “It’s me.”
“Prove it to me.”
“Would I ever do anything to hurt you?”
“Prove it to me!” He flicked his wrist ever so slightly in the excitement of the moment. The tip slid against the side of Botan’s face, cutting up through the man’s tanned skin. “It’ll take me a second to kill you. Don’t test me.”
It was then that Botan pushed forward. His shoulder barely passed below the raised katana; the helm of his jacket not so lucky. Both his arms reached up, his fingers stretched wide. Aya’s eyes, dark, vast wavering seas, widened as hands cupped his face and held him with a kindness that stole the voice from his lips. Botan’s grasp was steady, strong, and yet gentle as they commanded his attention. He glanced up at the taller man and their eyes met for a second.
“Ran,” The gravity of his voice was all Aya needed as proof. “It’s me.”