Cigarette Juice Box

Final Chapter: From now on…

WARNING! More angst.

The question hung stagnant in the air, the ringing of anticipation pulsing through the men's ears. The cool, expressionless walls of the apartment held no fascination any longer, no life. However, since the building had once tasted the joy of those seemingly incapable of creating it, the paint and plaster sucked all the warmth that was left out of those remaining. It extended the chill from late winter into the ambitionless dwellers within.

Because of this, Yohji had grown quite sick of the cold, just like Omi had. He should have grown used to the chill of absence, having had to face it since Omi's birthday hardly two weeks prior. Since then he'd been overwhelmed with confusion, loss, hope and finally the heartache that should have been long expected. He'd known since the beginning that his feelings would most likely never be reciprocated, but he'd refused to accept that the crumbling of the hardly-begun relationship would take place then, when Omi would most need his companions to help him rebuild the rubble of his life. Instead, Omi had disconnected, moved out in favour of taking up the offered position of Persia left behind by his father, saying only to Aya, "If Omi Tsukiyono is so easily corrupted, I need to abandon myself. I need to become human again…" And with that, he'd resigned from Weiß and been immediately promoted. Whether or not he could admit it, the Omi Tsukiyono that Yohji had fallen in love with no longer existed.

That left Weiß in a place from which it could hardly rebuild. Without the ability to nurse Omi's wounds, it seemed to the team that the youngest of Weiß had died. So, in a time of mourning, Weiß had decided to break up and go their separate ways.

Aya had made the difficult choice in leaving his sister behind while he transferred to another assassin team. When asked, the sullen man merely replied, "As long as I know she's alive, this is fine." It hadn't helped this "distance-yourself-from-those-you-love" thought process when Aya-chan had followed Omi and Nagi to interfere with Weiß. If she ever took the steps to do so again, Ran had doubted that she'd ever make it out. There was no choice but to force her to take his cruelty in order to protect her.

However, none of this could make Yohji's decision any easier. The question remained, where was he going to go? Without the driving force Omi had sustained in him, Yohji wondered if there was anything that he would be capable of doing. Without Omi, Yohji wondered if there was even a world. "I need to get away from Tokyo," he answered slowly to Ken, "I have too many ghosts here."

"So where to?" Ken continued, brown eyes soft due to Yohji's heavy depression. "Osaka? Hokkaido? I'm sure there are teams there who'd take you on."

Shaking his head, Yohji sighed. "No. Further. Europe maybe. Somewhere that there's no memories." It was bad enough that Yohji had to carry his self-made phantoms, but to see the apparition of Omi Tsukiyono in Mamoru Takatori… It hit too close to home. Yohji wasn't sure he could handle that.

Ken nodded, but his brows furrowed in thought. "Europe…." He laughed quietly to himself, "I don't think I can trust you to go that far alone." When Yohji looked up to him in shock, he merely smiled. "I'll have to talk to Aya about it, but after all of this, you're going to need someone you can trust." Slowly, Yohji was forced to nod and Ken's smile slipped away. After all of this, Yohji needed someone to keep him from himself. The soccer player held up a finger as he turned towards the door. "I'll talk to you about it in a while, I'm gonna go check up on the Fujimiyas."

Again, Yohji gave a dumb nod, watching with flat green eyes as Ken exited, only to nearly crumble onto the couch in exhaustion. Too much had happened in too short a time. Nagi was dead, Omi had become Mamoru and now Yohji was forcing Aya and Ken apart without meaning to. There was too much guilt… but what choice was there anymore? He could hardly face life. The man held a hand to support his hanging head and buried his face into it. There was no other choice but to abandon himself just as Omi had. Yohji Kudoh was broken and unwilling. He couldn't face the world with fear and bitterness or else he would abandon what Yohji Kudoh had once stood for and become no better than the Schwarz he so despised.

He'd go to Europe as Balinese. Yohji Kudoh wasn't prepared to face the world.

Ken could hear Aya's heartbeat, arms wrapped around his waist in a final embrace before the plane's departure. Pretty soon Ken would be gone and there would only be minimal contact between them and Ken couldn't help but allow the little voice inside him room to insist that it wasn't enough, that letters and short phone calls would never be enough. However, both of them had decided that this would be for the best. If it was between their relationship and Yohji's sanity… The case was just the same as it had been with Omi. The rest of Weiß, even now crumbling and deceased, came before personal matters.

"He wants to go to Europe," Ken explained, Aya's room acting as a barrier to the prying ears of the world. "In his shape… going so far, he'd just as soon commit suicide."

Aya shook his head, crimson locks falling into his thoughtful violet gaze, "Or just not taking the steps to save himself." He looked up, catching Ken's eye with a hitch in his breath. Admittance was hard for Aya, Ken knew this far too well. He'd already given up his sister to protect her (despite the fact that he'd not yet disappeared) and to ask him to give up the only other kind of relationship he had was very near unforgivable. Even though Ken hadn't opened his mouth in the direction of asking to leave, Aya knew full well what had to be done. "Go with him." He pushed lightly, not in the same disconnected coolness that would have accompanied the comment only months before.

Ken had looked at him for a long time, weighing out the other solutions and immediately ruling each one out, those aching, dutiful lavender eyes saying to him that there was no other solution. The brunette had reached out for his leader's hand and wrapped their fingers together, resting his chin on top of crimson locks and nodded.

There was no other way.

Even now, Ken refused to believe that they had made the decision so easily. Despite all the hardships Ken had gone through to let Aya know of his feelings, he was now leaving his lover—his long time best friend, without knowing when or if he'd return.

A whisper brushed against his ear, hair shifted away from the air as it tickled against his skin. "I'll wait for you," Aya murmured, the words filled with all the warmth he could muster from his cool eccentricity. Ken nodded against the fabric of the elder man's jacket and begrudgingly pulled away. He could feel the ache rise in his chest as Aya waved goodbye, staring dumbly and walking on the terminal, as his last moments at home truly faded from him.

As he sat down next to Yohji on the plane, Ken could feel the cold reality sink in. This was what Yohji felt like, Ken thought to himself as he stared out the window, fighting off the tears welling into his eyes like molten emotion, This is what it was like when Omi left…

After that, all there was to look forward to was the long plane ride to Europe and the sleepless nights drifting towards whatever future held.

They allowed Schuldich to mourn in his room for a few days, not even bothering to offer him food, knowing it would be refused and there would be a violent rebuke following. The German, in his depression, kept his mental walls down, uncaring of those listening. He was no longer afraid to let his companions know his thoughts and feelings. It didn't matter anymore, not after Nagi was dead. They buried him the next day in the Tokyo cemetery, buying only the best headstone to mark the place of their past member. Each one regretted their treatment of him, knowing only now of how fond of him they'd truly been, even Farfarello.

Since then Schuldich hadn't wilfully eaten, slept, or spoken and now stared blankly out the window, ignoring the jerking of his gut and the roaring headache. The stars mirrored everything so perfectly, each swirl of colour being just as Nagi's eyes had been, imitating them as a reflection would have. The German stared out at them, allowing the tears to roll freely down his face. If only he'd allowed Nagi to know how he felt since the beginning, maybe none of this would have happened and they could all be living immortally together, creating pain for those treacherous outsiders who had done so much to hurt and separate them from the rest of society. He could imagine Nagi looking up at him with pleading eyes, asking for another kiss or to be pet as Schuldich had so often done. Perhaps the boy had seen it as a mark of possession. Schuldich ran a hand through his tangled hair and allowed his hatred to slip away, only feeling remorse for his mistakes.

It wasn't Omi who did this. He thought to himself quietly, knowing full well that the others would be asleep. It was me. Nagi would still be here if it weren't for me. He chuckled wearily, vision blurring. Everything had become so surreal. The bed remained cold from lack of use and there was no one clacking at the keyboard in the middle of the night. Schuldich wiped the tears from his eyes, not feeling himself tilting back until he was passed out on the ground, the tiny jade Buddha gripped in his hand.

So expected. Every piece of the puzzle had come to make sense. Schwarz had all come to terms with the outcome, except Schuldich. Of course, this had already been foreseen-- not by some completely inhuman force, nor by a power left unseen and untouched by the ordinary human eye than by the complete absorption of the agony remaining in the German's once cold demeanour-- a final thawing of his emotions and in his stance, even in the way he took in his breath as he stared, placid, out the window into the night. It was too bad that the cost had to be so great that it could have, in fact, broken the strong, unyielding spirit that had been Schuldich. Crawford took his place up from the open doorway, drifting forward in a certain mechanical melancholy, making him appear to be nothing more than a marionette being drug forth subconsciously to the huddled, limp form and lifting it into his arms.

Veiled brown eyes hovered sorrowfully on the smooth, finally peaceful face, not bothering to note the sharpness of the features or the cat-like grace that veiled the German like a thin mist over every curve and point of his bone structure. "So all of this was in vain," the bass murmured, an ache forming in his heart when he heard his own notes return to him from the confines of the stark-white walls. "We were never meant to become one with God." Crawford padded as softly as he could to the bed and placed the German down, moving to pull the covers over the slumbering man. "Then why is it that we were given these powers? To prove how truly minuscule we are, that we can't even save the life of one boy?" Callused fingers brushed away the fiery locks of hair straying on the pale brow. "I suppose that means that we're the martyrs. We are the fools of humanity. Perhaps we should do what we were urged to so long ago. Schuldich," Crawford addressed the sleeping man, pressing his own hand against the fist in which resided the small figurine, "I think it's time for us to finally disappear."

A blanket had been pulled over him sometime between the time he'd dozed off to the next morning. The rest had proven to be one of the many things he'd needed, giving him just enough edge to rekindle his biting cynicism. Startling jade eyes turned back out to the world just outside the apartment and he sneered from the bed. It was another melancholy day to his monotonous life. Not for the first time since the ritual, Schuldich was glad that Schwarz had failed. If there were only going to be haunting days like this one to plague him, the telepath didn't want to have to wake each morning for as long as time continued.

Who's idea had it been to begin the ritual? The German's mind wandered off, forgetting that he'd even asked the question. After his sleep, as was usual for Schuldich, his mind had been far more keen to run over the events of his past. The jealousy towards Omi still remained, though hardly as severe from lack of contact. He was no longer the Angel they had all known from Weiß, in fact rumour had it that the boy had taken up the commanding position in Kritiker. Schuldich shook his head. It was pointless to think that it would matter much anymore. Sure, Schwarz was still for hire to whomever could afford the services, but Weiß had dissolved, it seemed and they'd never run into Persia in the field. A sardonic grin crossed Schulduch's face for only an instant. Kritiker wouldn't dare sacrifice another Persia. They'd been disorganised, weak and altogether useless since Suichi's death, each faction breaking off and following orders from biased leaders just like Weiß had.

Kritiker needed organisation, and from the looks of the dearly departed Omi's journal, Kritiker would get exactly what it was looking for in Mamoru Takatori.

Schuldich had only been given the chance to sneak into Mamoru's mind once since the ritual and, having become a depressive recluse, the German had passed up the chance and had never regretted it since. It had never been right to pry while grieving, not that Schulduch had any want to do so. He'd been too cold, still aching from Nagi's death.

Rain pressed in on the shoulders of his double-breasted jacket with the bitter chill of the long-passed snows. All there had been through the harsh winter had been wind and ice. Schuldich almost welcomed the pain of stinging droplets, allowing them to numb his senses and drown out the constant babble of the people wandering by, eyeing the private funeral with one weeping eye while the other remained passive and negligent to the possible joys of their own lives. Schuldich had already lost his apathy, crying openly with both swollen jade orbs.

Crawford had set up a tarp above the coffin so that they could have their final viewing in peace, sheltered from the pounding rain, but Schuldich had much preferred to remain as he was: cold, bitter and grieving with loud inward sobs. His shields had dropped shamelessly, uncaring as to who heard his pleas. The world had done this to him, so what right did the world have to hide from the pain it caused.

Slowly, he'd eased forward, peering through the saline tears into the coffin where, pale-faced and restful, Nagi lay dead. Schuldich reached out to stroke the marble cheek, but a single drop of water fell from his fingertips and the German pulled away, having marred the unmoving statue of his unrequited love. Schuldich withdrew into himself at this. It was just another time that he would have flawed the cool façade, just another way to ruin the thing secretly most precious to him.

Outside, away from his own agony, he felt a glimmer of guilt, of agony and an unblemished sadness. Only one person grieved with them, both eyes weeping rather than only the single tear of pity. Schuldich turned slowly to the gate of the graveyard, only to catch sight of a slim figure clad in heavy jackets and winter gear. Above the tan scarf, cerulean eyes shimmered, full of their own tears and for just a moment, Schuldich felt like the connection between them had linked once more, the similar grief paralleling them to one another, despite their cruel hatred, and the German almost moved to invite him in.

Just when the thought crossed his mind, the figure shook its head and turned with mourning listlessness to exit the gates once more. The visitor's emotions tickled at his mind, inviting him to enter, but Schuldich threw up his walls. He didn't want to know, didn't want to ruin the serene agreement that the two had come to.

For Nagi's sake, neither would go out of their way to harm the other.

It was still a shock to think about. Nagi, who had silently suffered for so long, no longer haunted the apartment with his celestial eyes. Now the walls remained expressionless and cold against Schuldich's back, not the faintest glimmer of blue in them any longer. At times, the German felt as though if he just woke up in the middle of the night, he would surprise the walls and find them showing the ocean of indigo. He simply couldn't shake the feeling that Nagi wasn't gone, that somehow he'd find his way back…

A thought struck him and Schuldich closed his eyes. It wasn't that he needed to focus, but erasing the visual distractions would certainly aid in keeping his doubts away. The German sent out a single spiralling tendril of thought into the miserably grey morning. He passed over buildings with the security lights still lit from the night before, houses and children on their way to school and businessmen sipping on the coffee from familiar Fujimiya cups.

He wandered through the city, listening to the buzz of thoughts and complaints, until he slowed down near the park where there remained a blank slate of thought, despite the obvious consciousness of the person. The visual figure seemed to have almost been erased, made so mundane that it couldn't have been picked out from the cement and the trees. Schuldich merely listened for a while to the hum of a memorable shield, no matter how low profile it had been kept. Then, regrettably, the German pulled away, the pressure of one of his companion's thoughts distracting the picture.

Returning to himself, Schuldich sat back against the wall, his eyes less sorrowful than before, though just as distant. The door opened behind him, admitting the American, who had shed his jacket and tie with the expectation of a long conversation. Crawford sighed and stood just next to his companion. "You finally looked," he stated, not needing to question the plain message of his Vision.

Schuldich closed his eyes slowly, thinking of a response that would quench his need for information. "He didn't come back," he stated instead. "He's alive… but he doesn't want to be found."

The dark-haired man nodded and removed his glasses. "The time will come that he'll be strong enough to return," he assured the German. "But, don't think that he'll be the same person."

Nodding, Schuldich sighed. "I won't look for him again." He flipped the jade Buddha between his fingers, having forgotten that he'd taken it off of the night stand in the room Omi had been staying, having moved it to Nagi's room where he now sat, placidly taking account of the events of the past month.

Crawford merely nodded in reply. "I know…"

There had been a phone call on his machine when he'd gone into work that day, but there had been no message save the slight breathing on the other end. Mamoru had been confused when he'd listened to the silent recording and when his cerulean eyes trailed down the desk to where a piece of paper had written on the lined surface the name of the ocean-side park just near Suichi's grave, the man had furrowed his brows in response. Who was trying to get a hold of him?

For that matter, who, besides his secretary had access to his private line? Mamoru unwrapped the scarf from around his neck and lower face and placed the expanse of fabric over his desk chair. The weather had been getting warmer, but he couldn't stand the thought of facing the cold again, no matter how strong or weak it seemed. So, peeling off the layers of clothing he'd donned for his walk to work, Mamoru puzzled over the message.

Finally he sighed and shook his head. Whoever it was really seemed to want to speak to him, as they not only called, but had left a message in his locked, sky-high office building, written by hands that most certainly weren't his secretary's. Mamoru slid easily into the leather chair, tapping a pen on the corner of his desk. He bit his lip. Who could have broken in and why on earth didn't they just leave a message? Vivid blue eyes wandered the room, verifying that nothing had changed, not even the empty fish tank in the corner of the office that he simply hadn't gotten around to filling.

He sighed, looking down to his hand where the pen remained lightly gripped between his thumb and second finger. Brows furrowed slightly as he saw the type on the pen's body. This wasn't his pen…

Dropping it suddenly, Mamoru pushed up out of his chair and began gathering his layers all over again. In a panicked rush, he yelled to his secretary on the way out that he wouldn't be in again until after lunch and hurried down the stairs, still pulling on his jacket, scarf loose around his shoulders.

The pen on the table had been left, text facing upwards with the words "Osaka Bay Ritual Grounds" in slanted blue letters.

Mamoru hurried into the park, adrenaline coursing through his veins at the thought of the impossible chance that his guilt had been for nothing. He dashed into the wooded area, slowing only to look around him with worried blue eyes.

Nothing. There was nothing there.

This same ground held under his feet, pushing against him as it always had. The trees rustled in the wind that brushed against his face, picking up the traces of sweat left from his long run from the office and leaving an icy touch against his skin. Mamoru was cold. He was empty. The oncoming spring teased him with the remnants of his memories of the past winter and brought back to him the cinders of the life he'd left behind.

Everything here was just the same. The world hadn't changed to suit him. The snow had melted away like it always had on the rare occasion that it came to Tokyo, uncovering the lifeless ground where he'd spilled his blood praying and pleading that he would be rescued.

No one had come.

If he closed his eyes… Mamoru did so, pulling a fist to his chest as he recalled those warm hands comforting him, steadying him when no one else had come for him. Weiß hadn't come. Crawford had said as much, but back then Omi hadn't expected the calm protection Nagi had provided. As Omi, he reached out his memory to sad, celestial eyes looking up at him from the edge of the bed. '…If I had another choice I would take it.' Mamoru's lips parted slightly as though to accept the kisses that had so soon followed. His own parting gift… the lingering taste of mint teased at his mind; there was no pressure, no feeling of lips. The only answer to his memory was the whining sound of one of the playground swings. 'Weiß will not come…' There was no Weiß and no saviour. Reality had no room for such childish romanticisms.

The world hadn't been a suitable habitat for Omi Tsukiyono, forcing him to live like a leech on the strengths of others while he sat idle, incapable of making his own decisions and living for himself. He'd relied on Persia's strength to survive his father's negligence and, even later, Ran's brash temper to pull him from the brink of insanity when he'd murdered his brother. Omi had always told himself that it was for the mission, but in reality, everything had been for himself. The world wouldn't change to suit a parasite, so Omi Tsukiyono had to be killed, one way or another. Schwarz had failed… that only left one choice.

It would be just like before: no one would come.

Mamoru turned his gaze to the sky and exhaled and the anxiety rushed out of him, leaving him just as cold internally as he'd been the last time he'd visited the lonely playground. He wasn't Omi Tsukiyono any longer. He dropped his hand, releasing with his breath the torment Omi Tsukiyono had left to burden him. The rape, the murder… he'd left it all behind. There was no fault in what happened to Nagi. How he'd died was his own choice to make and while Mamoru still had a hard time coping with the guilt of his saviour's death, he'd learned to just breathe and release the problems of his lifeless past.

To attach one's self, one will inevitably get hurt and Mamoru had faced enough torment for one lifetime.

When slim fingers caught his hand, Mamoru almost didn't register, too caught up in blame and guilt to be so easily pulled back to reality. The fingers pulled at his hand and soon enough, someone's forehead rested between his shoulder blades. Mamoru opened his eyes in shock, hearing that even breathing in all its familiarity. It remained controlled, shallow and, although quick with adrenaline, devoid of pain. Omi smiled, his own internal weeping finally fading only weeks after their last meeting in the twisted sanctuary of Nagi's home. A voice rose slightly above the breeze, "—orry..." it began, choking off the first syllable, seemingly unsure of how to begin. "I'm so sorry. I should have done something to let you know… I don't want them to find me."

Mamoru entwined his fingers in the quiet boy's own, squeezing for comfort. "That doesn't matter," He replied as calmly as possible, despite the joy threatening to pour out of him at any moment in either tears or laughter, he wasn't quite sure. "The fact is that you're alive… Nothing else matters, right? It's over. No Weiß, no Schwarz… You don't have to run anymore." We don't have to run.

"I was so tired," the tenor continued, dark sorrow creeping into his voice, "It took so much to stop the bullet and when I woke from up…" He shook his head against Mamoru's shoulder, "I didn't know what to do to let you know."

Slowly turning to face the boy behind him, Mamoru made motion to protest and opened his mouth in response, but was immediately interrupted by slim arms wrapping around his neck in a desperate hug. Nagi began to cry, explaining things that didn't need to be clarified and Mamoru simply listened for long minutes, rubbing circles in the telekenetic's back for comfort. Only when Nagi had slowed his much-deserved sobs to sniffles did Mamoru dare to look down at the boy.

Meeting with celestial eyes now filled with joy and apology, Mamoru realized that he no longer felt the cold.

He'd taken his punishment and only now deserved his happiness.

Kami was watching his angel.

Owari