There's blood on his claws, black in the dim light, drip-drip-dripping onto his jeans. Ken watches it, those perfect ovals, splotching and pooling, a Rorschach gone awry, the patterns changing each time he moves. The mission is long since over but he can't go home. Not yet.
The air is brakish here, dry and full of brine, stealing breath and making him feel sluggish, a pleasantly weird counterbalance to the adrenaline still pumping in his system. Someone died tonight, bugnuks raking so casually through flesh and bone, slicing the man up like so much meat, split from nape to chops and laid out, a macabre banquet for those who find him in the morning. He wonders what they'll think, if the man had children or a wife. Wonders how they'll feel (if they exist) when they wake up tomorrow and get that phone call. Sorry, Daddy's not coming home. He got a fistful of claws in the gut but that's okay because he was a creepy fucker anyway, selling little boys to whorehouses for the highest bidder.
Ken doesn't even know his name. He was sure Omi said it but he can't remember. These days, all the names and the missions seem to blend. He'd rather not know anyway, just point in the right direction and let him go. Better not to think, not to wonder if what he's doing is right. He likes the adrenaline, the high he gets from a mission accomplished and so much moralizing would get in the way of that.
The light shifts around him, a cloud passing over the moon, making everything dark and then-- he's there. Ken shifts again, legs Indian-style and claws dripping gore on the pavement.
"Evenin', Ran," His voice is cheerful, far too happy for someone who just partook in a blood bath but that's the way things go.
"You should come home." The reply is clipped, abrupt and he can hear the worry in his teammate's voice. Teammate, lover, and one day soon, Ken thinks, perhaps his executioner. Because this spiral he's in keeps going, each twist in his soul deeper than the one before. Sometimes he wonders how long Omi -- no, excuse him, Persia, would allow him to carry on. He was a useful weapon, yes but the edge to that weapon was getting ever sharper and one day he wouldn't stop, wouldn't be able to call himself off.
Sometimes he thinks about killing Omi first. Omi and Yohji and even Ran, sweet, cold Ran who filled him with another type of passion but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
"I don't want to come home yet," he replies conversationally, wishing he were on a pier or in a chair and could kick his legs out. He needs the motion, the sense of movement. "The blood's not done, you see."
"Ken, clean it off and come home."
"I like the way it drips. The splatters. Damn near artistic sometimes. Better than a soccer ball in motion," He thinks about then grins, his face lifting towards his lover, "Almost."
Ran kneels down, oh so careful to avoid the mess he's making, a hand on Ken's shoulder, violet eyes so full and lovely, reminding him of one of the orchids in the old Koneko, misted with dew. "Ken," He says strongly. "Why didn't you wait?"
For him, Ken's mind supplies. He was supposed to wait for Ran and Yohji but he hadn't. No need really. He could take care of things himself -- quickly, efficiently. He shrugs. "It wasn't much of a mission. Kill a pimp? That's all? I was in and out--"
"That's not the point," Ran barks and he subsides, chastised, peeking at his lover out of the fringe of his bangs. "You should have waited for back up."
"I didn't need back up," Ken's voice raises and his blood sings again and he wonders if more blood will be painting him before this night is through. If this is the night... "And it's not my fault you can't make meetings--"
Ran shoves him to the ground, his body atop his and he doesn't hesitate, claws popped and pressed against the other man's pale throat. Abyssinian stills, waits. The tip of one claw presses just a little further in, the skin dimpling around it. He has only to move a fraction, a heartbeat more and it's over. All of it.
But it's not over and the bugnuks retract, arm falling downward and Ran with it, burying his face in Ken's neck, his breath warm as it stirs over his collarbone. Neither says anything as they lay there. Then Ran stirs, lifting his face so that his mouth brushes against Ken's, hard muscle and wiry sinew pressing against his body. He lets himself be kissed, feeling a lazy sort of calm stealing over him and he knows he'll go home, with Ran, into his bed. And maybe they'll stay there all night and well into the morning. And things will go back to normal.
For a while. Until the bloodlust returns, until another mission comes and another piece of his sanity is offered up.
Ken wonders what it says about him that he can look forward to that.
***End