Chapter 12
Aya stared at the door way long after Youji had left, unable to abate the maelstrom of emotions that Youji's sudden appearance had awakened. His ears attuned for any noise in the hallway that might herald Youji's return. It was idiotic and he kept telling himself so, still he could not take his eyes off the door, he could not stop his heart from skipping a beat, his stomach from tightening with every sound from the hallway. He knew that Youji was not going to return, at least not that night, yet he still could not stop himself from fixating. He wanted Youji to return. He didn't want Youji to return. He was terrified that he would never see Youji again. He was pathetic. The shrill squeak of a rubber shoe on the linoleum floor beyond his door made his breath catch in his chest, ears straining to hear the pattern of the footsteps. It was not Youji's walk, merely the night nurse making her rounds. Absolutely pathetic.
Aya used the new wave of self disgust to his advantage, used it to finally pull his eyes away from the door to stare up at the all-too-familiar piece of ceiling tile directly above his bed. The ceiling was safe. The room's expensive pieces of furniture, the small stereo, and the antique vase filled with yellow roses, were not. The items would make him think of the man who had brought them and that was also something that he did not want to think about. So he forced himself to focus on his useless body, fanning the frustration of having no control over it, trying to ignite the anger that had always been so easily awakened within himself. Anger was safe, it was his oldest companion and protector, very rarely did it not come when called.
Yet, every now and then, like everything else in his life had, it abandoned him. Left him raw and open, unable to squelch the other, less-wanted emotions. It had failed him the last time that he had been in a hospital as well, but it had been Kritiker's hospital. Then too he had been a bed ridden invalid, but from a bullet hole in his chest. Then too he had waited for Youji to come, unable to stop himself from listing for the familiar rhythm of his footsteps, of him casually flirting with the nurses, but Youji never had.
At least that time he had the welcomed distraction of constant pain, the after effects of being shot and the following surgery that had removed the bullet and patched up his damaged organs, to over powering the other, more terrifying ache in his chest. This time there was nothing to keep him distracted, nothing to ebb the hollow ache that came hand in hand with Youji. The ache had been new back then, building each day that Youji did not come, growing stronger, rooting itself deeper and deeper inside of him. Even long after he knew that Youji was not coming, that whatever had been between them was over it had continued to grow.
He had never had any expectations as far as Youji was concerned, he had always known that it would not last. Someone like Youji could not really ever harbor feelings for someone like him, it was a simple fact. It had not really surprised him that Youji had never come to see him, it had been the perfect time to reestablish the boundaries of their relationship, to return to being killers thrown together by circumstance.
After the first time that he had been with Youji he had fully expected to be treated like any other of his bedroom conquests. To be given the patented Kudou smile while he was told with the matching Kudou charm that he had been fun, that Youji had had a good time... but that was all that it had been. But Youji had not done that. Instead he had hounded Aya, constantly touching him, pressing against him in the flower shop, cornering him when the others were not around to whisper to him how much he wanted to be with Aya again. The pursuit had left Aya feeling off balance, in uncharted territory, unsure how to handle the never imagined attention.
Youji had been relentless, showing a determination that at the time Aya had never seen in the usually casual man. Eventually Aya had relented and gone back into Youji's bed. He had assumed that Youji just hadn't gotten what ever it was that he had wanted the first time, and once he had been with Aya a second time he would either have fulfilled that need and moved on, or he would realize that whatever he was looking for Aya would not be able to give to him and move on. That Youji would either steer Aya out of his room once the sex was over, or leaving himself to go out to whatever bar or club he spent his evenings in to find someone else to fulfill him. Aya had been shocked when Youji had wrapped his arms around him, the heated sweat still wet on their bodies, and placed his head on Aya's chest and then with a hum of contentment had gone to sleep.
After that Aya had never turned Youji away when he had come to him. At first it only happened sporadically. Youji had still had his steady rotation of women, but he no longer brought them home to his apartment. And then it had starting happening more and more often. Youji started to stay in at night, either dragging Aya into his room or barging into Aya's. Until eventually he had stopped going out all together except for the rare occasion when he had been able to convince Aya to go out with him. Still Aya had known that sooner or later whatever phase that Youji was going through would end and he would return to his life of one night stands. So when Youji never came to see him in the hospital, had never called or even sent a note with Ken or Omi when they had come to visit, he had not been surprised, but what he had not expected was that it would hurt so much.
And now here he was again, aching for Youji. He despised himself for it. He was weak and a fool and should know better. He had never blamed Youji for not coming, he had never held any illusions as to what he was. Even then he knew that he was little more then a walking corpse, a freak of nature that had only bitterness and spite to offer. Not something that anyone could care for, most definitely not something that could be loved.
The hospital staff had told him after his parents had died that time heals all hurts, but he knew that was a lie, some hurts ran too deep and could never heal and since he had never been able to rationalize away the pain, he had learned to bury it deep within himself, in the same void where he carried the pain of loosing his family. But at times it would weasel its way to the surface, past the barrier of numbness and anger that filled him, and once freed it would wreck havoc, almost crippling him with its intensity, until he was once again able to reign it in and lock it away once more.
Another sound in the hall, the grating of a chair being pulled across the floor somewhere and his eyes were riveted on the door again. The hair on the back of his neck on end. He knew it was not Youji, so why could he not stop himself?
Even if it was, a voice that sounded very much like his fathers whispered in his head, even if it was that man, it was not Youji, not really. Youji had died, long before the explosion of the Koua School. It was why Aya had given him the drugged wine that he had been willing to kill Aya for. Aya had taken his memories so that a dead man could forget and maybe then be able to live again. That night, after he had managed to drag Youji from the rubble and after he had poured the sweet smelling liquid down Youji's throat, for the first time since his parents had been murdered and his sister broken, Aya had cried. Cried over the death of Kudou Youji.
A sudden burst of overpowering panic had him instantly hyperventilating. What had he done? Selfish, he was shamefully selfish. Youji was happy, there had been a light in his eyes that had died years ago. If he were to remember his past it would once more die and it would be Aya's fault. Youji had already gained some part of his memory back, he had remembered Aya. Only vaguely but the more information that Aya gave him, the more likely he would remember his past. Youji was healthy. Youji was married. Youji finally had everything that he had always wanted. And Aya was going to destroy it.
Aya could not let that happen, he had to make sure that Youji never saw him again, he had to get out of the hospital, get far away where he would not do anymore damage. He had given Youji his name and his age, it would not be enough information for Youji to find out about himself. Kritiker had been far too good in destroying their pasts, but when he could not find answers on his own he was sure to return. And when he did it could very likely be enough to make Youji remember, enough to make him die inside again. Aya might as well have just shot him, the end result would be the same.
It was only six or seven meters to the door, Aya reasoned as he squinted through one eye, his sense of depth perception having gone on the same vacation as the rest of his body's functions. Nine meters at the most. With effort he squirms himself into a more suitable sitting position. He glares down at the two long lumps beneath the hand woven blanket in disgust. There was nothing identifiably wrong with him. It was not paralysis, he could feel everything. The first session of physical therapy and the eye watering pain of unused muscles being stretched was proof enough of that. Therefore, if he was not paralyzed it had to be psychosomatic.
Silently he told his legs this, his right foot spasmed in response sending a spike of white fire up his leg. It had happened before, but it was not a pain that could be braced for. He forced himself to take deep even breaths and waited for the cramp to end. He was glad that he was no longer hooked up to the barrage of machinery that had been monitoring him. The first time that he had one of the cramps he had still been attached to machines and the sudden change in his vitals had sent half of the ward running to his room, afraid that their miracle patient had awaked only to suffer a stroke.
A part of Aya had always doubted that the world around him was real. A good part of himself had come to the decision that he was still in the moment when he had been thrown clear of the explosion that had heralded the end of his life. That everything that he had experienced had all taken place in that one second and soon he would find himself awake in a hospital, alone. His sister, never in a coma, but dead alongside their parents in the morgue. He might still be laying on the sidewalk in New York, hallucinating as he bleeds to death. The second option was viable but not nearly as probable. He had witnessed too many things before that had happened, things that fell into the realm of fantastical to think they were real. Or that he might actually be insane, hallucinating an entire life time while straight jacketed in a padded cell. The feeling had intensified after waking up in the hospital. And, if the world was not real but only a figment of his imagination, then he should have the ability to manipulate it. Another cramp, this time a spike up his arm that makes his vision gray over as if to show him that he is wrong and the world is quite real.
He had fucked up. He had fucked up big. And he had told Youji that he could come back. Guaranteeing that if he hadn't done anything to trigger Youji's memory then he would be getting a second chance. If Aya didn't leave, if he stayed until Youji came back, it would be all his fault if Youji's life was ruined. He had to leave, right away. And in order for him to do that his legs had to get with the program and start working correctly.
He could get Schuldig to move him. He is relatively sure that if he were to tell the German about Youji's visit that he would be more than happy to put Aya in another hospital, or better yet, no hospital at all. No, he doesn't want to see Schuldig either. Youji had asked if Schuldig was his boyfriend. Schuldig was not his boyfriend, he was not even a friend. He had to get away from both of them.
If you take an infant and throw it into the water, it will swim of its own accord. The natural instinct for survival takes over, his fathers voice in his head again whispered to him. With a grunt Aya begins to shimmy his legs out from under the covers. Ignoring the sharp protests from muscles and tendons unused to movement, he inched his feet over the side of the bed.
"Sink or swim" he tells himself before tossing himself out of the bed. He manages to turn his head to the side so that he does not smash his nose and the feeding tube that is still in it into the linoleum, the left side of his face taking the brunt of the impact. He hears something snap and is vaguely aware that his left hand is trapped awkwardly beneath his body before he loses consciousness.