Melting Dreams
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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.
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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.
by Deena
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