THE RABBIT HOLE
Do you think the Rabbit Hole would look the same to us as it did to dear Alice? Tumbling down the voidless black of a bottomless pit, limbs flailing, breath huffing with apprehension and loss of control. No control, but so much more than we believe we possess. A moment, taken out of time and passed back to be played like flickering reels our memories have lost within the stacks. Would you follow that distant spark of white, that remnant of light, without seeing the face of what you pursue?
"Damn it, keep your voice down! We're almost finished..." hisses a voice in the darkness, giving the void walls--a purpose. "If we're caught, we're screwed. Forget the money and the police; that suit'll have our heads."
"Almost set." replies another, dimmer, though free of the panic gripping his companion. "Once I connect these last few wires, five minutes later this place'll be blown sky high."
"Should we pull the fire-alarm or something? Ya know, cut casualties?"
A hallow laugh. "Why bother? It isn't our problem."
Moments of lingering quiet, endless to those within them, pass tensely, filtering into a roar. To those without? The moments are already gone, and vigilant eyes await the moment their watch will come to an end.
"Done. Let's get out 'a here."
Click.
The basement lights glare down upon the spotlighted pair, and they freeze in place, book-ending the bomb they have just armed, which has already begun its steady count down.
Tick. Tock. Hear the rhythm of Fate's wound clock.
"What the -! Where the hell'd the lights come from?!"
"Hehehe..." echoes the walls. "This wouldn't be nearly as fun in the dark."
Criminals never know when to run, so instead, they turn, facing the source of this unexpected voice.
The walls of the basement are cloaked in shadow, despite the brightness of the lights above, and out of the darkness steps four figures, like white angels, ironically dressed in varying shades of black. Cue the hunters of light, striking down the beasts of the world's burdens.
"Who are you...?" quakes the voice of the more timid of the villains, finding even less to be calm about than before.
The man whose voice had shattered the bombers' reassurances, arches his arms out as if to spread unseen wings, pulling taut a nearly invisible wire between his gloved hands, and shaking out his chin-length, light brown waves. "The bomb squad, sweetheart." he smirks.
An eerie laugh erupts from the man beside him. He is somewhat shorter than his garrote-wielding friend, with wild, chocolate-colored hair, and menacing claws built into his gloves.
Next to him is a lithe yet imposing man in a leather trench coat with blood- red tendrils, brandishing a Japanese katana. On the end, the last and littlest of the group sports a crossbow, his blonde strands gently falling into large, child-like eyes.
"We could give you a name..." growls the red-head, flexing his fingers on the handle of his sword. "...but it will make little difference when you're dead."
The man with claws laughs again, rolling his head from one side to the other, cracking individual vertebrae with a sickening pop.
The next step, the next movement forward, is a blur of harmonious leaps, like weightless-limbed dancers performing some morbid ballet. The four figures descend upon their victims, molding with the air and connecting again with the ground as if linked to each plane through their spines.
The white knights' enemies back off, dragging their timid feet as if drawing lines on the ground. The not-so-anxious villain appears as composed as before, however, and with a sudden snap of his fingers, the reason is revealed like a stage curtain pulled back. It seems they are well prepared for getting caught, because four armed goons emerge from the wall the bombers had so recently been retreating to.
(Like us...) muses the red-head, charging forward without a thought towards how the tables have turned. His sword clangs into contact with one of the muscles' clubs, attacking in rapid succession--fast, erratic. Clang! Clang! Clang! (...and like those twits from this morning. Unified, but split...divided...torn apart by all the world throws in our direction...)
---Earlier that day...
"Ya know how McDonald's slogan used to be 'We love to see you smile'? I heard they changed it to something real stupid."
"What'd they change it to?"
"I don't know. Something like 'I'm lovin' it'. Dumb, huh?"
"I thought their old slogan was 'Have it your way'."
"Nah, that's Burger King's."
"Are you sure?"
"Urrg, that it!! Buy something or get out!" Ran bellows at the loitering group of teenie boppers, who have been hovering near the front display case for over twenty minutes.
After all, he hadn't spent the entire morning making arrangement of tulips and hydrangeas just so a quartet of schoolgirls could stand in front of them--buy nothing--and argue about fast food slogans.
The girls shoot him nasty looks, one even daring to stick out her tongue, and then proceed to make a hasty retreat. It is a well-known fact that the red-headed worker at "Kitty in the House" flower shop is not the nicest guy. At least, not to the customers.
Ran glares at the girls as they slip out the door and skip their way down the sidewalk. One of them turns to another and whispers something in her ear, resulting in a fit of laughter he is quite certain is at his expense. The girls are young and immature as far as he is concerned, and it annoys him how stiffly they walk, as if boards were strapped to their backs. Ran assumes they do this to aid in sticking out their chests, presumably to make them appear more endowed than their ages allow.
The group pushes and nudges their way down the street, playfully arguing and contradicting one another's words. Each one desperately wants to claim position as leader, so if one manages to sidle her way slightly more forward than the others, one of her friends grabs her shoulder to pull her back.
Childish.
Once reaching the end of the street, they split off in different directions, heading for their respective homes, and Ran at last tears his gaze away. Too much time is wasted on such...trivialities.
"Hey, Ran, can you give me a hand over here...?"
Ran turns his head at this vaguely charming voice, forever drawn to its warmth even on his most disgruntled days.
(Ken...)
---Back to the present...
Ken...is off to Ran's right, slicing madly with his claws at the largest of their opponents. The impetuous brunette always has something to prove.
Subduing the rapidness of his strikes, Ran sweeps his arm up, engraving the air with a graceful swing of his katana, and meeting his enemy's club with deceptive ease. He spins, twisting his pelvis to gain momentum as he lashes out a leg that has fluidly become air-born--seemingly suspended--before making contact with the goons chest and following through to steady himself firmly on the ground.
His control is impeccable. To watch him, one would never guess he ever took a breath. It is too contained and steady to be perceived. Too trained to reveal itself as he lashes out again. As if connected by a thread, his spine curves--up when he bends forward, ducking a counterattack, and hollowed with a curved chest and stomach when he bends back, ducking another. Constant, flexible movability is paramount in a fight, when the only true tool you have is your perception of what must be done next.
A third strike directed at Ran is deflected by Ken's attentive claws, saving him from what easily could have been a devastating hit to the back of the neck. Ken tosses his companion a coy wink, and Ran nearly smiles in gratitude, but refrains, knowing it would be deathly uncharacteristic of his brooding image.
Since the first day they met--and beat each other into bloody pulps--the mismatched pair has been a conflicting force, even as teammates, and yet, they are closer than could ever have been imagined. It isn't their friendship--though that is strong--or their respect for one another--that is undeniable. It is both and more, something that cannot be explained in words.
Few things can be said correctly with mere words, after all.
---The shop, a moment later...
"You need something, Ken?" Ran asks curtly, striding over to his tan, dark- haired companion as he has been summoned.
Ken's impossible smile beams brightly even as he furrows his brow at the wilting arrangement of daffodils in front of him. "Uhhh...I think I need an artist's opinion." he admits bashfully, lifting an uncooperative bud with one of his large palms. "This just isn't working no matter how many times I move them around. I don't have the same knack for this as you do. I know, once in a while I create something really awesome, but...that's only on the rare occasion I find inspiration. You're a natural at this stuff, so...any advice?"
Suppressing a blush at such compliments, Ran clears his throat awkwardly, surveying Ken's inelegant work. When inspired, the brunette does indeed create masterpieces, but his talent is inconsistent.
Not one for words, Ran begins to fiddle lightly with the flowers, but finds himself easily distracted by slight movement on the floor below. Ken is barefoot--having been assigned to work exclusively on orders and not at the counter or helping with wandering customers--and his long toes flex in and out of the floor, monkey-like as they tap the way fingers would tap on a desk. He shuffles them the tiniest bit, almost moving with the floor, if such a thing were possible, but never strays more than a few inches from his original spot.
"You handled them too much." Ran accuses, lifting his eyes from that odd diversion. "You should know better. This batch is ruined. Get another."
He spins on his heels, heading back to his own work up front, and releases a held breath, shaking off the absentminded feeling of angry butterflies in the pit of his stomach. Something about Ken's endearing clumsiness brings a flush to his skin like nothing else.
Ran hears the hurt huff Ken releases at the harsh words he has just spoken, and halts his retreat. He sighs; Ken always gets the better of him. "And...once you've gotten another batch...I'll help you arrange them. All right?"
Grinning at Ran's still turned back, Ken's smile shines even more brilliantly than before. "You got it!"
Shivering as Ken rushes past him to retrieve that new bunch of daffodils from the storeroom, Ran is reminded of the smell of grass on a Spring day from the brunette's distinctive, natural scent wafting around him.
That smell...
---Back again...
The smell of gunpowder, like rancid ashes and smoldering dreams. Ken--now to Ran's left--jerks violently, his arms thrown wide in unnatural, angular positions as he falls back. Ran watches this as if in slow motion, forgetting his own opponent, and curses himself for not realizing the bombers are armed with deadlier weapons than their hired help.
Guns. The calmer of the two bombers has pulled out a gun and fired it at Ken. His Ken. And there is nothing Ran can do as the brunette hits the ground hard on his back, though the sickening thud of Ken's body meeting cement does not reach his ears over the din of fighting.
Seeing as how Ran is off guard, the goon facing him wheels back his club and brings it down brutally on the red-head's shoulders, crumbling him to the ground as well. Ran curses under his breath; he cannot afford to be distracted from continuing the battle. Rolling to the side, his whole body curves and twists with movement, using the floor as a springboard to get to his feet as he brings his sword up...and slices it through the air.
One goon down.
Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Ran dashes to Ken's side, risking the chance to make sure his friend is all right. The brunette's breathing is shallow and labored, his brown eyes clenched tight against the sting of the bullet in his side. Blood pools rapidly beneath him, meaning the bullet has gone all the way through. Damn! If Ran lifts Ken into his arms and flees, their mission will be a failure, but if he takes the time to finish this...it may be the last mission Ken ever sees.
"Ken...can you hear me...?" he breathes, his voice low, struggling to keep panic from entering its tone.
Ken doesn't open his eyes, but nods, gritting his teeth.
"Tell me what to do, Ken." Ran continues, breathing an internal sigh of relief now that he has made clear contact with his fallen comrade.
"Finish...the mission..." Ken hisses, biting his bottom lip to keep from calling out. His stubborn, proud nature would never allow such a thing. "I'll be fine...just...get the job done...okay...?" As if it takes all his waning strength, Ken labors to open his eyes and look into Ran's, grinning half-heartedly at the concern so evident on the red-head's face.
Nodding sharply, Ran stands and leaves things as they are. Assassins such as them owe true loyalty only to themselves and to each other. If they cannot trust one another to follow the other's wishes, what right do they have to call themselves friends?
Ran looks out at the progressing battle: the bomber whose gun wounded Ken has been rid of his weapon by Youji's wire, the one still fearing foolishly for his life is huddled in the shadows of one of the far walls, and the remaining goons are facing the remaining assassins.
(Always watching each others' backs.) Ran thinks on his companions--Youji and Omi--fighting side by side against the three men surrounding them. (For any of the others we would all lay down our lives, and yet...when it comes to those two, or...to Ken and myself... as pairs we would risk even more. We would risk anything...)
---The shop...
Tentatively, Ken attempts to put his new batch of daffodils into a pleasing arrangement, doing his best not to handle them too roughly.
Watching with an almost bemused expression, Ran slips up behind the brunette and grasps those fumbling hands with his own slender, white fingers. "Honestly, what could possibly be on your mind today, attacking this so clumsily?" he chides, fighting down the rising playfulness in his voice. "You usually give the flowers more care than any of us."
Ken swallows, blushing bright red as those smooth hands manipulate his around the daffodils' stems, somehow placing them in just the right positions in barely a moment's time.
It looks perfect.
(Like you...) Ken reflects dreamily of his close-quartered companion, but instantly pushes such foolish--dangerous--thoughts aside, succumbing to fear instead.
Why hasn't Ran moved away now that the arrangement is finished? If he were pressed any closer to Ken from behind, his chest would be flush against the younger man's back. It is a frighteningly close position, but welcome all the same...
Suddenly, Ran pulls away, reprimanding himself internally for doing something so stupid and unnecessary. What must Ken think of him, choosing such an intimate position to demonstrate something so simple?
Ran clears his throat loudly, averting his eyes. "Well...they're fine now, so...so hurry up and get to the next order. We can't afford to fall behind."
Once again, Ran begins to walk away, avoiding something he doesn't know how to face. Best friends aren't supposed to have feelings for one another. Best friends aren't supposed to get flustered when the other is around, or when they hear the other's voice. Best friends aren't supposed to dream about one another at night, and long for the other's body next to them in bed. Best friends don't fall in love.
They don't.
"Ran...?"
Ran freezes in place, wanting so badly to turn.
Ding!
Customers...
"Finish your orders, Ken. We have a job to do."
---The fight...
A job during the day, and a job at night; secret identities are a real pain.
But pain is a part of life, especially for the lives of Weiss--florists-by- day, assassins-by-night--and they accept that life as their deserved fates. They earned the black marks on their souls for doing the dirty work they do, and they take those marks in stride, fighting for a world that may never be better than the one they are in, though each and every one prays for that very possibility.
Angels aren't always white-winged beings sent straight from God's omnipotent hands. Sometimes the brightest angels are dimmed by the blood on their own.
Omi and Youji easily dispose of the three, hired muscle facing them, disarming them of their clubs quickly, and finishing them off to free them from the fight. That leaves only the two bombers, and--naturally--the...
"Bomb! It's got barely a minute left!" Youji cries to his companions, dropping heavily down beside it. As Omi falls to the ground next to him, he turns to the demure blonde frantically. "This is bad. Think you can stop it?"
Taking a calming breath, Omi looks over the bomb warily, but soon casts Youji a confident smile. "Piece 'a cake, but I'll need your help. I just hope Ran can finish off the others."
Youji looks up to survey the red-head's progress with the remaining targets. The coward is already taken care of--so much for hiding--and Ran is now purposefully stalking towards the final figure, who--since he no longer has his gun--is at the mercy of that trained sword. Youji doesn't even reply to Omi's apprehension; there is little question as to whether or not Ran will cleanly rid them of their last objective. As for Ken...they can't afford to worry until this final threat is taken care of.
On the other side of the room, Ran is taking slow, steady steps towards his victim, his katana pointed menacingly forward, with each footfall gripping the ground in connection to the earth.
"Whatever you want, I can get it for you." the retreating bomber offers, no longer as calm as he had been through so much of this fight. "We can work this out. Bargain. Anything." Ran gives no response save the cold, calculating determination in his eyes. "Damn it, you have to want something!"
Forcing the villain up against the wall now at his back, Ran's progression ceases, and he squares his footing, raising his sword over his shoulder in preparation to strike. "Because of you...the one thing I may have wanted might never know." he seethes, violet fire blazing down upon the man he is about to strike down. "You want to do something for me? Then die..."
The air practically sings as it is cut, and the mission is over. After all, he promised Ken he would finish it, did he not?
"Way to go, kiddo!" Youji's distinctive voice calls, ricocheting loudly throughout the room. Omi has successfully disarmed the bomb, and Youji completely glomps him, knocking the boy backwards into the ground.
Yes, they have their small celebration, but Ran has not forgotten what their success may have cost them.
"Ken...?" he breathes, lifting the brunette's head into his lab as he drops beside him, tenderly brushing sweat-soaked strands of hair from his forehead. "You're still with me, aren't you? Please...please, be all right..."
The controlled breathing Ran had maintained throughout the battle, now falls by the wayside, and his chest rises and falls, the sound of each haggard breath shattering the silence filling the room. Omi and Youji gather themselves together and head for their fallen friend, as silent as the still space around them, leaving Ran's harsh breaths to be the only sound left.
"Please..." Ran implores again, allowing the desperation in his voice, no matter what the others may think of him for at last showing signs of weakness.
Ken has always been his weakness.
Removing Ken's sweatshirt from around his hips, Ran slips it up to tie around the wound, as tight as he dares, hoping to somehow stop the bleeding, though so much blood has already been lost.
Ran's breath stops completely for a moment when Ken flinches at the pressure placed on his injury, and when the brunette's warm, brown eyes flutter open, he swears there must be a God in Heaven, after all.
"Ken?" he smiles--yes, it is possible for Ran to smile--drowning in those eyes looking up at him. "Can you make it to the hospital? It's not far. I just need you to stay awake until we get there, all right? Can you do that?"
Hazily, Ken's lips curl up in reply, and he allows Ran to help him into a slouched, sitting position. "No sweat...boss..." he adds teasingly, only able to get to his feet because of Ran's aiding strength holding him up. "...I could climb Fuji buck naked...if it meant...I could see a smile on that gorgeous face of yours..."
Ran's pale skin blushes bright red, and Youji and Omi exchange smirks, even as they are dashing ahead to bring around the car.
The entire group is out of the building in no time--the bomb tucked carefully under Omi's arm as he hops into the front seat beside Youji at the wheel--and Ran helps Ken into the back, allowing the brunette to lean against him as they tear down the street towards the hospital. They know they have to go in through the back, where Kritiker--the organization that funds them and gives them their assignments--can take care of all the questions that may arise at such suspicious injuries.
Ken's entire spine is slouched, curved and relaxed, as his torso collapses into his lap. He has no strength to hold himself up save the slight reprieve of being against Ran's firm side, and his breathing is so painfully audible and staggered, Ran fears the man is about to break.
Without a care towards the blood soaking into his clothing, the red-head pulls his friend in against him all the more firmly, unable to turn his anxious face away from the wound that is now hidden by Ken's orange sweatshirt.
"Heh..." Ken chuckles between gasps of distant pain, looking up into Ran's face so close to his. "...you're...kinda pretty...when you're worried..." he smirks, expecting the blush that immediately spreads over Ran's white face and neck. "Care to...grant a dying man...his final wish...?"
Ran's bashfully blank expression eases into a frown. "Don't say that. You're going to be fine."
"Yeah...you're probably right...since...I'm so damn stubborn...and all..." Ken replies thoughtfully, still keeping his eyes trained on Ran's now reddened face. "But...just...in case...?"
Sighing helplessly, Ran nods. "Whatever you want, Ken."
The rapidly fading brunette tilts his head up. "How 'bout a kiss...just between friends...?"
Ran feels his entire body go tense. They have danced around each other's feelings longer than either can remember, but...to say something so blatant out loud...?
Ken's breaking the rules.
"Ken..."
"Actually...I better say this right...in case I do end up kicking it after this..." Ken interrupts, reaching up a hand that trembles so violently from loss of blood, Ran has to help it remain on his face once it gets there. "...how about a kiss...not between friends...?"
Whatever tiny, unimportant part of Ran contemplates refusing this gets lost before it can enter his mind and turn him away from an act he knows he wants just as desperately as Ken. He nods and leans in--so slowly--first with light pressure at the side of Ken's quivering mouth, daring the possibilities, before renewing the sensation passionately, hardly believing he is allowing himself to be true to his feelings for the first time in years.
There is no need to push the kiss further than the fullness it offers, even if their fears prove to be well-founded, because the soft, tender, loving feeling of each other's lips needs to do no more than express what words never quite can.
Ran savors that feeling, that taste, that unspoken...truth, as they pull into the hospital and he carefully carries Ken inside.
"Ran..." the brunette begins, clutching at Ran's sleeve when he is placed on a stretcher to be wheeled away. "...if I don't...make it...I need you to know...that...I..."
"Save it." Ran stops him, pulling that hand from his arm and bringing it momentarily to his still damn lips. "Save those words for when you get out of here. Because you will, understand? You will..."
Stripped from that caring hold, Ken can only smile as he is carried away, and he nods in hopeful reply, believing those words, because...his soul itself would die if he believed in anything less.
(You will...) Ran thinks with that same foolish sense of hope, not hearing the cries of Omi behind him as Youji soothes the young boy's worries. (Even if this is nothing but a glimpse through the looking glass of a life we can never have...I have to believe...)
Because everyone longs to believe in Alice's Rabbit Hole. A world without impossibilities is a world without movement or beauty or dreams. And a world without that...is no world worth saving.
owari
A/N: Written for my Modern Dance final (yep; no lie) as an interp of a performance I saw. Ran and Ken just flew into my head and wouldn't go away until they got some action.
Why didn't I leave it more finished? It is finished. In my mind, Ken ends up being just fine, but I had to leave it like this, partially because I left the dance performance early (hehe) and also because...it just seemed right. Hope you enjoyed. Please REVIEW!
See ya next ficcie, minna! Love ya!
Crimson
Do you think the Rabbit Hole would look the same to us as it did to dear Alice? Tumbling down the voidless black of a bottomless pit, limbs flailing, breath huffing with apprehension and loss of control. No control, but so much more than we believe we possess. A moment, taken out of time and passed back to be played like flickering reels our memories have lost within the stacks. Would you follow that distant spark of white, that remnant of light, without seeing the face of what you pursue?
"Damn it, keep your voice down! We're almost finished..." hisses a voice in the darkness, giving the void walls--a purpose. "If we're caught, we're screwed. Forget the money and the police; that suit'll have our heads."
"Almost set." replies another, dimmer, though free of the panic gripping his companion. "Once I connect these last few wires, five minutes later this place'll be blown sky high."
"Should we pull the fire-alarm or something? Ya know, cut casualties?"
A hallow laugh. "Why bother? It isn't our problem."
Moments of lingering quiet, endless to those within them, pass tensely, filtering into a roar. To those without? The moments are already gone, and vigilant eyes await the moment their watch will come to an end.
"Done. Let's get out 'a here."
Click.
The basement lights glare down upon the spotlighted pair, and they freeze in place, book-ending the bomb they have just armed, which has already begun its steady count down.
Tick. Tock. Hear the rhythm of Fate's wound clock.
"What the -! Where the hell'd the lights come from?!"
"Hehehe..." echoes the walls. "This wouldn't be nearly as fun in the dark."
Criminals never know when to run, so instead, they turn, facing the source of this unexpected voice.
The walls of the basement are cloaked in shadow, despite the brightness of the lights above, and out of the darkness steps four figures, like white angels, ironically dressed in varying shades of black. Cue the hunters of light, striking down the beasts of the world's burdens.
"Who are you...?" quakes the voice of the more timid of the villains, finding even less to be calm about than before.
The man whose voice had shattered the bombers' reassurances, arches his arms out as if to spread unseen wings, pulling taut a nearly invisible wire between his gloved hands, and shaking out his chin-length, light brown waves. "The bomb squad, sweetheart." he smirks.
An eerie laugh erupts from the man beside him. He is somewhat shorter than his garrote-wielding friend, with wild, chocolate-colored hair, and menacing claws built into his gloves.
Next to him is a lithe yet imposing man in a leather trench coat with blood- red tendrils, brandishing a Japanese katana. On the end, the last and littlest of the group sports a crossbow, his blonde strands gently falling into large, child-like eyes.
"We could give you a name..." growls the red-head, flexing his fingers on the handle of his sword. "...but it will make little difference when you're dead."
The man with claws laughs again, rolling his head from one side to the other, cracking individual vertebrae with a sickening pop.
The next step, the next movement forward, is a blur of harmonious leaps, like weightless-limbed dancers performing some morbid ballet. The four figures descend upon their victims, molding with the air and connecting again with the ground as if linked to each plane through their spines.
The white knights' enemies back off, dragging their timid feet as if drawing lines on the ground. The not-so-anxious villain appears as composed as before, however, and with a sudden snap of his fingers, the reason is revealed like a stage curtain pulled back. It seems they are well prepared for getting caught, because four armed goons emerge from the wall the bombers had so recently been retreating to.
(Like us...) muses the red-head, charging forward without a thought towards how the tables have turned. His sword clangs into contact with one of the muscles' clubs, attacking in rapid succession--fast, erratic. Clang! Clang! Clang! (...and like those twits from this morning. Unified, but split...divided...torn apart by all the world throws in our direction...)
---Earlier that day...
"Ya know how McDonald's slogan used to be 'We love to see you smile'? I heard they changed it to something real stupid."
"What'd they change it to?"
"I don't know. Something like 'I'm lovin' it'. Dumb, huh?"
"I thought their old slogan was 'Have it your way'."
"Nah, that's Burger King's."
"Are you sure?"
"Urrg, that it!! Buy something or get out!" Ran bellows at the loitering group of teenie boppers, who have been hovering near the front display case for over twenty minutes.
After all, he hadn't spent the entire morning making arrangement of tulips and hydrangeas just so a quartet of schoolgirls could stand in front of them--buy nothing--and argue about fast food slogans.
The girls shoot him nasty looks, one even daring to stick out her tongue, and then proceed to make a hasty retreat. It is a well-known fact that the red-headed worker at "Kitty in the House" flower shop is not the nicest guy. At least, not to the customers.
Ran glares at the girls as they slip out the door and skip their way down the sidewalk. One of them turns to another and whispers something in her ear, resulting in a fit of laughter he is quite certain is at his expense. The girls are young and immature as far as he is concerned, and it annoys him how stiffly they walk, as if boards were strapped to their backs. Ran assumes they do this to aid in sticking out their chests, presumably to make them appear more endowed than their ages allow.
The group pushes and nudges their way down the street, playfully arguing and contradicting one another's words. Each one desperately wants to claim position as leader, so if one manages to sidle her way slightly more forward than the others, one of her friends grabs her shoulder to pull her back.
Childish.
Once reaching the end of the street, they split off in different directions, heading for their respective homes, and Ran at last tears his gaze away. Too much time is wasted on such...trivialities.
"Hey, Ran, can you give me a hand over here...?"
Ran turns his head at this vaguely charming voice, forever drawn to its warmth even on his most disgruntled days.
(Ken...)
---Back to the present...
Ken...is off to Ran's right, slicing madly with his claws at the largest of their opponents. The impetuous brunette always has something to prove.
Subduing the rapidness of his strikes, Ran sweeps his arm up, engraving the air with a graceful swing of his katana, and meeting his enemy's club with deceptive ease. He spins, twisting his pelvis to gain momentum as he lashes out a leg that has fluidly become air-born--seemingly suspended--before making contact with the goons chest and following through to steady himself firmly on the ground.
His control is impeccable. To watch him, one would never guess he ever took a breath. It is too contained and steady to be perceived. Too trained to reveal itself as he lashes out again. As if connected by a thread, his spine curves--up when he bends forward, ducking a counterattack, and hollowed with a curved chest and stomach when he bends back, ducking another. Constant, flexible movability is paramount in a fight, when the only true tool you have is your perception of what must be done next.
A third strike directed at Ran is deflected by Ken's attentive claws, saving him from what easily could have been a devastating hit to the back of the neck. Ken tosses his companion a coy wink, and Ran nearly smiles in gratitude, but refrains, knowing it would be deathly uncharacteristic of his brooding image.
Since the first day they met--and beat each other into bloody pulps--the mismatched pair has been a conflicting force, even as teammates, and yet, they are closer than could ever have been imagined. It isn't their friendship--though that is strong--or their respect for one another--that is undeniable. It is both and more, something that cannot be explained in words.
Few things can be said correctly with mere words, after all.
---The shop, a moment later...
"You need something, Ken?" Ran asks curtly, striding over to his tan, dark- haired companion as he has been summoned.
Ken's impossible smile beams brightly even as he furrows his brow at the wilting arrangement of daffodils in front of him. "Uhhh...I think I need an artist's opinion." he admits bashfully, lifting an uncooperative bud with one of his large palms. "This just isn't working no matter how many times I move them around. I don't have the same knack for this as you do. I know, once in a while I create something really awesome, but...that's only on the rare occasion I find inspiration. You're a natural at this stuff, so...any advice?"
Suppressing a blush at such compliments, Ran clears his throat awkwardly, surveying Ken's inelegant work. When inspired, the brunette does indeed create masterpieces, but his talent is inconsistent.
Not one for words, Ran begins to fiddle lightly with the flowers, but finds himself easily distracted by slight movement on the floor below. Ken is barefoot--having been assigned to work exclusively on orders and not at the counter or helping with wandering customers--and his long toes flex in and out of the floor, monkey-like as they tap the way fingers would tap on a desk. He shuffles them the tiniest bit, almost moving with the floor, if such a thing were possible, but never strays more than a few inches from his original spot.
"You handled them too much." Ran accuses, lifting his eyes from that odd diversion. "You should know better. This batch is ruined. Get another."
He spins on his heels, heading back to his own work up front, and releases a held breath, shaking off the absentminded feeling of angry butterflies in the pit of his stomach. Something about Ken's endearing clumsiness brings a flush to his skin like nothing else.
Ran hears the hurt huff Ken releases at the harsh words he has just spoken, and halts his retreat. He sighs; Ken always gets the better of him. "And...once you've gotten another batch...I'll help you arrange them. All right?"
Grinning at Ran's still turned back, Ken's smile shines even more brilliantly than before. "You got it!"
Shivering as Ken rushes past him to retrieve that new bunch of daffodils from the storeroom, Ran is reminded of the smell of grass on a Spring day from the brunette's distinctive, natural scent wafting around him.
That smell...
---Back again...
The smell of gunpowder, like rancid ashes and smoldering dreams. Ken--now to Ran's left--jerks violently, his arms thrown wide in unnatural, angular positions as he falls back. Ran watches this as if in slow motion, forgetting his own opponent, and curses himself for not realizing the bombers are armed with deadlier weapons than their hired help.
Guns. The calmer of the two bombers has pulled out a gun and fired it at Ken. His Ken. And there is nothing Ran can do as the brunette hits the ground hard on his back, though the sickening thud of Ken's body meeting cement does not reach his ears over the din of fighting.
Seeing as how Ran is off guard, the goon facing him wheels back his club and brings it down brutally on the red-head's shoulders, crumbling him to the ground as well. Ran curses under his breath; he cannot afford to be distracted from continuing the battle. Rolling to the side, his whole body curves and twists with movement, using the floor as a springboard to get to his feet as he brings his sword up...and slices it through the air.
One goon down.
Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Ran dashes to Ken's side, risking the chance to make sure his friend is all right. The brunette's breathing is shallow and labored, his brown eyes clenched tight against the sting of the bullet in his side. Blood pools rapidly beneath him, meaning the bullet has gone all the way through. Damn! If Ran lifts Ken into his arms and flees, their mission will be a failure, but if he takes the time to finish this...it may be the last mission Ken ever sees.
"Ken...can you hear me...?" he breathes, his voice low, struggling to keep panic from entering its tone.
Ken doesn't open his eyes, but nods, gritting his teeth.
"Tell me what to do, Ken." Ran continues, breathing an internal sigh of relief now that he has made clear contact with his fallen comrade.
"Finish...the mission..." Ken hisses, biting his bottom lip to keep from calling out. His stubborn, proud nature would never allow such a thing. "I'll be fine...just...get the job done...okay...?" As if it takes all his waning strength, Ken labors to open his eyes and look into Ran's, grinning half-heartedly at the concern so evident on the red-head's face.
Nodding sharply, Ran stands and leaves things as they are. Assassins such as them owe true loyalty only to themselves and to each other. If they cannot trust one another to follow the other's wishes, what right do they have to call themselves friends?
Ran looks out at the progressing battle: the bomber whose gun wounded Ken has been rid of his weapon by Youji's wire, the one still fearing foolishly for his life is huddled in the shadows of one of the far walls, and the remaining goons are facing the remaining assassins.
(Always watching each others' backs.) Ran thinks on his companions--Youji and Omi--fighting side by side against the three men surrounding them. (For any of the others we would all lay down our lives, and yet...when it comes to those two, or...to Ken and myself... as pairs we would risk even more. We would risk anything...)
---The shop...
Tentatively, Ken attempts to put his new batch of daffodils into a pleasing arrangement, doing his best not to handle them too roughly.
Watching with an almost bemused expression, Ran slips up behind the brunette and grasps those fumbling hands with his own slender, white fingers. "Honestly, what could possibly be on your mind today, attacking this so clumsily?" he chides, fighting down the rising playfulness in his voice. "You usually give the flowers more care than any of us."
Ken swallows, blushing bright red as those smooth hands manipulate his around the daffodils' stems, somehow placing them in just the right positions in barely a moment's time.
It looks perfect.
(Like you...) Ken reflects dreamily of his close-quartered companion, but instantly pushes such foolish--dangerous--thoughts aside, succumbing to fear instead.
Why hasn't Ran moved away now that the arrangement is finished? If he were pressed any closer to Ken from behind, his chest would be flush against the younger man's back. It is a frighteningly close position, but welcome all the same...
Suddenly, Ran pulls away, reprimanding himself internally for doing something so stupid and unnecessary. What must Ken think of him, choosing such an intimate position to demonstrate something so simple?
Ran clears his throat loudly, averting his eyes. "Well...they're fine now, so...so hurry up and get to the next order. We can't afford to fall behind."
Once again, Ran begins to walk away, avoiding something he doesn't know how to face. Best friends aren't supposed to have feelings for one another. Best friends aren't supposed to get flustered when the other is around, or when they hear the other's voice. Best friends aren't supposed to dream about one another at night, and long for the other's body next to them in bed. Best friends don't fall in love.
They don't.
"Ran...?"
Ran freezes in place, wanting so badly to turn.
Ding!
Customers...
"Finish your orders, Ken. We have a job to do."
---The fight...
A job during the day, and a job at night; secret identities are a real pain.
But pain is a part of life, especially for the lives of Weiss--florists-by- day, assassins-by-night--and they accept that life as their deserved fates. They earned the black marks on their souls for doing the dirty work they do, and they take those marks in stride, fighting for a world that may never be better than the one they are in, though each and every one prays for that very possibility.
Angels aren't always white-winged beings sent straight from God's omnipotent hands. Sometimes the brightest angels are dimmed by the blood on their own.
Omi and Youji easily dispose of the three, hired muscle facing them, disarming them of their clubs quickly, and finishing them off to free them from the fight. That leaves only the two bombers, and--naturally--the...
"Bomb! It's got barely a minute left!" Youji cries to his companions, dropping heavily down beside it. As Omi falls to the ground next to him, he turns to the demure blonde frantically. "This is bad. Think you can stop it?"
Taking a calming breath, Omi looks over the bomb warily, but soon casts Youji a confident smile. "Piece 'a cake, but I'll need your help. I just hope Ran can finish off the others."
Youji looks up to survey the red-head's progress with the remaining targets. The coward is already taken care of--so much for hiding--and Ran is now purposefully stalking towards the final figure, who--since he no longer has his gun--is at the mercy of that trained sword. Youji doesn't even reply to Omi's apprehension; there is little question as to whether or not Ran will cleanly rid them of their last objective. As for Ken...they can't afford to worry until this final threat is taken care of.
On the other side of the room, Ran is taking slow, steady steps towards his victim, his katana pointed menacingly forward, with each footfall gripping the ground in connection to the earth.
"Whatever you want, I can get it for you." the retreating bomber offers, no longer as calm as he had been through so much of this fight. "We can work this out. Bargain. Anything." Ran gives no response save the cold, calculating determination in his eyes. "Damn it, you have to want something!"
Forcing the villain up against the wall now at his back, Ran's progression ceases, and he squares his footing, raising his sword over his shoulder in preparation to strike. "Because of you...the one thing I may have wanted might never know." he seethes, violet fire blazing down upon the man he is about to strike down. "You want to do something for me? Then die..."
The air practically sings as it is cut, and the mission is over. After all, he promised Ken he would finish it, did he not?
"Way to go, kiddo!" Youji's distinctive voice calls, ricocheting loudly throughout the room. Omi has successfully disarmed the bomb, and Youji completely glomps him, knocking the boy backwards into the ground.
Yes, they have their small celebration, but Ran has not forgotten what their success may have cost them.
"Ken...?" he breathes, lifting the brunette's head into his lab as he drops beside him, tenderly brushing sweat-soaked strands of hair from his forehead. "You're still with me, aren't you? Please...please, be all right..."
The controlled breathing Ran had maintained throughout the battle, now falls by the wayside, and his chest rises and falls, the sound of each haggard breath shattering the silence filling the room. Omi and Youji gather themselves together and head for their fallen friend, as silent as the still space around them, leaving Ran's harsh breaths to be the only sound left.
"Please..." Ran implores again, allowing the desperation in his voice, no matter what the others may think of him for at last showing signs of weakness.
Ken has always been his weakness.
Removing Ken's sweatshirt from around his hips, Ran slips it up to tie around the wound, as tight as he dares, hoping to somehow stop the bleeding, though so much blood has already been lost.
Ran's breath stops completely for a moment when Ken flinches at the pressure placed on his injury, and when the brunette's warm, brown eyes flutter open, he swears there must be a God in Heaven, after all.
"Ken?" he smiles--yes, it is possible for Ran to smile--drowning in those eyes looking up at him. "Can you make it to the hospital? It's not far. I just need you to stay awake until we get there, all right? Can you do that?"
Hazily, Ken's lips curl up in reply, and he allows Ran to help him into a slouched, sitting position. "No sweat...boss..." he adds teasingly, only able to get to his feet because of Ran's aiding strength holding him up. "...I could climb Fuji buck naked...if it meant...I could see a smile on that gorgeous face of yours..."
Ran's pale skin blushes bright red, and Youji and Omi exchange smirks, even as they are dashing ahead to bring around the car.
The entire group is out of the building in no time--the bomb tucked carefully under Omi's arm as he hops into the front seat beside Youji at the wheel--and Ran helps Ken into the back, allowing the brunette to lean against him as they tear down the street towards the hospital. They know they have to go in through the back, where Kritiker--the organization that funds them and gives them their assignments--can take care of all the questions that may arise at such suspicious injuries.
Ken's entire spine is slouched, curved and relaxed, as his torso collapses into his lap. He has no strength to hold himself up save the slight reprieve of being against Ran's firm side, and his breathing is so painfully audible and staggered, Ran fears the man is about to break.
Without a care towards the blood soaking into his clothing, the red-head pulls his friend in against him all the more firmly, unable to turn his anxious face away from the wound that is now hidden by Ken's orange sweatshirt.
"Heh..." Ken chuckles between gasps of distant pain, looking up into Ran's face so close to his. "...you're...kinda pretty...when you're worried..." he smirks, expecting the blush that immediately spreads over Ran's white face and neck. "Care to...grant a dying man...his final wish...?"
Ran's bashfully blank expression eases into a frown. "Don't say that. You're going to be fine."
"Yeah...you're probably right...since...I'm so damn stubborn...and all..." Ken replies thoughtfully, still keeping his eyes trained on Ran's now reddened face. "But...just...in case...?"
Sighing helplessly, Ran nods. "Whatever you want, Ken."
The rapidly fading brunette tilts his head up. "How 'bout a kiss...just between friends...?"
Ran feels his entire body go tense. They have danced around each other's feelings longer than either can remember, but...to say something so blatant out loud...?
Ken's breaking the rules.
"Ken..."
"Actually...I better say this right...in case I do end up kicking it after this..." Ken interrupts, reaching up a hand that trembles so violently from loss of blood, Ran has to help it remain on his face once it gets there. "...how about a kiss...not between friends...?"
Whatever tiny, unimportant part of Ran contemplates refusing this gets lost before it can enter his mind and turn him away from an act he knows he wants just as desperately as Ken. He nods and leans in--so slowly--first with light pressure at the side of Ken's quivering mouth, daring the possibilities, before renewing the sensation passionately, hardly believing he is allowing himself to be true to his feelings for the first time in years.
There is no need to push the kiss further than the fullness it offers, even if their fears prove to be well-founded, because the soft, tender, loving feeling of each other's lips needs to do no more than express what words never quite can.
Ran savors that feeling, that taste, that unspoken...truth, as they pull into the hospital and he carefully carries Ken inside.
"Ran..." the brunette begins, clutching at Ran's sleeve when he is placed on a stretcher to be wheeled away. "...if I don't...make it...I need you to know...that...I..."
"Save it." Ran stops him, pulling that hand from his arm and bringing it momentarily to his still damn lips. "Save those words for when you get out of here. Because you will, understand? You will..."
Stripped from that caring hold, Ken can only smile as he is carried away, and he nods in hopeful reply, believing those words, because...his soul itself would die if he believed in anything less.
(You will...) Ran thinks with that same foolish sense of hope, not hearing the cries of Omi behind him as Youji soothes the young boy's worries. (Even if this is nothing but a glimpse through the looking glass of a life we can never have...I have to believe...)
Because everyone longs to believe in Alice's Rabbit Hole. A world without impossibilities is a world without movement or beauty or dreams. And a world without that...is no world worth saving.
owari
A/N: Written for my Modern Dance final (yep; no lie) as an interp of a performance I saw. Ran and Ken just flew into my head and wouldn't go away until they got some action.
Why didn't I leave it more finished? It is finished. In my mind, Ken ends up being just fine, but I had to leave it like this, partially because I left the dance performance early (hehe) and also because...it just seemed right. Hope you enjoyed. Please REVIEW!
See ya next ficcie, minna! Love ya!
Crimson